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diff --git a/old/1476-0.txt b/old/1476-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b80a286..0000000 --- a/old/1476-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,13958 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chance, by Joseph Conrad - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Chance - -Author: Joseph Conrad - -Release Date: September, 1998 [eBook #1476] -[Most recently updated: December 2, 2023] - -Language: English - -Produced by: David Price - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHANCE *** - - - - -CHANCE - -A TALE IN TWO PARTS - - - Those that hold that all things are governed by Fortune had not erred, - had they not persisted there - - SIR THOMAS BROWNE - -TO SIR HUGH CLIFFORD, K.C.M.G. WHOSE STEADFAST FRIENDSHIP IS RESPONSIBLE -FOR THE EXISTENCE OF THESE PAGES - - - - -PART I--THE DAMSEL - - -CHAPTER ONE--YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE - - -I believe he had seen us out of the window coming off to dine in the -dinghy of a fourteen-ton yawl belonging to Marlow my host and skipper. We -helped the boy we had with us to haul the boat up on the landing-stage -before we went up to the riverside inn, where we found our new -acquaintance eating his dinner in dignified loneliness at the head of a -long table, white and inhospitable like a snow bank. - -The red tint of his clear-cut face with trim short black whiskers under a -cap of curly iron-grey hair was the only warm spot in the dinginess of -that room cooled by the cheerless tablecloth. We knew him already by -sight as the owner of a little five-ton cutter, which he sailed alone -apparently, a fellow yachtsman in the unpretending band of fanatics who -cruise at the mouth of the Thames. But the first time he addressed the -waiter sharply as 'steward' we knew him at once for a sailor as well as a -yachtsman. - -Presently he had occasion to reprove that same waiter for the slovenly -manner in which the dinner was served. He did it with considerable -energy and then turned to us. - -"If we at sea," he declared, "went about our work as people ashore high -and low go about theirs we should never make a living. No one would -employ us. And moreover no ship navigated and sailed in the happy-go- -lucky manner people conduct their business on shore would ever arrive -into port." - -Since he had retired from the sea he had been astonished to discover that -the educated people were not much better than the others. No one seemed -to take any proper pride in his work: from plumbers who were simply -thieves to, say, newspaper men (he seemed to think them a specially -intellectual class) who never by any chance gave a correct version of the -simplest affair. This universal inefficiency of what he called "the -shore gang" he ascribed in general to the want of responsibility and to a -sense of security. - -"They see," he went on, "that no matter what they do this tight little -island won't turn turtle with them or spring a leak and go to the bottom -with their wives and children." - -From this point the conversation took a special turn relating exclusively -to sea-life. On that subject he got quickly in touch with Marlow who in -his time had followed the sea. They kept up a lively exchange of -reminiscences while I listened. They agreed that the happiest time in -their lives was as youngsters in good ships, with no care in the world -but not to lose a watch below when at sea and not a moment's time in -going ashore after work hours when in harbour. They agreed also as to -the proudest moment they had known in that calling which is never -embraced on rational and practical grounds, because of the glamour of its -romantic associations. It was the moment when they had passed -successfully their first examination and left the seamanship Examiner -with the little precious slip of blue paper in their hands. - -"That day I wouldn't have called the Queen my cousin," declared our new -acquaintance enthusiastically. - -At that time the Marine Board examinations took place at the St. -Katherine's Dock House on Tower Hill, and he informed us that he had a -special affection for the view of that historic locality, with the -Gardens to the left, the front of the Mint to the right, the miserable -tumble-down little houses farther away, a cabstand, boot-blacks squatting -on the edge of the pavement and a pair of big policemen gazing with an -air of superiority at the doors of the Black Horse public-house across -the road. This was the part of the world, he said, his eyes first took -notice of, on the finest day of his life. He had emerged from the main -entrance of St. Katherine's Dock House a full-fledged second mate after -the hottest time of his life with Captain R-, the most dreaded of the -three seamanship Examiners who at the time were responsible for the -merchant service officers qualifying in the Port of London. - -"We all who were preparing to pass," he said, "used to shake in our shoes -at the idea of going before him. He kept me for an hour and a half in -the torture chamber and behaved as though he hated me. He kept his eyes -shaded with one of his hands. Suddenly he let it drop saying, "You will -do!" Before I realised what he meant he was pushing the blue slip across -the table. I jumped up as if my chair had caught fire. - -"Thank you, sir," says I, grabbing the paper. - -"Good morning, good luck to you," he growls at me. - -"The old doorkeeper fussed out of the cloak-room with my hat. They -always do. But he looked very hard at me before he ventured to ask in a -sort of timid whisper: "Got through all right, sir?" For all answer I -dropped a half-crown into his soft broad palm. "Well," says he with a -sudden grin from ear to ear, "I never knew him keep any of you gentlemen -so long. He failed two second mates this morning before your turn came. -Less than twenty minutes each: that's about his usual time." - -"I found myself downstairs without being aware of the steps as if I had -floated down the staircase. The finest day in my life. The day you get -your first command is nothing to it. For one thing a man is not so young -then and for another with us, you know, there is nothing much more to -expect. Yes, the finest day of one's life, no doubt, but then it is just -a day and no more. What comes after is about the most unpleasant time -for a youngster, the trying to get an officer's berth with nothing much -to show but a brand-new certificate. It is surprising how useless you -find that piece of ass's skin that you have been putting yourself in such -a state about. It didn't strike me at the time that a Board of Trade -certificate does not make an officer, not by a long long way. But the -slippers of the ships I was haunting with demands for a job knew that -very well. I don't wonder at them now, and I don't blame them either. -But this 'trying to get a ship' is pretty hard on a youngster all the -same . . . " - -He went on then to tell us how tired he was and how discouraged by this -lesson of disillusion following swiftly upon the finest day of his life. -He told us how he went the round of all the ship-owners' offices in the -City where some junior clerk would furnish him with printed forms of -application which he took home to fill up in the evening. He used to run -out just before midnight to post them in the nearest pillar-box. And -that was all that ever came of it. In his own words: he might just as -well have dropped them all properly addressed and stamped into the sewer -grating. - -Then one day, as he was wending his weary way to the docks, he met a -friend and former shipmate a little older than himself outside the -Fenchurch Street Railway Station. - -He craved for sympathy but his friend had just "got a ship" that very -morning and was hurrying home in a state of outward joy and inward -uneasiness usual to a sailor who after many days of waiting suddenly gets -a berth. This friend had the time to condole with him but briefly. He -must be moving. Then as he was running off, over his shoulder as it -were, he suggested: "Why don't you go and speak to Mr. Powell in the -Shipping Office." Our friend objected that he did not know Mr. Powell -from Adam. And the other already pretty near round the corner shouted -back advice: "Go to the private door of the Shipping Office and walk -right up to him. His desk is by the window. Go up boldly and say I sent -you." - -Our new acquaintance looking from one to the other of us declared: "Upon -my word, I had grown so desperate that I'd have gone boldly up to the -devil himself on the mere hint that he had a second mate's job to give -away." - -It was at this point that interrupting his flow of talk to light his pipe -but holding us with his eye he inquired whether we had known Powell. -Marlow with a slight reminiscent smile murmured that he "remembered him -very well." - -Then there was a pause. Our new acquaintance had become involved in a -vexatious difficulty with his pipe which had suddenly betrayed his trust -and disappointed his anticipation of self-indulgence. To keep the ball -rolling I asked Marlow if this Powell was remarkable in any way. - -"He was not exactly remarkable," Marlow answered with his usual -nonchalance. "In a general way it's very difficult for one to become -remarkable. People won't take sufficient notice of one, don't you know. -I remember Powell so well simply because as one of the Shipping Masters -in the Port of London he dispatched me to sea on several long stages of -my sailor's pilgrimage. He resembled Socrates. I mean he resembled him -genuinely: that is in the face. A philosophical mind is but an accident. -He reproduced exactly the familiar bust of the immortal sage, if you will -imagine the bust with a high top hat riding far on the back of the head, -and a black coat over the shoulders. As I never saw him except from the -other side of the long official counter bearing the five writing desks of -the five Shipping Masters, Mr. Powell has remained a bust to me." - -Our new acquaintance advanced now from the mantelpiece with his pipe in -good working order. - -"What was the most remarkable about Powell," he enunciated dogmatically -with his head in a cloud of smoke, "is that he should have had just that -name. You see, my name happens to be Powell too." - -It was clear that this intelligence was not imparted to us for social -purposes. It required no acknowledgment. We continued to gaze at him -with expectant eyes. - -He gave himself up to the vigorous enjoyment of his pipe for a silent -minute or two. Then picking up the thread of his story he told us how he -had started hot foot for Tower Hill. He had not been that way since the -day of his examination--the finest day of his life--the day of his -overweening pride. It was very different now. He would not have called -the Queen his cousin, still, but this time it was from a sense of -profound abasement. He didn't think himself good enough for anybody's -kinship. He envied the purple-nosed old cab-drivers on the stand, the -boot-black boys at the edge of the pavement, the two large bobbies pacing -slowly along the Tower Gardens railings in the consciousness of their -infallible might, and the bright scarlet sentries walking smartly to and -fro before the Mint. He envied them their places in the scheme of -world's labour. And he envied also the miserable sallow, thin-faced -loafers blinking their obscene eyes and rubbing their greasy shoulders -against the door-jambs of the Black Horse pub, because they were too far -gone to feel their degradation. - -I must render the man the justice that he conveyed very well to us the -sense of his youthful hopelessness surprised at not finding its place in -the sun and no recognition of its right to live. - -He went up the outer steps of St. Katherine's Dock House, the very steps -from which he had some six weeks before surveyed the cabstand, the -buildings, the policemen, the boot-blacks, the paint, gilt, and -plateglass of the Black Horse, with the eye of a Conqueror. At the time -he had been at the bottom of his heart surprised that all this had not -greeted him with songs and incense, but now (he made no secret of it) he -made his entry in a slinking fashion past the doorkeeper's glass box. "I -hadn't any half-crowns to spare for tips," he remarked grimly. The man, -however, ran out after him asking: "What do you require?" but with a -grateful glance up at the first floor in remembrance of Captain R-'s -examination room (how easy and delightful all that had been) he bolted -down a flight leading to the basement and found himself in a place of -dusk and mystery and many doors. He had been afraid of being stopped by -some rule of no-admittance. However he was not pursued. - -The basement of St. Katherine's Dock House is vast in extent and -confusing in its plan. Pale shafts of light slant from above into the -gloom of its chilly passages. Powell wandered up and down there like an -early Christian refugee in the catacombs; but what little faith he had in -the success of his enterprise was oozing out at his finger-tips. At a -dark turn under a gas bracket whose flame was half turned down his self- -confidence abandoned him altogether. - -"I stood there to think a little," he said. "A foolish thing to do -because of course I got scared. What could you expect? It takes some -nerve to tackle a stranger with a request for a favour. I wished my -namesake Powell had been the devil himself. I felt somehow it would have -been an easier job. You see, I never believed in the devil enough to be -scared of him; but a man can make himself very unpleasant. I looked at a -lot of doors, all shut tight, with a growing conviction that I would -never have the pluck to open one of them. Thinking's no good for one's -nerve. I concluded I would give up the whole business. But I didn't -give up in the end, and I'll tell you what stopped me. It was the -recollection of that confounded doorkeeper who had called after me. I -felt sure the fellow would be on the look-out at the head of the stairs. -If he asked me what I had been after, as he had the right to do, I -wouldn't know what to answer that wouldn't make me look silly if no -worse. I got very hot. There was no chance of slinking out of this -business. - -"I had lost my bearings somehow down there. Of the many doors of various -sizes, right and left, a good few had glazed lights above; some however -must have led merely into lumber rooms or such like, because when I -brought myself to try one or two I was disconcerted to find that they -were locked. I stood there irresolute and uneasy like a baffled thief. -The confounded basement was as still as a grave and I became aware of my -heart beats. Very uncomfortable sensation. Never happened to me before -or since. A bigger door to the left of me, with a large brass handle -looked as if it might lead into the Shipping Office. I tried it, setting -my teeth. "Here goes!" - -"It came open quite easily. And lo! the place it opened into was hardly -any bigger than a cupboard. Anyhow it wasn't more than ten feet by -twelve; and as I in a way expected to see the big shadowy cellar-like -extent of the Shipping Office where I had been once or twice before, I -was extremely startled. A gas bracket hung from the middle of the -ceiling over a dark, shabby writing-desk covered with a litter of -yellowish dusty documents. Under the flame of the single burner which -made the place ablaze with light, a plump, little man was writing hard, -his nose very near the desk. His head was perfectly bald and about the -same drab tint as the papers. He appeared pretty dusty too. - -"I didn't notice whether there were any cobwebs on him, but I shouldn't -wonder if there were because he looked as though he had been imprisoned -for years in that little hole. The way he dropped his pen and sat -blinking my way upset me very much. And his dungeon was hot and musty; -it smelt of gas and mushrooms, and seemed to be somewhere 120 feet below -the ground. Solid, heavy stacks of paper filled all the corners half-way -up to the ceiling. And when the thought flashed upon me that these were -the premises of the Marine Board and that this fellow must be connected -in some way with ships and sailors and the sea, my astonishment took my -breath away. One couldn't imagine why the Marine Board should keep that -bald, fat creature slaving down there. For some reason or other I felt -sorry and ashamed to have found him out in his wretched captivity. I -asked gently and sorrowfully: "The Shipping Office, please." - -He piped up in a contemptuous squeaky voice which made me start: "Not -here. Try the passage on the other side. Street side. This is the Dock -side. You've lost your way . . . " - -He spoke in such a spiteful tone that I thought he was going to round off -with the words: "You fool" . . . and perhaps he meant to. But what he -finished sharply with was: "Shut the door quietly after you." - -And I did shut it quietly--you bet. Quick and quiet. The indomitable -spirit of that chap impressed me. I wonder sometimes whether he has -succeeded in writing himself into liberty and a pension at last, or had -to go out of his gas-lighted grave straight into that other dark one -where nobody would want to intrude. My humanity was pleased to discover -he had so much kick left in him, but I was not comforted in the least. It -occurred to me that if Mr. Powell had the same sort of temper . . . -However, I didn't give myself time to think and scuttled across the space -at the foot of the stairs into the passage where I'd been told to try. -And I tried the first door I came to, right away, without any hanging -back, because coming loudly from the hall above an amazed and scandalized -voice wanted to know what sort of game I was up to down there. "Don't -you know there's no admittance that way?" it roared. But if there was -anything more I shut it out of my hearing by means of a door marked -_Private_ on the outside. It let me into a six-feet wide strip between a -long counter and the wall, taken off a spacious, vaulted room with a -grated window and a glazed door giving daylight to the further end. The -first thing I saw right in front of me were three middle-aged men having -a sort of romp together round about another fellow with a thin, long neck -and sloping shoulders who stood up at a desk writing on a large sheet of -paper and taking no notice except that he grinned quietly to himself. -They turned very sour at once when they saw me. I heard one of them -mutter 'Hullo! What have we here?' - -"'I want to see Mr. Powell, please,' I said, very civil but firm; I would -let nothing scare me away now. This was the Shipping Office right -enough. It was after 3 o'clock and the business seemed over for the day -with them. The long-necked fellow went on with his writing steadily. I -observed that he was no longer grinning. The three others tossed their -heads all together towards the far end of the room where a fifth man had -been looking on at their antics from a high stool. I walked up to him as -boldly as if he had been the devil himself. With one foot raised up and -resting on the cross-bar of his seat he never stopped swinging the other -which was well clear of the stone floor. He had unbuttoned the top of -his waistcoat and he wore his tall hat very far at the back of his head. -He had a full unwrinkled face and such clear-shining eyes that his grey -beard looked quite false on him, stuck on for a disguise. You said just -now he resembled Socrates--didn't you? I don't know about that. This -Socrates was a wise man, I believe?" - -"He was," assented Marlow. "And a true friend of youth. He lectured -them in a peculiarly exasperating manner. It was a way he had." - -"Then give me Powell every time," declared our new acquaintance sturdily. -"He didn't lecture me in any way. Not he. He said: 'How do you do?' -quite kindly to my mumble. Then says he looking very hard at me: 'I -don't think I know you--do I?' - -"No, sir," I said and down went my heart sliding into my boots, just as -the time had come to summon up all my cheek. There's nothing meaner in -the world than a piece of impudence that isn't carried off well. For -fear of appearing shamefaced I started about it so free and easy as -almost to frighten myself. He listened for a while looking at my face -with surprise and curiosity and then held up his hand. I was glad enough -to shut up, I can tell you. - -"Well, you are a cool hand," says he. "And that friend of yours too. He -pestered me coming here every day for a fortnight till a captain I'm -acquainted with was good enough to give him a berth. And no sooner he's -provided for than he turns you on. You youngsters don't seem to mind -whom you get into trouble." - -"It was my turn now to stare with surprise and curiosity. He hadn't been -talking loud but he lowered his voice still more. - -"Don't you know it's illegal?" - -"I wondered what he was driving at till I remembered that procuring a -berth for a sailor is a penal offence under the Act. That clause was -directed of course against the swindling practices of the boarding-house -crimps. It had never struck me it would apply to everybody alike no -matter what the motive, because I believed then that people on shore did -their work with care and foresight. - -"I was confounded at the idea, but Mr. Powell made me soon see that an -Act of Parliament hasn't any sense of its own. It has only the sense -that's put into it; and that's precious little sometimes. He didn't mind -helping a young man to a ship now and then, he said, but if we kept on -coming constantly it would soon get about that he was doing it for money. - -"A pretty thing that would be: the Senior Shipping-Master of the Port of -London hauled up in a police court and fined fifty pounds," says he. -"I've another four years to serve to get my pension. It could be made to -look very black against me and don't you make any mistake about it," he -says. - -"And all the time with one knee well up he went on swinging his other leg -like a boy on a gate and looking at me very straight with his shining -eyes. I was confounded I tell you. It made me sick to hear him imply -that somebody would make a report against him. - -"Oh!" I asked shocked, "who would think of such a scurvy trick, sir?" I -was half disgusted with him for having the mere notion of it. - -"Who?" says he, speaking very low. "Anybody. One of the office -messengers maybe. I've risen to be the Senior of this office and we are -all very good friends here, but don't you think that my colleague that -sits next to me wouldn't like to go up to this desk by the window four -years in advance of the regulation time? Or even one year for that -matter. It's human nature." - -"I could not help turning my head. The three fellows who had been -skylarking when I came in were now talking together very soberly, and the -long-necked chap was going on with his writing still. He seemed to me -the most dangerous of the lot. I saw him sideface and his lips were set -very tight. I had never looked at mankind in that light before. When -one's young human nature shocks one. But what startled me most was to -see the door I had come through open slowly and give passage to a head in -a uniform cap with a Board of Trade badge. It was that blamed old -doorkeeper from the hall. He had run me to earth and meant to dig me out -too. He walked up the office smirking craftily, cap in hand. - -"What is it, Symons?" asked Mr. Powell. - -"I was only wondering where this 'ere gentleman 'ad gone to, sir. He -slipped past me upstairs, sir." - -I felt mighty uncomfortable. - -"That's all right, Symons. I know the gentleman," says Mr. Powell as -serious as a judge. - -"Very well, sir. Of course, sir. I saw the gentleman running races all -by 'isself down 'ere, so I . . ." - -"It's all right I tell you," Mr. Powell cut him short with a wave of his -hand; and, as the old fraud walked off at last, he raised his eyes to me. -I did not know what to do: stay there, or clear out, or say that I was -sorry. - -"Let's see," says he, "what did you tell me your name was?" - -"Now, observe, I hadn't given him my name at all and his question -embarrassed me a bit. Somehow or other it didn't seem proper for me to -fling his own name at him as it were. So I merely pulled out my new -certificate from my pocket and put it into his hand unfolded, so that he -could read _Charles Powell_ written very plain on the parchment. - -"He dropped his eyes on to it and after a while laid it quietly on the -desk by his side. I didn't know whether he meant to make any remark on -this coincidence. Before he had time to say anything the glass door came -open with a bang and a tall, active man rushed in with great strides. His -face looked very red below his high silk hat. You could see at once he -was the skipper of a big ship. - -"Mr. Powell after telling me in an undertone to wait a little addressed -him in a friendly way. - -"I've been expecting you in every moment to fetch away your Articles, -Captain. Here they are all ready for you." And turning to a pile of -agreements lying at his elbow he took up the topmost of them. From where -I stood I could read the words: "Ship _Ferndale_" written in a large -round hand on the first page. - -"No, Mr. Powell, they aren't ready, worse luck," says that skipper. "I've -got to ask you to strike out my second officer." He seemed excited and -bothered. He explained that his second mate had been working on board -all the morning. At one o'clock he went out to get a bit of dinner and -didn't turn up at two as he ought to have done. Instead there came a -messenger from the hospital with a note signed by a doctor. Collar bone -and one arm broken. Let himself be knocked down by a pair horse van -while crossing the road outside the dock gate, as if he had neither eyes -nor ears. And the ship ready to leave the dock at six o'clock to-morrow -morning! - -"Mr. Powell dipped his pen and began to turn the leaves of the agreement -over. "We must then take his name off," he says in a kind of unconcerned -sing-song. - -"What am I to do?" burst out the skipper. "This office closes at four -o'clock. I can't find a man in half an hour." - -"This office closes at four," repeats Mr. Powell glancing up and down the -pages and touching up a letter here and there with perfect indifference. - -"Even if I managed to lay hold some time to-day of a man ready to go at -such short notice I couldn't ship him regularly here--could I?" - -"Mr. Powell was busy drawing his pen through the entries relating to that -unlucky second mate and making a note in the margin. - -"You could sign him on yourself on board," says he without looking up. -"But I don't think you'll find easily an officer for such a pier-head -jump." - -"Upon this the fine-looking skipper gave signs of distress. The ship -mustn't miss the next morning's tide. He had to take on board forty tons -of dynamite and a hundred and twenty tons of gunpowder at a place down -the river before proceeding to sea. It was all arranged for next day. -There would be no end of fuss and complications if the ship didn't turn -up in time . . . I couldn't help hearing all this, while wishing him to -take himself off, because I wanted to know why Mr. Powell had told me to -wait. After what he had been saying there didn't seem any object in my -hanging about. If I had had my certificate in my pocket I should have -tried to slip away quietly; but Mr. Powell had turned about into the same -position I found him in at first and was again swinging his leg. My -certificate open on the desk was under his left elbow and I couldn't very -well go up and jerk it away. - -"I don't know," says he carelessly, addressing the helpless captain but -looking fixedly at me with an expression as if I hadn't been there. "I -don't know whether I ought to tell you that I know of a disengaged second -mate at hand." - -"Do you mean you've got him here?" shouts the other looking all over the -empty public part of the office as if he were ready to fling himself -bodily upon anything resembling a second mate. He had been so full of -his difficulty that I verify believe he had never noticed me. Or perhaps -seeing me inside he may have thought I was some understrapper belonging -to the place. But when Mr. Powell nodded in my direction he became very -quiet and gave me a long stare. Then he stooped to Mr. Powell's ear--I -suppose he imagined he was whispering, but I heard him well enough. - -"Looks very respectable." - -"Certainly," says the shipping-master quite calm and staring all the time -at me. "His name's Powell." - -"Oh, I see!" says the skipper as if struck all of a heap. "But is he -ready to join at once?" - -"I had a sort of vision of my lodgings--in the North of London, too, -beyond Dalston, away to the devil--and all my gear scattered about, and -my empty sea-chest somewhere in an outhouse the good people I was staying -with had at the end of their sooty strip of garden. I heard the Shipping -Master say in the coolest sort of way: - -"He'll sleep on board to-night." - -"He had better," says the Captain of the _Ferndale_ very businesslike, as -if the whole thing were settled. I can't say I was dumb for joy as you -may suppose. It wasn't exactly that. I was more by way of being out of -breath with the quickness of it. It didn't seem possible that this was -happening to me. But the skipper, after he had talked for a while with -Mr. Powell, too low for me to hear became visibly perplexed. - -"I suppose he had heard I was freshly passed and without experience as an -officer, because he turned about and looked me over as if I had been -exposed for sale. - -"He's young," he mutters. "Looks smart, though . . . You're smart and -willing (this to me very sudden and loud) and all that, aren't you?" - -"I just managed to open and shut my mouth, no more, being taken unawares. -But it was enough for him. He made as if I had deafened him with -protestations of my smartness and willingness. - -"Of course, of course. All right." And then turning to the Shipping -Master who sat there swinging his leg, he said that he certainly couldn't -go to sea without a second officer. I stood by as if all these things -were happening to some other chap whom I was seeing through with it. Mr. -Powell stared at me with those shining eyes of his. But that bothered -skipper turns upon me again as though he wanted to snap my head off. - -"You aren't too big to be told how to do things--are you? You've a lot -to learn yet though you mayn't think so." - -"I had half a mind to save my dignity by telling him that if it was my -seamanship he was alluding to I wanted him to understand that a fellow -who had survived being turned inside out for an hour and a half by -Captain R- was equal to any demand his old ship was likely to make on his -competence. However he didn't give me a chance to make that sort of fool -of myself because before I could open my mouth he had gone round on -another tack and was addressing himself affably to Mr. Powell who -swinging his leg never took his eyes off me. - -"I'll take your young friend willingly, Mr. Powell. If you let him sign -on as second-mate at once I'll take the Articles away with me now." - -"It suddenly dawned upon me that the innocent skipper of the _Ferndale_ -had taken it for granted that I was a relative of the Shipping Master! I -was quite astonished at this discovery, though indeed the mistake was -natural enough under the circumstances. What I ought to have admired was -the reticence with which this misunderstanding had been established and -acted upon. But I was too stupid then to admire anything. All my -anxiety was that this should be cleared up. I was ass enough to wonder -exceedingly at Mr. Powell failing to notice the misapprehension. I saw a -slight twitch come and go on his face; but instead of setting right that -mistake the Shipping Master swung round on his stool and addressed me as -'Charles.' He did. And I detected him taking a hasty squint at my -certificate just before, because clearly till he did so he was not sure -of my christian name. "Now then come round in front of the desk, -Charles," says he in a loud voice. - -"Charles! At first, I declare to you, it didn't seem possible that he -was addressing himself to me. I even looked round for that Charles but -there was nobody behind me except the thin-necked chap still hard at his -writing, and the other three Shipping Masters who were changing their -coats and reaching for their hats, making ready to go home. It was the -industrious thin-necked man who without laying down his pen lifted with -his left hand a flap near his desk and said kindly: - -"Pass this way." - -I walked through in a trance, faced Mr. Powell, from whom I learned that -we were bound to Port Elizabeth first, and signed my name on the Articles -of the ship _Ferndale_ as second mate--the voyage not to exceed two -years. - -"You won't fail to join--eh?" says the captain anxiously. "It would -cause no end of trouble and expense if you did. You've got a good six -hours to get your gear together, and then you'll have time to snatch a -sleep on board before the crew joins in the morning." - -"It was easy enough for him to talk of getting ready in six hours for a -voyage that was not to exceed two years. He hadn't to do that trick -himself, and with his sea-chest locked up in an outhouse the key of which -had been mislaid for a week as I remembered. But neither was I much -concerned. The idea that I was absolutely going to sea at six o'clock -next morning hadn't got quite into my head yet. It had been too sudden. - -"Mr. Powell, slipping the Articles into a long envelope, spoke up with a -sort of cold half-laugh without looking at either of us. - -"Mind you don't disgrace the name, Charles." - -"And the skipper chimes in very kindly: - -"He'll do well enough I dare say. I'll look after him a bit." - -"Upon this he grabs the Articles, says something about trying to run in -for a minute to see that poor devil in the hospital, and off he goes with -his heavy swinging step after telling me sternly: "Don't you go like that -poor fellow and get yourself run over by a cart as if you hadn't either -eyes or ears." - -"Mr. Powell," says I timidly (there was by then only the thin-necked man -left in the office with us and he was already by the door, standing on -one leg to turn the bottom of his trousers up before going away). "Mr. -Powell," says I, "I believe the Captain of the _Ferndale_ was thinking -all the time that I was a relation of yours." - -"I was rather concerned about the propriety of it, you know, but Mr. -Powell didn't seem to be in the least. - -"Did he?" says he. "That's funny, because it seems to me too that I've -been a sort of good uncle to several of you young fellows lately. Don't -you think so yourself? However, if you don't like it you may put him -right--when you get out to sea." At this I felt a bit queer. Mr. Powell -had rendered me a very good service:- because it's a fact that with us -merchant sailors the first voyage as officer is the real start in life. -He had given me no less than that. I told him warmly that he had done -for me more that day than all my relations put together ever did. - -"Oh, no, no," says he. "I guess it's that shipment of explosives waiting -down the river which has done most for you. Forty tons of dynamite have -been your best friend to-day, young man." - -"That was true too, perhaps. Anyway I saw clearly enough that I had -nothing to thank myself for. But as I tried to thank him, he checked my -stammering. - -"Don't be in a hurry to thank me," says he. "The voyage isn't finished -yet." - -Our new acquaintance paused, then added meditatively: "Queer man. As if -it made any difference. Queer man." - -"It's certainly unwise to admit any sort of responsibility for our -actions, whose consequences we are never able to foresee," remarked -Marlow by way of assent. - -"The consequence of his action was that I got a ship," said the other. -"That could not do much harm," he added with a laugh which argued a -probably unconscious contempt of general ideas. - -But Marlow was not put off. He was patient and reflective. He had been -at sea many years and I verily believe he liked sea-life because upon the -whole it is favourable to reflection. I am speaking of the now nearly -vanished sea-life under sail. To those who may be surprised at the -statement I will point out that this life secured for the mind of him who -embraced it the inestimable advantages of solitude and silence. Marlow -had the habit of pursuing general ideas in a peculiar manner, between -jest and earnest. - -"Oh, I wouldn't suggest," he said, "that your namesake Mr. Powell, the -Shipping Master, had done you much harm. Such was hardly his intention. -And even if it had been he would not have had the power. He was but a -man, and the incapacity to achieve anything distinctly good or evil is -inherent in our earthly condition. Mediocrity is our mark. And perhaps -it's just as well, since, for the most part, we cannot be certain of the -effect of our actions." - -"I don't know about the effect," the other stood up to Marlow manfully. -"What effect did you expect anyhow? I tell you he did something -uncommonly kind." - -"He did what he could," Marlow retorted gently, "and on his own showing -that was not a very great deal. I cannot help thinking that there was -some malice in the way he seized the opportunity to serve you. He -managed to make you uncomfortable. You wanted to go to sea, but he -jumped at the chance of accommodating your desire with a vengeance. I am -inclined to think your cheek alarmed him. And this was an excellent -occasion to suppress you altogether. For if you accepted he was relieved -of you with every appearance of humanity, and if you made objections -(after requesting his assistance, mind you) it was open to him to drop -you as a sort of impostor. You might have had to decline that berth for -some very valid reason. From sheer necessity perhaps. The notice was -too uncommonly short. But under the circumstances you'd have covered -yourself with ignominy." - -Our new friend knocked the ashes out of his pipe. - -"Quite a mistake," he said. "I am not of the declining sort, though I'll -admit it was something like telling a man that you would like a bath and -in consequence being instantly knocked overboard to sink or swim with -your clothes on. However, I didn't feel as if I were in deep water at -first. I left the shipping office quietly and for a time strolled along -the street as easy as if I had a week before me to fit myself out. But -by and by I reflected that the notice was even shorter than it looked. -The afternoon was well advanced; I had some things to get, a lot of small -matters to attend to, one or two persons to see. One of them was an aunt -of mine, my only relation, who quarrelled with poor father as long as he -lived about some silly matter that had neither right nor wrong to it. She -left her money to me when she died. I used always to go and see her for -decency's sake. I had so much to do before night that I didn't know -where to begin. I felt inclined to sit down on the kerb and hold my head -in my hands. It was as if an engine had been started going under my -skull. Finally I sat down in the first cab that came along and it was a -hard matter to keep on sitting there I can tell you, while we rolled up -and down the streets, pulling up here and there, the parcels accumulating -round me and the engine in my head gathering more way every minute. The -composure of the people on the pavements was provoking to a degree, and -as to the people in shops, they were benumbed, more than half -frozen--imbecile. Funny how it affects you to be in a peculiar state of -mind: everybody that does not act up to your excitement seems so -confoundedly unfriendly. And my state of mind what with the hurry, the -worry and a growing exultation was peculiar enough. That engine in my -head went round at its top speed hour after hour till eleven at about at -night it let up on me suddenly at the entrance to the Dock before large -iron gates in a dead wall." - -* * * * * - -These gates were closed and locked. The cabby, after shooting his things -off the roof of his machine into young Powell's arms, drove away leaving -him alone with his sea-chest, a sail cloth bag and a few parcels on the -pavement about his feet. It was a dark, narrow thoroughfare he told us. -A mean row of houses on the other side looked empty: there wasn't the -smallest gleam of light in them. The white-hot glare of a gin palace a -good way off made the intervening piece of the street pitch black. Some -human shapes appearing mysteriously, as if they had sprung up from the -dark ground, shunned the edge of the faint light thrown down by the -gateway lamps. These figures were wary in their movements and perfectly -silent of foot, like beasts of prey slinking about a camp fire. Powell -gathered up his belongings and hovered over them like a hen over her -brood. A gruffly insinuating voice said: - -"Let's carry your things in, Capt'in! I've got my pal 'ere." - -He was a tall, bony, grey-haired ruffian with a bulldog jaw, in a torn -cotton shirt and moleskin trousers. The shadow of his hobnailed boots -was enormous and coffinlike. His pal, who didn't come up much higher -than his elbow, stepping forward exhibited a pale face with a long -drooping nose and no chin to speak of. He seemed to have just scrambled -out of a dust-bin in a tam-o'shanter cap and a tattered soldier's coat -much too long for him. Being so deadly white he looked like a horrible -dirty invalid in a ragged dressing gown. The coat flapped open in front -and the rest of his apparel consisted of one brace which crossed his -naked, bony chest, and a pair of trousers. He blinked rapidly as if -dazed by the faint light, while his patron, the old bandit, glowered at -young Powell from under his beetling brow. - -"Say the word, Capt'in. The bobby'll let us in all right. 'E knows both -of us." - -"I didn't answer him," continued Mr. Powell. "I was listening to -footsteps on the other side of the gate, echoing between the walls of the -warehouses as if in an uninhabited town of very high buildings dark from -basement to roof. You could never have guessed that within a stone's -throw there was an open sheet of water and big ships lying afloat. The -few gas lamps showing up a bit of brick work here and there, appeared in -the blackness like penny dips in a range of cellars--and the solitary -footsteps came on, tramp, tramp. A dock policeman strode into the light -on the other side of the gate, very broad-chested and stern. - -"Hallo! What's up here?" - -"He was really surprised, but after some palaver he let me in together -with the two loafers carrying my luggage. He grumbled at them however -and slammed the gate violently with a loud clang. I was startled to -discover how many night prowlers had collected in the darkness of the -street in such a short time and without my being aware of it. Directly -we were through they came surging against the bars, silent, like a mob of -ugly spectres. But suddenly, up the street somewhere, perhaps near that -public-house, a row started as if Bedlam had broken loose: shouts, yells, -an awful shrill shriek--and at that noise all these heads vanished from -behind the bars. - -"Look at this," marvelled the constable. "It's a wonder to me they -didn't make off with your things while you were waiting." - -"I would have taken good care of that," I said defiantly. But the -constable wasn't impressed. - -"Much you would have done. The bag going off round one dark corner; the -chest round another. Would you have run two ways at once? And anyhow -you'd have been tripped up and jumped upon before you had run three -yards. I tell you you've had a most extraordinary chance that there -wasn't one of them regular boys about to-night, in the High Street, to -twig your loaded cab go by. Ted here is honest . . . You are on the -honest lay, Ted, ain't you?" - -"Always was, orficer," said the big ruffian with feeling. The other -frail creature seemed dumb and only hopped about with the edge of its -soldier coat touching the ground. - -"Oh yes, I dare say," said the constable. "Now then, forward, march . . . -He's that because he ain't game for the other thing," he confided to -me. "He hasn't got the nerve for it. However, I ain't going to lose -sight of them two till they go out through the gate. That little chap's -a devil. He's got the nerve for anything, only he hasn't got the muscle. -Well! Well! You've had a chance to get in with a whole skin and with -all your things." - -"I was incredulous a little. It seemed impossible that after getting -ready with so much hurry and inconvenience I should have lost my chance -of a start in life from such a cause. I asked: - -"Does that sort of thing happen often so near the dock gates?" - -"Often! No! Of course not often. But it ain't often either that a man -comes along with a cabload of things to join a ship at this time of -night. I've been in the dock police thirteen years and haven't seen it -done once." - -"Meantime we followed my sea-chest which was being carried down a sort of -deep narrow lane, separating two high warehouses, between honest Ted and -his little devil of a pal who had to keep up a trot to the other's -stride. The skirt of his soldier's coat floating behind him nearly swept -the ground so that he seemed to be running on castors. At the corner of -the gloomy passage a rigged jib boom with a dolphin-striker ending in an -arrow-head stuck out of the night close to a cast iron lamp-post. It was -the quay side. They set down their load in the light and honest Ted -asked hoarsely: - -"Where's your ship, guv'nor?" - -"I didn't know. The constable was interested at my ignorance. - -"Don't know where your ship is?" he asked with curiosity. "And you the -second officer! Haven't you been working on board of her?" - -"I couldn't explain that the only work connected with my appointment was -the work of chance. I told him briefly that I didn't know her at all. At -this he remarked: - -"So I see. Here she is, right before you. That's her." - -"At once the head-gear in the gas light inspired me with interest and -respect; the spars were big, the chains and ropes stout and the whole -thing looked powerful and trustworthy. Barely touched by the light her -bows rose faintly alongside the narrow strip of the quay; the rest of her -was a black smudge in the darkness. Here I was face to face with my -start in life. We walked in a body a few steps on a greasy pavement -between her side and the towering wall of a warehouse and I hit my shins -cruelly against the end of the gangway. The constable hailed her quietly -in a bass undertone '_Ferndale_ there!' A feeble and dismal sound, -something in the nature of a buzzing groan, answered from behind the -bulwarks. - -"I distinguished vaguely an irregular round knob, of wood, perhaps, -resting on the rail. It did not move in the least; but as another broken- -down buzz like a still fainter echo of the first dismal sound proceeded -from it I concluded it must be the head of the ship-keeper. The stalwart -constable jeered in a mock-official manner. - -"Second officer coming to join. Move yourself a bit." - -"The truth of the statement touched me in the pit of the stomach (you -know that's the spot where emotion gets home on a man) for it was borne -upon me that really and truly I was nothing but a second officer of a -ship just like any other second officer, to that constable. I was moved -by this solid evidence of my new dignity. Only his tone offended me. -Nevertheless I gave him the tip he was looking for. Thereupon he lost -all interest in me, humorous or otherwise, and walked away driving -sternly before him the honest Ted, who went off grumbling to himself like -a hungry ogre, and his horrible dumb little pal in the soldier's coat, -who, from first to last, never emitted the slightest sound. - -"It was very dark on the quarter deck of the _Ferndale_ between the deep -bulwarks overshadowed by the break of the poop and frowned upon by the -front of the warehouse. I plumped down on to my chest near the after -hatch as if my legs had been jerked from under me. I felt suddenly very -tired and languid. The ship-keeper, whom I could hardly make out hung -over the capstan in a fit of weak pitiful coughing. He gasped out very -low 'Oh! dear! Oh! dear!' and struggled for breath so long that I got up -alarmed and irresolute. - -"I've been took like this since last Christmas twelvemonth. It ain't -nothing." - -"He seemed a hundred years old at least. I never saw him properly -because he was gone ashore and out of sight when I came on deck in the -morning; but he gave me the notion of the feeblest creature that ever -breathed. His voice was thin like the buzzing of a mosquito. As it -would have been cruel to demand assistance from such a shadowy wreck I -went to work myself, dragging my chest along a pitch-black passage under -the poop deck, while he sighed and moaned around me as if my exertions -were more than his weakness could stand. At last as I banged pretty -heavily against the bulkheads he warned me in his faint breathless wheeze -to be more careful. - -"What's the matter?" I asked rather roughly, not relishing to be -admonished by this forlorn broken-down ghost. - -"Nothing! Nothing, sir," he protested so hastily that he lost his poor -breath again and I felt sorry for him. "Only the captain and his missus -are sleeping on board. She's a lady that mustn't be disturbed. They -came about half-past eight, and we had a permit to have lights in the -cabin till ten to-night." - -"This struck me as a considerable piece of news. I had never been in a -ship where the captain had his wife with him. I'd heard fellows say that -captains' wives could work a lot of mischief on board ship if they -happened to take a dislike to anyone; especially the new wives if young -and pretty. The old and experienced wives on the other hand fancied they -knew more about the ship than the skipper himself and had an eye like a -hawk's for what went on. They were like an extra chief mate of a -particularly sharp and unfeeling sort who made his report in the evening. -The best of them were a nuisance. In the general opinion a skipper with -his wife on board was more difficult to please; but whether to show off -his authority before an admiring female or from loving anxiety for her -safety or simply from irritation at her presence--nobody I ever heard on -the subject could tell for certain. - -"After I had bundled in my things somehow I struck a match and had a -dazzling glimpse of my berth; then I pitched the roll of my bedding into -the bunk but took no trouble to spread it out. I wasn't sleepy now, -neither was I tired. And the thought that I was done with the earth for -many many months to come made me feel very quiet and self-contained as it -were. Sailors will understand what I mean." - -Marlow nodded. "It is a strictly professional feeling," he commented. -"But other professions or trades know nothing of it. It is only this -calling whose primary appeal lies in the suggestion of restless adventure -which holds out that deep sensation to those who embrace it. It is -difficult to define, I admit." - -"I should call it the peace of the sea," said Mr. Charles Powell in an -earnest tone but looking at us as though he expected to be met by a laugh -of derision and were half prepared to salve his reputation for common -sense by joining in it. But neither of us laughed at Mr. Charles Powell -in whose start in life we had been called to take a part. He was lucky -in his audience. - -"A very good name," said Marlow looking at him approvingly. "A sailor -finds a deep feeling of security in the exercise of his calling. The -exacting life of the sea has this advantage over the life of the earth -that its claims are simple and cannot be evaded." - -"Gospel truth," assented Mr. Powell. "No! they cannot be evaded." - -That an excellent understanding should have established itself between my -old friend and our new acquaintance was remarkable enough. For they were -exactly dissimilar--one individuality projecting itself in length and the -other in breadth, which is already a sufficient ground for irreconcilable -difference. Marlow who was lanky, loose, quietly composed in varied -shades of brown robbed of every vestige of gloss, had a narrow, veiled -glance, the neutral bearing and the secret irritability which go together -with a predisposition to congestion of the liver. The other, compact, -broad and sturdy of limb, seemed extremely full of sound organs -functioning vigorously all the time in order to keep up the brilliance of -his colouring, the light curl of his coal-black hair and the lustre of -his eyes, which asserted themselves roundly in an open, manly face. -Between two such organisms one would not have expected to find the -slightest temperamental accord. But I have observed that profane men -living in ships like the holy men gathered together in monasteries -develop traits of profound resemblance. This must be because the service -of the sea and the service of a temple are both detached from the -vanities and errors of a world which follows no severe rule. The men of -the sea understand each other very well in their view of earthly things, -for simplicity is a good counsellor and isolation not a bad educator. A -turn of mind composed of innocence and scepticism is common to them all, -with the addition of an unexpected insight into motives, as of -disinterested lookers-on at a game. Mr. Powell took me aside to say, - -"I like the things he says." - -"You understand each other pretty well," I observed. - -"I know his sort," said Powell, going to the window to look at his cutter -still riding to the flood. "He's the sort that's always chasing some -notion or other round and round his head just for the fun of the thing." - -"Keeps them in good condition," I said. - -"Lively enough I dare say," he admitted. - -"Would you like better a man who let his notions lie curled up?" - -"That I wouldn't," answered our new acquaintance. Clearly he was not -difficult to get on with. "I like him, very well," he continued, "though -it isn't easy to make him out. He seems to be up to a thing or two. -What's he doing?" - -I informed him that our friend Marlow had retired from the sea in a sort -of half-hearted fashion some years ago. - -Mr. Powell's comment was: "Fancied had enough of it?" - -"Fancied's the very word to use in this connection," I observed, -remembering the subtly provisional character of Marlow's long sojourn -amongst us. From year to year he dwelt on land as a bird rests on the -branch of a tree, so tense with the power of brusque flight into its true -element that it is incomprehensible why it should sit still minute after -minute. The sea is the sailor's true element, and Marlow, lingering on -shore, was to me an object of incredulous commiseration like a bird, -which, secretly, should have lost its faith in the high virtue of flying. - - - -CHAPTER TWO--THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND - - -We were on our feet in the room by then, and Marlow, brown and -deliberate, approached the window where Mr. Powell and I had retired. -"What was the name of your chance again?" he asked. Mr. Powell stared -for a moment. - -"Oh! The _Ferndale_. A Liverpool ship. Composite built." - -"_Ferndale_," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "_Ferndale_." - -"Know her?" - -"Our friend," I said, "knows something of every ship. He seems to have -gone about the seas prying into things considerably." - -Marlow smiled. - -"I've seen her, at least once." - -"The finest sea-boat ever launched," declared Mr. Powell sturdily. -"Without exception." - -"She looked a stout, comfortable ship," assented Marlow. "Uncommonly -comfortable. Not very fast tho'." - -"She was fast enough for any reasonable man--when I was in her," growled -Mr. Powell with his back to us. - -"Any ship is that--for a reasonable man," generalized Marlow in a -conciliatory tone. "A sailor isn't a globe-trotter." - -"No," muttered Mr. Powell. - -"Time's nothing to him," advanced Marlow. - -"I don't suppose it's much," said Mr. Powell. "All the same a quick -passage is a feather in a man's cap." - -"True. But that ornament is for the use of the master only. And by the -by what was his name?" - -"The master of the _Ferndale_? Anthony. Captain Anthony." - -"Just so. Quite right," approved Marlow thoughtfully. Our new -acquaintance looked over his shoulder. - -"What do you mean? Why is it more right than if it had been Brown?" - -"He has known him probably," I explained. "Marlow here appears to know -something of every soul that ever went afloat in a sailor's body." - -Mr. Powell seemed wonderfully amenable to verbal suggestions for looking -again out of the window, he muttered: - -"He was a good soul." - -This clearly referred to Captain Anthony of the _Ferndale_. Marlow -addressed his protest to me. - -"I did not know him. I really didn't. He was a good soul. That's -nothing very much out of the way--is it? And I didn't even know that -much of him. All I knew of him was an accident called Fyne. - -At this Mr. Powell who evidently could be rebellious too turned his back -squarely on the window. - -"What on earth do you mean?" he asked. "An--accident--called Fyne," he -repeated separating the words with emphasis. - -Marlow was not disconcerted. - -"I don't mean accident in the sense of a mishap. Not in the least. Fyne -was a good little man in the Civil Service. By accident I mean that -which happens blindly and without intelligent design. That's generally -the way a brother-in-law happens into a man's life." - -Marlow's tone being apologetic and our new acquaintance having again -turned to the window I took it upon myself to say: - -"You are justified. There is very little intelligent design in the -majority of marriages; but they are none the worse for that. Intelligence -leads people astray as far as passion sometimes. I know you are not a -cynic." - -Marlow smiled his retrospective smile which was kind as though he bore no -grudge against people he used to know. - -"Little Fyne's marriage was quite successful. There was no design at all -in it. Fyne, you must know, was an enthusiastic pedestrian. He spent -his holidays tramping all over our native land. His tastes were simple. -He put infinite conviction and perseverance into his holidays. At the -proper season you would meet in the fields, Fyne, a serious-faced, broad- -chested, little man, with a shabby knap-sack on his back, making for some -church steeple. He had a horror of roads. He wrote once a little book -called the 'Tramp's Itinerary,' and was recognised as an authority on the -footpaths of England. So one year, in his favourite over-the-fields, -back-way fashion he entered a pretty Surrey village where he met Miss -Anthony. Pure accident, you see. They came to an understanding, across -some stile, most likely. Little Fyne held very solemn views as to the -destiny of women on this earth, the nature of our sublunary love, the -obligations of this transient life and so on. He probably disclosed them -to his future wife. Miss Anthony's views of life were very decided too -but in a different way. I don't know the story of their wooing. I -imagine it was carried on clandestinely and, I am certain, with -portentous gravity, at the back of copses, behind hedges . . . - -"Why was it carried on clandestinely?" I inquired. - -"Because of the lady's father. He was a savage sentimentalist who had -his own decided views of his paternal prerogatives. He was a terror; but -the only evidence of imaginative faculty about Fyne was his pride in his -wife's parentage. It stimulated his ingenuity too. Difficult--is it -not?--to introduce one's wife's maiden name into general conversation. -But my simple Fyne made use of Captain Anthony for that purpose, or else -I would never even have heard of the man. "My wife's sailor-brother" was -the phrase. He trotted out the sailor-brother in a pretty wide range of -subjects: Indian and colonial affairs, matters of trade, talk of travels, -of seaside holidays and so on. Once I remember "My wife's sailor-brother -Captain Anthony" being produced in connection with nothing less recondite -than a sunset. And little Fyne never failed to add "The son of Carleon -Anthony, the poet--you know." He used to lower his voice for that -statement, and people were impressed or pretended to be." - -The late Carleon Anthony, the poet, sang in his time of the domestic and -social amenities of our age with a most felicitous versification, his -object being, in his own words, "to glorify the result of six thousand -years' evolution towards the refinement of thought, manners and -feelings." Why he fixed the term at six thousand years I don't know. His -poems read like sentimental novels told in verse of a really superior -quality. You felt as if you were being taken out for a delightful -country drive by a charming lady in a pony carriage. But in his domestic -life that same Carleon Anthony showed traces of the primitive -cave-dweller's temperament. He was a massive, implacable man with a -handsome face, arbitrary and exacting with his dependants, but -marvellously suave in his manner to admiring strangers. These contrasted -displays must have been particularly exasperating to his long-suffering -family. After his second wife's death his boy, whom he persisted by a -mere whim in educating at home, ran away in conventional style and, as if -disgusted with the amenities of civilization, threw himself, figuratively -speaking, into the sea. The daughter (the elder of the two children) -either from compassion or because women are naturally more enduring, -remained in bondage to the poet for several years, till she too seized a -chance of escape by throwing herself into the arms, the muscular arms, of -the pedestrian Fyne. This was either great luck or great sagacity. A -civil servant is, I should imagine, the last human being in the world to -preserve those traits of the cave-dweller from which she was fleeing. Her -father would never consent to see her after the marriage. Such -unforgiving selfishness is difficult to understand unless as a perverse -sort of refinement. There were also doubts as to Carleon Anthony's -complete sanity for some considerable time before he died. - -Most of the above I elicited from Marlow, for all I knew of Carleon -Anthony was his unexciting but fascinating verse. Marlow assured me that -the Fyne marriage was perfectly successful and even happy, in an earnest, -unplayful fashion, being blessed besides by three healthy, active, self- -reliant children, all girls. They were all pedestrians too. Even the -youngest would wander away for miles if not restrained. Mrs. Fyne had a -ruddy out-of-doors complexion and wore blouses with a starched front like -a man's shirt, a stand-up collar and a long necktie. Marlow had made -their acquaintance one summer in the country, where they were accustomed -to take a cottage for the holidays . . . - -At this point we were interrupted by Mr. Powell who declared that he must -leave us. The tide was on the turn, he announced coming away from the -window abruptly. He wanted to be on board his cutter before she swung -and of course he would sleep on board. Never slept away from the cutter -while on a cruise. He was gone in a moment, unceremoniously, but giving -us no offence and leaving behind an impression as though we had known him -for a long time. The ingenuous way he had told us of his start in life -had something to do with putting him on that footing with us. I gave no -thought to seeing him again. - -Marlow expressed a confident hope of coming across him before long. - -"He cruises about the mouth of the river all the summer. He will be easy -to find any week-end," he remarked ringing the bell so that we might -settle up with the waiter. - -* * * * * - -Later on I asked Marlow why he wished to cultivate this chance -acquaintance. He confessed apologetically that it was the commonest sort -of curiosity. I flatter myself that I understand all sorts of curiosity. -Curiosity about daily facts, about daily things, about daily men. It is -the most respectable faculty of the human mind--in fact I cannot conceive -the uses of an incurious mind. It would be like a chamber perpetually -locked up. But in this particular case Mr. Powell seemed to have given -us already a complete insight into his personality such as it was; a -personality capable of perception and with a feeling for the vagaries of -fate, but essentially simple in itself. - -Marlow agreed with me so far. He explained however that his curiosity -was not excited by Mr. Powell exclusively. It originated a good way -further back in the fact of his accidental acquaintance with the Fynes, -in the country. This chance meeting with a man who had sailed with -Captain Anthony had revived it. It had revived it to some purpose, to -such purpose that to me too was given the knowledge of its origin and of -its nature. It was given to me in several stages, at intervals which are -not indicated here. On this first occasion I remarked to Marlow with -some surprise: - -"But, if I remember rightly you said you didn't know Captain Anthony." - -"No. I never saw the man. It's years ago now, but I seem to hear solemn -little Fyne's deep voice announcing the approaching visit of his wife's -brother "the son of the poet, you know." He had just arrived in London -from a long voyage, and, directly his occupations permitted, was coming -down to stay with his relatives for a few weeks. No doubt we two should -find many things to talk about by ourselves in reference to our common -calling, added little Fyne portentously in his grave undertones, as if -the Mercantile Marine were a secret society. - -You must understand that I cultivated the Fynes only in the country, in -their holiday time. This was the third year. Of their existence in town -I knew no more than may be inferred from analogy. I played chess with -Fyne in the late afternoon, and sometimes came over to the cottage early -enough to have tea with the whole family at a big round table. They sat -about it, an unsmiling, sunburnt company of very few words indeed. Even -the children were silent and as if contemptuous of each other and of -their elders. Fyne muttered sometimes deep down in his chest some -insignificant remark. Mrs. Fyne smiled mechanically (she had splendid -teeth) while distributing tea and bread and butter. A something which -was not coldness, nor yet indifference, but a sort of peculiar -self-possession gave her the appearance of a very trustworthy, very -capable and excellent governess; as if Fyne were a widower and the -children not her own but only entrusted to her calm, efficient, -unemotional care. One expected her to address Fyne as Mr. When she -called him John it surprised one like a shocking familiarity. The -atmosphere of that holiday was--if I may put it so--brightly dull. -Healthy faces, fair complexions, clear eyes, and never a frank smile in -the whole lot, unless perhaps from a girl-friend. - -The girl-friend problem exercised me greatly. How and where the Fynes -got all these pretty creatures to come and stay with them I can't -imagine. I had at first the wild suspicion that they were obtained to -amuse Fyne. But I soon discovered that he could hardly tell one from the -other, though obviously their presence met with his solemn approval. -These girls in fact came for Mrs. Fyne. They treated her with admiring -deference. She answered to some need of theirs. They sat at her feet. -They were like disciples. It was very curious. Of Fyne they took but -scanty notice. As to myself I was made to feel that I did not exist. - -After tea we would sit down to chess and then Fyne's everlasting gravity -became faintly tinged by an attenuated gleam of something inward which -resembled sly satisfaction. Of the divine frivolity of laughter he was -only capable over a chess-board. Certain positions of the game struck -him as humorous, which nothing else on earth could do . . . - -"He used to beat you," I asserted with confidence. - -"Yes. He used to beat me," Marlow owned up hastily. - -So he and Fyne played two games after tea. The children romped together -outside, gravely, unplayfully, as one would expect from Fyne's children, -and Mrs. Fyne would be gone to the bottom of the garden with the girl- -friend of the week. She always walked off directly after tea with her -arm round the girl-friend's waist. Marlow said that there was only one -girl-friend with whom he had conversed at all. It had happened quite -unexpectedly, long after he had given up all hope of getting into touch -with these reserved girl-friends. - -One day he saw a woman walking about on the edge of a high quarry, which -rose a sheer hundred feet, at least, from the road winding up the hill -out of which it had been excavated. He shouted warningly to her from -below where he happened to be passing. She was really in considerable -danger. At the sound of his voice she started back and retreated out of -his sight amongst some young Scotch firs growing near the very brink of -the precipice. - -"I sat down on a bank of grass," Marlow went on. "She had given me a -turn. The hem of her skirt seemed to float over that awful sheer drop, -she was so close to the edge. An absurd thing to do. A perfectly mad -trick--for no conceivable object! I was reflecting on the foolhardiness -of the average girl and remembering some other instances of the kind, -when she came into view walking down the steep curve of the road. She -had Mrs. Fyne's walking-stick and was escorted by the Fyne dog. Her dead -white face struck me with astonishment, so that I forgot to raise my hat. -I just sat and stared. The dog, a vivacious and amiable animal which for -some inscrutable reason had bestowed his friendship on my unworthy self, -rushed up the bank demonstratively and insinuated himself under my arm. - -The girl-friend (it was one of them) went past some way as though she had -not seen me, then stopped and called the dog to her several times; but he -only nestled closer to my side, and when I tried to push him away -developed that remarkable power of internal resistance by which a dog -makes himself practically immovable by anything short of a kick. She -looked over her shoulder and her arched eyebrows frowned above her -blanched face. It was almost a scowl. Then the expression changed. She -looked unhappy. "Come here!" she cried once more in an angry and -distressed tone. I took off my hat at last, but the dog hanging out his -tongue with that cheerfully imbecile expression some dogs know so well -how to put on when it suits their purpose, pretended to be deaf. - -She cried from the distance desperately. - -"Perhaps you will take him to the cottage then. I can't wait." - -"I won't be responsible for that dog," I protested getting down the bank -and advancing towards her. She looked very hurt, apparently by the -desertion of the dog. "But if you let me walk with you he will follow us -all right," I suggested. - -She moved on without answering me. The dog launched himself suddenly -full speed down the road receding from us in a small cloud of dust. It -vanished in the distance, and presently we came up with him lying on the -grass. He panted in the shade of the hedge with shining eyes but -pretended not to see us. We had not exchanged a word so far. The girl -by my side gave him a scornful glance in passing. - -"He offered to come with me," she remarked bitterly. - -"And then abandoned you!" I sympathized. "It looks very unchivalrous. -But that's merely his want of tact. I believe he meant to protest -against your reckless proceedings. What made you come so near the edge -of that quarry? The earth might have given way. Haven't you noticed a -smashed fir tree at the bottom? Tumbled over only the other morning -after a night's rain." - -"I don't see why I shouldn't be as reckless as I please." - -I was nettled by her brusque manner of asserting her folly, and I told -her that neither did I as far as that went, in a tone which almost -suggested that she was welcome to break her neck for all I cared. This -was considerably more than I meant, but I don't like rude girls. I had -been introduced to her only the day before--at the round tea-table--and -she had barely acknowledged the introduction. I had not caught her name -but I had noticed her fine, arched eyebrows which, so the physiognomists -say, are a sign of courage. - -I examined her appearance quietly. Her hair was nearly black, her eyes -blue, deeply shaded by long dark eyelashes. She had a little colour now. -She looked straight before her; the corner of her lip on my side drooped -a little; her chin was fine, somewhat pointed. I went on to say that -some regard for others should stand in the way of one's playing with -danger. I urged playfully the distress of the poor Fynes in case of -accident, if nothing else. I told her that she did not know the bucolic -mind. Had she given occasion for a coroner's inquest the verdict would -have been suicide, with the implication of unhappy love. They would -never be able to understand that she had taken the trouble to climb over -two post-and-rail fences only for the fun of being reckless. Indeed even -as I talked chaffingly I was greatly struck myself by the fact. - -She retorted that once one was dead what horrid people thought of one did -not matter. It was said with infinite contempt; but something like a -suppressed quaver in the voice made me look at her again. I perceived -then that her thick eyelashes were wet. This surprising discovery -silenced me as you may guess. She looked unhappy. And--I don't know how -to say it--well--it suited her. The clouded brow, the pained mouth, the -vague fixed glance! A victim. And this characteristic aspect made her -attractive; an individual touch--you know. - -The dog had run on ahead and now gazed at us by the side of the Fyne's -garden-gate in a tense attitude and wagging his stumpy tail very, very -slowly, with an air of concentrated attention. The girl-friend of the -Fynes bolted violently through the aforesaid gate and into the cottage -leaving me on the road--astounded. - -A couple of hours afterwards I returned to the cottage for chess as -usual. I saw neither the girl nor Mrs. Fyne then. We had our two games -and on parting I warned Fyne that I was called to town on business and -might be away for some time. He regretted it very much. His brother-in- -law was expected next day but he didn't know whether he was a -chess-player. Captain Anthony ("the son of the poet--you know") was of a -retiring disposition, shy with strangers, unused to society and very much -devoted to his calling, Fyne explained. All the time they had been -married he could be induced only once before to come and stay with them -for a few days. He had had a rather unhappy boyhood; and it made him a -silent man. But no doubt, concluded Fyne, as if dealing portentously -with a mystery, we two sailors should find much to say to one another. - -This point was never settled. I was detained in town from week to week -till it seemed hardly worth while to go back. But as I had kept on my -rooms in the farmhouse I concluded to go down again for a few days. - -It was late, deep dusk, when I got out at our little country station. My -eyes fell on the unmistakable broad back and the muscular legs in cycling -stockings of little Fyne. He passed along the carriages rapidly towards -the rear of the train, which presently pulled out and left him solitary -at the end of the rustic platform. When he came back to where I waited I -perceived that he was much perturbed, so perturbed as to forget the -convention of the usual greetings. He only exclaimed Oh! on recognizing -me, and stopped irresolute. When I asked him if he had been expecting -somebody by that train he didn't seem to know. He stammered -disconnectedly. I looked hard at him. To all appearances he was -perfectly sober; moreover to suspect Fyne of a lapse from the proprieties -high or low, great or small, was absurd. He was also a too serious and -deliberate person to go mad suddenly. But as he seemed to have forgotten -that he had a tongue in his head I concluded I would leave him to his -mystery. To my surprise he followed me out of the station and kept by my -side, though I did not encourage him. I did not however repulse his -attempts at conversation. He was no longer expecting me, he said. He -had given me up. The weather had been uniformly fine--and so on. I -gathered also that the son of the poet had curtailed his stay somewhat -and gone back to his ship the day before. - -That information touched me but little. Believing in heredity in -moderation I knew well how sea-life fashions a man outwardly and stamps -his soul with the mark of a certain prosaic fitness--because a sailor is -not an adventurer. I expressed no regret at missing Captain Anthony and -we proceeded in silence till, on approaching the holiday cottage, Fyne -suddenly and unexpectedly broke it by the hurried declaration that he -would go on with me a little farther. - -"Go with you to your door," he mumbled and started forward to the little -gate where the shadowy figure of Mrs. Fyne hovered, clearly on the -lookout for him. She was alone. The children must have been already in -bed and I saw no attending girl-friend shadow near her vague but -unmistakable form, half-lost in the obscurity of the little garden. - -I heard Fyne exclaim "Nothing" and then Mrs. Fyne's well-trained, -responsible voice uttered the words, "It's what I have said," with -incisive equanimity. By that time I had passed on, raising my hat. -Almost at once Fyne caught me up and slowed down to my strolling gait -which must have been infinitely irksome to his high pedestrian faculties. -I am sure that all his muscular person must have suffered from awful -physical boredom; but he did not attempt to charm it away by -conversation. He preserved a portentous and dreary silence. And I was -bored too. Suddenly I perceived the menace of even worse boredom. Yes! -He was so silent because he had something to tell me. - -I became extremely frightened. But man, reckless animal, is so made that -in him curiosity, the paltriest curiosity, will overcome all terrors, -every disgust, and even despair itself. To my laconic invitation to come -in for a drink he answered by a deep, gravely accented: "Thanks, I will" -as though it were a response in church. His face as seen in the -lamplight gave me no clue to the character of the impending -communication; as indeed from the nature of things it couldn't do, its -normal expression being already that of the utmost possible seriousness. -It was perfect and immovable; and for a certainty if he had something -excruciatingly funny to tell me it would be all the same. - -He gazed at me earnestly and delivered himself of some weighty remarks on -Mrs. Fyne's desire to befriend, counsel, and guide young girls of all -sorts on the path of life. It was a voluntary mission. He approved his -wife's action and also her views and principles in general. - -All this with a solemn countenance and in deep measured tones. Yet -somehow I got an irresistible conviction that he was exasperated by -something in particular. In the unworthy hope of being amused by the -misfortunes of a fellow-creature I asked him point-blank what was wrong -now. - -What was wrong was that a girl-friend was missing. She had been missing -precisely since six o'clock that morning. The woman who did the work of -the cottage saw her going out at that hour, for a walk. The pedestrian -Fyne's ideas of a walk were extensive, but the girl did not turn up for -lunch, nor yet for tea, nor yet for dinner. She had not turned up by -footpath, road or rail. He had been reluctant to make inquiries. It -would have set all the village talking. The Fynes had expected her to -reappear every moment, till the shades of the night and the silence of -slumber had stolen gradually over the wide and peaceful rural landscape -commanded by the cottage. - -After telling me that much Fyne sat helpless in unconclusive agony. Going -to bed was out of the question--neither could any steps be taken just -then. What to do with himself he did not know! - -I asked him if this was the same young lady I saw a day or two before I -went to town? He really could not remember. Was she a girl with dark -hair and blue eyes? I asked further. He really couldn't tell what -colour her eyes were. He was very unobservant except as to the -peculiarities of footpaths, on which he was an authority. - -I thought with amazement and some admiration that Mrs. Fyne's young -disciples were to her husband's gravity no more than evanescent shadows. -However, with but little hesitation Fyne ventured to affirm that--yes, -her hair was of some dark shade. - -"We had a good deal to do with that girl first and last," he explained -solemnly; then getting up as if moved by a spring he snatched his cap off -the table. "She may be back in the cottage," he cried in his bass voice. -I followed him out on the road. - -It was one of those dewy, clear, starry nights, oppressing our spirit, -crushing our pride, by the brilliant evidence of the awful loneliness, of -the hopeless obscure insignificance of our globe lost in the splendid -revelation of a glittering, soulless universe. I hate such skies. -Daylight is friendly to man toiling under a sun which warms his heart; -and cloudy soft nights are more kindly to our littleness. I nearly ran -back again to my lighted parlour; Fyne fussing in a knicker-bocker suit -before the hosts of heaven, on a shadowy earth, about a transient, -phantom-like girl, seemed too ridiculous to associate with. On the other -hand there was something fascinating in the very absurdity. He cut along -in his best pedestrian style and I found myself let in for a spell of -severe exercise at eleven o'clock at night. - -In the distance over the fields and trees smudging and blotching the vast -obscurity, one lighted window of the cottage with the blind up was like a -bright beacon kept alight to guide the lost wanderer. Inside, at the -table bearing the lamp, we saw Mrs. Fyne sitting with folded arms and not -a hair of her head out of place. She looked exactly like a governess who -had put the children to bed; and her manner to me was just the neutral -manner of a governess. To her husband, too, for that matter. - -Fyne told her that I was fully informed. Not a muscle of her ruddy -smooth handsome face moved. She had schooled herself into that sort of -thing. Having seen two successive wives of the delicate poet chivied and -worried into their graves, she had adopted that cool, detached manner to -meet her gifted father's outbreaks of selfish temper. It had now become -a second nature. I suppose she was always like that; even in the very -hour of elopement with Fyne. That transaction when one remembered it in -her presence acquired a quaintly marvellous aspect to one's imagination. -But somehow her self-possession matched very well little Fyne's -invariable solemnity. - -I was rather sorry for him. Wasn't he worried! The agony of solemnity. -At the same time I was amused. I didn't take a gloomy view of that -"vanishing girl" trick. Somehow I couldn't. But I said nothing. None -of us said anything. We sat about that big round table as if assembled -for a conference and looked at each other in a sort of fatuous -consternation. I would have ended by laughing outright if I had not been -saved from that impropriety by poor Fyne becoming preposterous. - -He began with grave anguish to talk of going to the police in the -morning, of printing descriptive bills, of setting people to drag the -ponds for miles around. It was extremely gruesome. I murmured something -about communicating with the young lady's relatives. It seemed to me a -very natural suggestion; but Fyne and his wife exchanged such a -significant glance that I felt as though I had made a tactless remark. - -But I really wanted to help poor Fyne; and as I could see that, manlike, -he suffered from the present inability to act, the passive waiting, I -said: "Nothing of this can be done till to-morrow. But as you have given -me an insight into the nature of your thoughts I can tell you what may be -done at once. We may go and look at the bottom of the old quarry which -is on the level of the road, about a mile from here." - -The couple made big eyes at this, and then I told them of my meeting with -the girl. You may be surprised but I assure you I had not perceived this -aspect of it till that very moment. It was like a startling revelation; -the past throwing a sinister light on the future. Fyne opened his mouth -gravely and as gravely shut it. Nothing more. Mrs. Fyne said, "You had -better go," with an air as if her self-possession had been pricked with a -pin in some secret place. - -And I--you know how stupid I can be at times--I perceived with dismay for -the first time that by pandering to Fyne's morbid fancies I had let -myself in for some more severe exercise. And wasn't I sorry I spoke! You -know how I hate walking--at least on solid, rural earth; for I can walk a -ship's deck a whole foggy night through, if necessary, and think little -of it. There is some satisfaction too in playing the vagabond in the -streets of a big town till the sky pales above the ridges of the roofs. I -have done that repeatedly for pleasure--of a sort. But to tramp the -slumbering country-side in the dark is for me a wearisome nightmare of -exertion. - -With perfect detachment Mrs. Fyne watched me go out after her husband. -That woman was flint. - -* * * * * - -The fresh night had a smell of soil, of turned-up sods like a grave--an -association particularly odious to a sailor by its idea of confinement -and narrowness; yes, even when he has given up the hope of being buried -at sea; about the last hope a sailor gives up consciously after he has -been, as it does happen, decoyed by some chance into the toils of the -land. A strong grave-like sniff. The ditch by the side of the road must -have been freshly dug in front of the cottage. - -Once clear of the garden Fyne gathered way like a racing cutter. What -was a mile to him--or twenty miles? You think he might have gone -shrinkingly on such an errand. But not a bit of it. The force of -pedestrian genius I suppose. I raced by his side in a mood of profound -self-derision, and infinitely vexed with that minx. Because dead or -alive I thought of her as a minx . . ." - -I smiled incredulously at Marlow's ferocity; but Marlow pausing with a -whimsically retrospective air, never flinched. - -"Yes, yes. Even dead. And now you are shocked. You see, you are such a -chivalrous masculine beggar. But there is enough of the woman in my -nature to free my judgment of women from glamorous reticency. And then, -why should I upset myself? A woman is not necessarily either a doll or -an angel to me. She is a human being, very much like myself. And I have -come across too many dead souls lying so to speak at the foot of high -unscaleable places for a merely possible dead body at the bottom of a -quarry to strike my sincerity dumb. - -The cliff-like face of the quarry looked forbiddingly impressive. I will -admit that Fyne and I hung back for a moment before we made a plunge off -the road into the bushes growing in a broad space at the foot of the -towering limestone wall. These bushes were heavy with dew. There were -also concealed mudholes in there. We crept and tumbled and felt about -with our hands along the ground. We got wet, scratched, and plastered -with mire all over our nether garments. Fyne fell suddenly into a -strange cavity--probably a disused lime-kiln. His voice uplifted in -grave distress sounded more than usually rich, solemn and profound. This -was the comic relief of an absurdly dramatic situation. While hauling -him out I permitted myself to laugh aloud at last. Fyne, of course, -didn't. - -I need not tell you that we found nothing after a most conscientious -search. Fyne even pushed his way into a decaying shed half-buried in dew- -soaked vegetation. He struck matches, several of them too, as if to make -absolutely sure that the vanished girl-friend of his wife was not hiding -there. The short flares illuminated his grave, immovable countenance -while I let myself go completely and laughed in peals. - -I asked him if he really and truly supposed that any sane girl would go -and hide in that shed; and if so why? - -Disdainful of my mirth he merely muttered his basso-profundo thankfulness -that we had not found her anywhere about there. Having grown extremely -sensitive (an effect of irritation) to the tonalities, I may say, of this -affair, I felt that it was only an imperfect, reserved, thankfulness, -with one eye still on the possibilities of the several ponds in the -neighbourhood. And I remember I snorted, I positively snorted, at that -poor Fyne. - -What really jarred upon me was the rate of his walking. Differences in -politics, in ethics and even in aesthetics need not arouse angry -antagonism. One's opinion may change; one's tastes may alter--in fact -they do. One's very conception of virtue is at the mercy of some -felicitous temptation which may be sprung on one any day. All these -things are perpetually on the swing. But a temperamental difference, -temperament being immutable, is the parent of hate. That's why religious -quarrels are the fiercest of all. My temperament, in matters pertaining -to solid land, is the temperament of leisurely movement, of deliberate -gait. And there was that little Fyne pounding along the road in a most -offensive manner; a man wedded to thick-soled, laced boots; whereas my -temperament demands thin shoes of the lightest kind. Of course there -could never have been question of friendship between us; but under the -provocation of having to keep up with his pace I began to dislike him -actively. I begged sarcastically to know whether he could tell me if we -were engaged in a farce or in a tragedy. I wanted to regulate my -feelings which, I told him, were in an unbecoming state of confusion. - -But Fyne was as impervious to sarcasm as a turtle. He tramped on, and -all he did was to ejaculate twice out of his deep chest, vaguely, -doubtfully. - -"I am afraid . . . I am afraid! . . . " - -This was tragic. The thump of his boots was the only sound in a shadowy -world. I kept by his side with a comparatively ghostly, silent tread. By -a strange illusion the road appeared to run up against a lot of low stars -at no very great distance, but as we advanced new stretches of whitey- -brown ribbon seemed to come up from under the black ground. I observed, -as we went by, the lamp in my parlour in the farmhouse still burning. But -I did not leave Fyne to run in and put it out. The impetus of his -pedestrian excellence carried me past in his wake before I could make up -my mind. - -"Tell me, Fyne," I cried, "you don't think the girl was mad--do you?" - -He answered nothing. Soon the lighted beacon-like window of the cottage -came into view. Then Fyne uttered a solemn: "Certainly not," with -profound assurance. But immediately after he added a "Very highly strung -young person indeed," which unsettled me again. Was it a tragedy? - -"Nobody ever got up at six o'clock in the morning to commit suicide," I -declared crustily. "It's unheard of! This is a farce." - -As a matter of fact it was neither farce nor tragedy. - -Coming up to the cottage we had a view of Mrs. Fyne inside still sitting -in the strong light at the round table with folded arms. It looked as -though she had not moved her very head by as much as an inch since we -went away. She was amazing in a sort of unsubtle way; crudely amazing--I -thought. Why crudely? I don't know. Perhaps because I saw her then in -a crude light. I mean this materially--in the light of an unshaded lamp. -Our mental conclusions depend so much on momentary physical -sensations--don't they? If the lamp had been shaded I should perhaps -have gone home after expressing politely my concern at the Fynes' -unpleasant predicament. - -Losing a girl-friend in that manner is unpleasant. It is also -mysterious. So mysterious that a certain mystery attaches to the people -to whom such a thing does happen. Moreover I had never really understood -the Fynes; he with his solemnity which extended to the very eating of -bread and butter; she with that air of detachment and resolution in -breasting the common-place current of their unexciting life, in which the -cutting of bread and butter appeared to me, by a long way, the most -dangerous episode. Sometimes I amused myself by supposing that to their -minds this world of ours must be wearing a perfectly overwhelming aspect, -and that their heads contained respectively awfully serious and extremely -desperate thoughts--and trying to imagine what an exciting time they must -be having of it in the inscrutable depths of their being. This last was -difficult to a volatile person (I am sure that to the Fynes I was a -volatile person) and the amusement in itself was not very great; but -still--in the country--away from all mental stimulants! . . . My efforts -had invested them with a sort of amusing profundity. - -But when Fyne and I got back into the room, then in the searching, -domestic, glare of the lamp, inimical to the play of fancy, I saw these -two stripped of every vesture it had amused me to put on them for fun. -Queer enough they were. Is there a human being that isn't that--more or -less secretly? But whatever their secret, it was manifest to me that it -was neither subtle nor profound. They were a good, stupid, earnest -couple and very much bothered. They were that--with the usual unshaded -crudity of average people. There was nothing in them that the lamplight -might not touch without the slightest risk of indiscretion. - -Directly we had entered the room Fyne announced the result by saying -"Nothing" in the same tone as at the gate on his return from the railway -station. And as then Mrs. Fyne uttered an incisive "It's what I've -said," which might have been the veriest echo of her words in the garden. -We three looked at each other as if on the brink of a disclosure. I -don't know whether she was vexed at my presence. It could hardly be -called intrusion--could it? Little Fyne began it. It had to go on. We -stood before her, plastered with the same mud (Fyne was a sight!), -scratched by the same brambles, conscious of the same experience. Yes. -Before her. And she looked at us with folded arms, with an extraordinary -fulness of assumed responsibility. I addressed her. - -"You don't believe in an accident, Mrs. Fyne, do you?" - -She shook her head in curt negation while, caked in mud and inexpressibly -serious-faced, Fyne seemed to be backing her up with all the weight of -his solemn presence. Nothing more absurd could be conceived. It was -delicious. And I went on in deferential accents: "Am I to understand -then that you entertain the theory of suicide?" - -I don't know that I am liable to fits of delirium but by a sudden and -alarming aberration while waiting for her answer I became mentally aware -of three trained dogs dancing on their hind legs. I don't know why. -Perhaps because of the pervading solemnity. There's nothing more solemn -on earth than a dance of trained dogs. - -"She has chosen to disappear. That's all." - -In these words Mrs. Fyne answered me. The aggressive tone was too much -for my endurance. In an instant I found myself out of the dance and down -on all-fours so to speak, with liberty to bark and bite. - -"The devil she has," I cried. "Has chosen to . . . Like this, all at -once, anyhow, regardless . . . I've had the privilege of meeting that -reckless and brusque young lady and I must say that with her air of an -angry victim . . . " - -"Precisely," Mrs. Fyne said very unexpectedly like a steel trap going -off. I stared at her. How provoking she was! So I went on to finish my -tirade. "She struck me at first sight as the most inconsiderate wrong- -headed girl that I ever . . . " - -"Why should a girl be more considerate than anyone else? More than any -man, for instance?" inquired Mrs. Fyne with a still greater assertion of -responsibility in her bearing. - -Of course I exclaimed at this, not very loudly it is true, but forcibly. -Were then the feelings of friends, relations and even of strangers to be -disregarded? I asked Mrs. Fyne if she did not think it was a sort of -duty to show elementary consideration not only for the natural feelings -but even for the prejudices of one's fellow-creatures. - -Her answer knocked me over. - -"Not for a woman." - -Just like that. I confess that I went down flat. And while in that -collapsed state I learned the true nature of Mrs. Fyne's feminist -doctrine. It was not political, it was not social. It was a knock-me- -down doctrine--a practical individualistic doctrine. You would not thank -me for expounding it to you at large. Indeed I think that she herself -did not enlighten me fully. There must have been things not fit for a -man to hear. But shortly, and as far as my bewilderment allowed me to -grasp its naive atrociousness, it was something like this: that no -consideration, no delicacy, no tenderness, no scruples should stand in -the way of a woman (who by the mere fact of her sex was the predestined -victim of conditions created by men's selfish passions, their vices and -their abominable tyranny) from taking the shortest cut towards securing -for herself the easiest possible existence. She had even the right to go -out of existence without considering anyone's feelings or convenience -since some women's existences were made impossible by the shortsighted -baseness of men. - -I looked at her, sitting before the lamp at one o'clock in the morning, -with her mature, smooth-cheeked face of masculine shape robbed of its -freshness by fatigue; at her eyes dimmed by this senseless vigil. I -looked also at Fyne; the mud was drying on him; he was obviously tired. -The weariness of solemnity. But he preserved an unflinching, endorsing, -gravity of expression. Endorsing it all as became a good, convinced -husband. - -"Oh! I see," I said. "No consideration . . . Well I hope you like it." - -They amused me beyond the wildest imaginings of which I was capable. -After the first shock, you understand, I recovered very quickly. The -order of the world was safe enough. He was a civil servant and she his -good and faithful wife. But when it comes to dealing with human beings -anything, anything may be expected. So even my astonishment did not last -very long. How far she developed and illustrated that conscienceless and -austere doctrine to the girl-friends, who were mere transient shadows to -her husband, I could not tell. Any length I supposed. And he looked on, -acquiesced, approved, just for that very reason--because these pretty -girls were but shadows to him. O! Most virtuous Fyne! He cast his eyes -down. He didn't like it. But I eyed him with hidden animosity for he -had got me to run after him under somewhat false pretences. - -Mrs. Fyne had only smiled at me very expressively, very self-confidently. -"Oh I quite understand that you accept the fullest responsibility," I -said. "I am the only ridiculous person in this--this--I don't know how -to call it--performance. However, I've nothing more to do here, so I'll -say good-night--or good morning, for it must be past one." - -But before departing, in common decency, I offered to take any wires they -might write. My lodgings were nearer the post-office than the cottage -and I would send them off the first thing in the morning. I supposed -they would wish to communicate, if only as to the disposal of the -luggage, with the young lady's relatives . . . - -Fyne, he looked rather downcast by then, thanked me and declined. - -"There is really no one," he said, very grave. - -"No one," I exclaimed. - -"Practically," said curt Mrs. Fyne. - -And my curiosity was aroused again. - -"Ah! I see. An orphan." - -Mrs. Fyne looked away weary and sombre, and Fyne said "Yes" impulsively, -and then qualified the affirmative by the quaint statement: "To a certain -extent." - -I became conscious of a languid, exhausted embarrassment, bowed to Mrs. -Fyne, and went out of the cottage to be confronted outside its door by -the bespangled, cruel revelation of the Immensity of the Universe. The -night was not sufficiently advanced for the stars to have paled; and the -earth seemed to me more profoundly asleep--perhaps because I was alone -now. Not having Fyne with me to set the pace I let myself drift, rather -than walk, in the direction of the farmhouse. To drift is the only -reposeful sort of motion (ask any ship if it isn't) and therefore -consistent with thoughtfulness. And I pondered: How is one an orphan "to -a certain extent"? - -No amount of solemnity could make such a statement other than bizarre. -What a strange condition to be in. Very likely one of the parents only -was dead? But no; it couldn't be, since Fyne had said just before that -"there was really no one" to communicate with. No one! And then -remembering Mrs. Fyne's snappy "Practically" my thoughts fastened upon -that lady as a more tangible object of speculation. - -I wondered--and wondering I doubted--whether she really understood -herself the theory she had propounded to me. Everything may be -said--indeed ought to be said--providing we know how to say it. She -probably did not. She was not intelligent enough for that. She had no -knowledge of the world. She had got hold of words as a child might get -hold of some poisonous pills and play with them for "dear, tiny little -marbles." No! The domestic-slave daughter of Carleon Anthony and the -little Fyne of the Civil Service (that flower of civilization) were not -intelligent people. They were commonplace, earnest, without smiles and -without guile. But he had his solemnities and she had her reveries, her -lurid, violent, crude reveries. And I thought with some sadness that all -these revolts and indignations, all these protests, revulsions of -feeling, pangs of suffering and of rage, expressed but the uneasiness of -sensual beings trying for their share in the joys of form, colour, -sensations--the only riches of our world of senses. A poet may be a -simple being but he is bound to be various and full of wiles, ingenious -and irritable. I reflected on the variety of ways the ingenuity of the -late bard of civilization would be able to invent for the tormenting of -his dependants. Poets not being generally foresighted in practical -affairs, no vision of consequences would restrain him. Yes. The Fynes -were excellent people, but Mrs. Fyne wasn't the daughter of a domestic -tyrant for nothing. There were no limits to her revolt. But they were -excellent people. It was clear that they must have been extremely good -to that girl whose position in the world seemed somewhat difficult, with -her face of a victim, her obvious lack of resignation and the bizarre -status of orphan "to a certain extent." - -Such were my thoughts, but in truth I soon ceased to trouble about all -these people. I found that my lamp had gone out leaving behind an awful -smell. I fled from it up the stairs and went to bed in the dark. My -slumbers--I suppose the one good in pedestrian exercise, confound it, is -that it helps our natural callousness--my slumbers were deep, dreamless -and refreshing. - -My appetite at breakfast was not affected by my ignorance of the facts, -motives, events and conclusions. I think that to understand everything -is not good for the intellect. A well-stocked intelligence weakens the -impulse to action; an overstocked one leads gently to idiocy. But Mrs. -Fyne's individualist woman-doctrine, naively unscrupulous, flitted -through my mind. The salad of unprincipled notions she put into these -girl-friends' heads! Good innocent creature, worthy wife, excellent -mother (of the strict governess type), she was as guileless of -consequences as any determinist philosopher ever was. - -As to honour--you know--it's a very fine medieval inheritance which women -never got hold of. It wasn't theirs. Since it may be laid as a general -principle that women always get what they want we must suppose they -didn't want it. In addition they are devoid of decency. I mean -masculine decency. Cautiousness too is foreign to them--the heavy -reasonable cautiousness which is our glory. And if they had it they -would make of it a thing of passion, so that its own mother--I mean the -mother of cautiousness--wouldn't recognize it. Prudence with them is a -matter of thrill like the rest of sublunary contrivances. "Sensation at -any cost," is their secret device. All the virtues are not enough for -them; they want also all the crimes for their own. And why? Because in -such completeness there is power--the kind of thrill they love most . . . -" - -"Do you expect me to agree to all this?" I interrupted. - -"No, it isn't necessary," said Marlow, feeling the check to his eloquence -but with a great effort at amiability. "You need not even understand it. -I continue: with such disposition what prevents women--to use the phrase -an old boatswain of my acquaintance applied descriptively to his -captain--what prevents them from "coming on deck and playing hell with -the ship" generally, is that something in them precise and mysterious, -acting both as restraint and as inspiration; their femininity in short -which they think they can get rid of by trying hard, but can't, and never -will. Therefore we may conclude that, for all their enterprises, the -world is and remains safe enough. Feeling, in my character of a lover of -peace, soothed by that conclusion I prepared myself to enjoy a fine day. - -And it was a fine day; a delicious day, with the horror of the Infinite -veiled by the splendid tent of blue; a day innocently bright like a child -with a washed face, fresh like an innocent young girl, suave in welcoming -one's respects like--like a Roman prelate. I love such days. They are -perfection for remaining indoors. And I enjoyed it temperamentally in a -chair, my feet up on the sill of the open window, a book in my hands and -the murmured harmonies of wind and sun in my heart making an -accompaniment to the rhythms of my author. Then looking up from the page -I saw outside a pair of grey eyes thatched by ragged yellowy-white -eyebrows gazing at me solemnly over the toes of my slippers. There was a -grave, furrowed brow surmounting that portentous gaze, a brown tweed cap -set far back on the perspiring head. - -"Come inside," I cried as heartily as my sinking heart would permit. - -After a short but severe scuffle with his dog at the outer door, Fyne -entered. I treated him without ceremony and only waved my hand towards a -chair. Even before he sat down he gasped out: - -"We've heard--midday post." - -Gasped out! The grave, immovable Fyne of the Civil Service, gasped! This -was enough, you'll admit, to cause me to put my feet to the ground -swiftly. That fellow was always making me do things in subtle discord -with my meditative temperament. No wonder that I had but a qualified -liking for him. I said with just a suspicion of jeering tone: - -"Of course. I told you last night on the road that it was a farce we -were engaged in." - -He made the little parlour resound to its foundations with a note of -anger positively sepulchral in its depth of tone. "Farce be hanged! She -has bolted with my wife's brother, Captain Anthony." This outburst was -followed by complete subsidence. He faltered miserably as he added from -force of habit: "The son of the poet, you know." - -A silence fell. Fyne's several expressions were so many examples of -varied consistency. This was the discomfiture of solemnity. My interest -of course was revived. - -"But hold on," I said. "They didn't go together. Is it a suspicion or -does she actually say that . . . " - -"She has gone after him," stated Fyne in comminatory tones. "By previous -arrangement. She confesses that much." - -He added that it was very shocking. I asked him whether he should have -preferred them going off together; and on what ground he based that -preference. This was sheer fun for me in regard of the fact that Fyne's -too was a runaway match, which even got into the papers in its time, -because the late indignant poet had no discretion and sought to avenge -this outrage publicly in some absurd way before a bewigged judge. The -dejected gesture of little Fyne's hand disarmed my mocking mood. But I -could not help expressing my surprise that Mrs. Fyne had not detected at -once what was brewing. Women were supposed to have an unerring eye. - -He told me that his wife had been very much engaged in a certain work. I -had always wondered how she occupied her time. It was in writing. Like -her husband she too published a little book. Much later on I came upon -it. It had nothing to do with pedestrianism. It was a sort of hand-book -for women with grievances (and all women had them), a sort of compendious -theory and practice of feminine free morality. It made you laugh at its -transparent simplicity. But that authorship was revealed to me much -later. I didn't of course ask Fyne what work his wife was engaged on; -but I marvelled to myself at her complete ignorance of the world, of her -own sex and of the other kind of sinners. Yet, where could she have got -any experience? Her father had kept her strictly cloistered. Marriage -with Fyne was certainly a change but only to another kind of -claustration. You may tell me that the ordinary powers of observation -ought to have been enough. Why, yes! But, then, as she had set up for a -guide and teacher, there was nothing surprising for me in the discovery -that she was blind. That's quite in order. She was a profoundly -innocent person; only it would not have been proper to tell her husband -so. - - - -CHAPTER THREE--THRIFT--AND THE CHILD - - -But there was nothing improper in my observing to Fyne that, last night, -Mrs. Fyne seemed to have some idea where that enterprising young lady had -gone to. Fyne shook his head. No; his wife had been by no means so -certain as she had pretended to be. She merely had her reasons to think, -to hope, that the girl might have taken a room somewhere in London, had -buried herself in town--in readiness or perhaps in horror of the -approaching day-- - -He ceased and sat solemnly dejected, in a brown study. "What day?" I -asked at last; but he did not hear me apparently. He diffused such -portentous gloom into the atmosphere that I lost patience with him. - -"What on earth are you so dismal about?" I cried, being genuinely -surprised and puzzled. "One would think the girl was a state prisoner -under your care." - -And suddenly I became still more surprised at myself, at the way I had -somehow taken for granted things which did appear queer when one thought -them out. - -"But why this secrecy? Why did they elope--if it is an elopement? Was -the girl afraid of your wife? And your brother-in-law? What on earth -possesses him to make a clandestine match of it? Was he afraid of your -wife too?" - -Fyne made an effort to rouse himself. - -"Of course my brother-in-law, Captain Anthony, the son of . . . " He -checked himself as if trying to break a bad habit. "He would be -persuaded by her. We have been most friendly to the girl!" - -"She struck me as a foolish and inconsiderate little person. But why -should you and your wife take to heart so strongly mere folly--or even a -want of consideration?" - -"It's the most unscrupulous action," declared Fyne weightily--and sighed. - -"I suppose she is poor," I observed after a short silence. "But after -all . . . " - -"You don't know who she is." Fyne had regained his average solemnity. - -I confessed that I had not caught her name when his wife had introduced -us to each other. "It was something beginning with an S- wasn't it?" And -then with the utmost coolness Fyne remarked that it did not matter. The -name was not her name. - -"Do you mean to say that you made a young lady known to me under a false -name?" I asked, with the amused feeling that the days of wonders and -portents had not passed away yet. That the eminently serious Fynes -should do such an exceptional thing was simply staggering. With a more -hasty enunciation than usual little Fyne was sure that I would not demand -an apology for this irregularity if I knew what her real name was. A -sort of warmth crept into his deep tone. - -"We have tried to befriend that girl in every way. She is the daughter -and only child of de Barral." - -Evidently he expected to produce a sensation; he kept his eyes fixed upon -me prepared for some sign of it. But I merely returned his intense, -awaiting gaze. For a time we stared at each other. Conscious of being -reprehensibly dense I groped in the darkness of my mind: De Barral, De -Barral--and all at once noise and light burst on me as if a window of my -memory had been suddenly flung open on a street in the City. De Barral! -But could it be the same? Surely not! - -"The financier?" I suggested half incredulous. - -"Yes," said Fyne; and in this instance his native solemnity of tone -seemed to be strangely appropriate. "The convict." - -Marlow looked at me, significantly, and remarked in an explanatory tone: - -"One somehow never thought of de Barral as having any children, or any -other home than the offices of the "Orb"; or any other existence, -associations or interests than financial. I see you remember the crash -. . . " - -"I was away in the Indian Seas at the time," I said. "But of course--" - -"Of course," Marlow struck in. "All the world . . . You may wonder at my -slowness in recognizing the name. But you know that my memory is merely -a mausoleum of proper names. There they lie inanimate, awaiting the -magic touch--and not very prompt in arising when called, either. The -name is the first thing I forget of a man. It is but just to add that -frequently it is also the last, and this accounts for my possession of a -good many anonymous memories. In de Barral's case, he got put away in my -mausoleum in company with so many names of his own creation that really -he had to throw off a monstrous heap of grisly bones before he stood -before me at the call of the wizard Fyne. The fellow had a pretty fancy -in names: the "Orb" Deposit Bank, the "Sceptre" Mutual Aid Society, the -"Thrift and Independence" Association. Yes, a very pretty taste in -names; and nothing else besides--absolutely nothing--no other merit. Well -yes. He had another name, but that's pure luck--his own name of de -Barral which he did not invent. I don't think that a mere Jones or Brown -could have fished out from the depths of the Incredible such a colossal -manifestation of human folly as that man did. But it may be that I am -underestimating the alacrity of human folly in rising to the bait. No -doubt I am. The greed of that absurd monster is incalculable, -unfathomable, inconceivable. The career of de Barral demonstrates that -it will rise to a naked hook. He didn't lure it with a fairy tale. He -hadn't enough imagination for it . . . " - -"Was he a foreigner?" I asked. "It's clearly a French name. I suppose -it _was_ his name?" - -"Oh, he didn't invent it. He was born to it, in Bethnal Green, as it -came out during the proceedings. He was in the habit of alluding to his -Scotch connections. But every great man has done that. The mother, I -believe, was Scotch, right enough. The father de Barral whatever his -origins retired from the Customs Service (tide-waiter I think), and -started lending money in a very, very small way in the East End to people -connected with the docks, stevedores, minor barge-owners, ship-chandlers, -tally clerks, all sorts of very small fry. He made his living at it. He -was a very decent man I believe. He had enough influence to place his -only son as junior clerk in the account department of one of the Dock -Companies. "Now, my boy," he said to him, "I've given you a fine start." -But de Barral didn't start. He stuck. He gave perfect satisfaction. At -the end of three years he got a small rise of salary and went out -courting in the evenings. He went courting the daughter of an old sea- -captain who was a churchwarden of his parish and lived in an old badly -preserved Georgian house with a garden: one of these houses standing in a -reduced bit of "grounds" that you discover in a labyrinth of the most -sordid streets, exactly alike and composed of six-roomed hutches. - -Some of them were the vicarages of slum parishes. The old sailor had got -hold of one cheap, and de Barral got hold of his daughter--which was a -good bargain for him. The old sailor was very good to the young couple -and very fond of their little girl. Mrs. de Barral was an equable, -unassuming woman, at that time with a fund of simple gaiety, and with no -ambitions; but, woman-like, she longed for change and for something -interesting to happen now and then. It was she who encouraged de Barral -to accept the offer of a post in the west-end branch of a great bank. It -appears he shrank from such a great adventure for a long time. At last -his wife's arguments prevailed. Later on she used to say: 'It's the only -time he ever listened to me; and I wonder now if it hadn't been better -for me to die before I ever made him go into that bank.' - -You may be surprised at my knowledge of these details. Well, I had them -ultimately from Mrs. Fyne. Mrs. Fyne while yet Miss Anthony, in her days -of bondage, knew Mrs. de Barral in her days of exile. Mrs. de Barral was -living then in a big stone mansion with mullioned windows in a large damp -park, called the Priory, adjoining the village where the refined poet had -built himself a house. - -These were the days of de Barral's success. He had bought the place -without ever seeing it and had packed off his wife and child at once -there to take possession. He did not know what to do with them in -London. He himself had a suite of rooms in an hotel. He gave there -dinner parties followed by cards in the evening. He had developed the -gambling passion--or else a mere card mania--but at any rate he played -heavily, for relaxation, with a lot of dubious hangers on. - -Meantime Mrs. de Barral, expecting him every day, lived at the Priory, -with a carriage and pair, a governess for the child and many servants. -The village people would see her through the railings wandering under the -trees with her little girl lost in her strange surroundings. Nobody ever -came near her. And there she died as some faithful and delicate animals -die--from neglect, absolutely from neglect, rather unexpectedly and -without any fuss. The village was sorry for her because, though -obviously worried about something, she was good to the poor and was -always ready for a chat with any of the humble folks. Of course they -knew that she wasn't a lady--not what you would call a real lady. And -even her acquaintance with Miss Anthony was only a cottage-door, a -village-street acquaintance. Carleon Anthony was a tremendous aristocrat -(his father had been a "restoring" architect) and his daughter was not -allowed to associate with anyone but the county young ladies. -Nevertheless in defiance of the poet's wrathful concern for undefiled -refinement there were some quiet, melancholy strolls to and fro in the -great avenue of chestnuts leading to the park-gate, during which Mrs. de -Barral came to call Miss Anthony 'my dear'--and even 'my poor dear.' The -lonely soul had no one to talk to but that not very happy girl. The -governess despised her. The housekeeper was distant in her manner. -Moreover Mrs. de Barral was no foolish gossiping woman. But she made -some confidences to Miss Anthony. Such wealth was a terrific thing to -have thrust upon one she affirmed. Once she went so far as to confess -that she was dying with anxiety. Mr. de Barral (so she referred to him) -had been an excellent husband and an exemplary father but "you see my -dear I have had a great experience of him. I am sure he won't know what -to do with all that money people are giving to him to take care of for -them. He's as likely as not to do something rash. When he comes here I -must have a good long serious talk with him, like the talks we often used -to have together in the good old times of our life." And then one day a -cry of anguish was wrung from her: 'My dear, he will never come here, he -will never, never come!' - -She was wrong. He came to the funeral, was extremely cut up, and holding -the child tightly by the hand wept bitterly at the side of the grave. -Miss Anthony, at the cost of a whole week of sneers and abuse from the -poet, saw it all with her own eyes. De Barral clung to the child like a -drowning man. He managed, though, to catch the half-past five fast -train, travelling to town alone in a reserved compartment, with all the -blinds down . . . " - -"Leaving the child?" I said interrogatively. - -"Yes. Leaving . . . He shirked the problem. He was born that way. He -had no idea what to do with her or for that matter with anything or -anybody including himself. He bolted back to his suite of rooms in the -hotel. He was the most helpless . . . She might have been left in the -Priory to the end of time had not the high-toned governess threatened to -send in her resignation. She didn't care for the child a bit, and the -lonely, gloomy Priory had got on her nerves. She wasn't going to put up -with such a life and, having just come out of some ducal family, she -bullied de Barral in a very lofty fashion. To pacify her he took a -splendidly furnished house in the most expensive part of Brighton for -them, and now and then ran down for a week-end, with a trunk full of -exquisite sweets and with his hat full of money. The governess spent it -for him in extra ducal style. She was nearly forty and harboured a -secret taste for patronizing young men of sorts--of a certain sort. But -of that Mrs. Fyne of course had no personal knowledge then; she told me -however that even in the Priory days she had suspected her of being an -artificial, heartless, vulgar-minded woman with the lowest possible -ideals. But de Barral did not know it. He literally did not know -anything . . . " - -"But tell me, Marlow," I interrupted, "how do you account for this -opinion? He must have been a personality in a sense--in some one sense -surely. You don't work the greatest material havoc of a decade at least, -in a commercial community, without having something in you." - -Marlow shook his head. - -"He was a mere sign, a portent. There was nothing in him. Just about -that time the word Thrift was to the fore. You know the power of words. -We pass through periods dominated by this or that word--it may be -development, or it may be competition, or education, or purity or -efficiency or even sanctity. It is the word of the time. Well just then -it was the word Thrift which was out in the streets walking arm in arm -with righteousness, the inseparable companion and backer up of all such -national catch-words, looking everybody in the eye as it were. The very -drabs of the pavement, poor things, didn't escape the fascination . . . -However! . . . Well the greatest portion of the press were screeching in -all possible tones, like a confounded company of parrots instructed by -some devil with a taste for practical jokes, that the financier de Barral -was helping the great moral evolution of our character towards the newly- -discovered virtue of Thrift. He was helping it by all these great -establishments of his, which made the moral merits of Thrift manifest to -the most callous hearts, simply by promising to pay ten per cent. -interest on all deposits. And you didn't want necessarily to belong to -the well-to-do classes in order to participate in the advantages of -virtue. If you had but a spare sixpence in the world and went and gave -it to de Barral it was Thrift! It's quite likely that he himself -believed it. He must have. It's inconceivable that he alone should -stand out against the infatuation of the whole world. He hadn't enough -intelligence for that. But to look at him one couldn't tell . . . " - -"You did see him then?" I said with some curiosity. - -"I did. Strange, isn't it? It was only once, but as I sat with the -distressed Fyne who had suddenly resuscitated his name buried in my -memory with other dead labels of the past, I may say I saw him again, I -saw him with great vividness of recollection, as he appeared in the days -of his glory or splendour. No! Neither of these words will fit his -success. There was never any glory or splendour about that figure. Well, -let us say in the days when he was, according to the majority of the -daily press, a financial force working for the improvement of the -character of the people. I'll tell you how it came about. - -At that time I used to know a podgy, wealthy, bald little man having -chambers in the Albany; a financier too, in his way, carrying out -transactions of an intimate nature and of no moral character; mostly with -young men of birth and expectations--though I dare say he didn't withhold -his ministrations from elderly plebeians either. He was a true democrat; -he would have done business (a sharp kind of business) with the devil -himself. Everything was fly that came into his web. He received the -applicants in an alert, jovial fashion which was quite surprising. It -gave relief without giving too much confidence, which was just as well -perhaps. His business was transacted in an apartment furnished like a -drawing-room, the walls hung with several brown, heavily-framed, oil -paintings. I don't know if they were good, but they were big, and with -their elaborate, tarnished gilt-frames had a melancholy dignity. The man -himself sat at a shining, inlaid writing table which looked like a rare -piece from a museum of art; his chair had a high, oval, carved back, -upholstered in faded tapestry; and these objects made of the costly black -Havana cigar, which he rolled incessantly from the middle to the left -corner of his mouth and back again, an inexpressibly cheap and nasty -object. I had to see him several times in the interest of a poor devil -so unlucky that he didn't even have a more competent friend than myself -to speak for him at a very difficult time in his life. - -I don't know at what hour my private financier began his day, but he used -to give one appointments at unheard of times: such as a quarter to eight -in the morning, for instance. On arriving one found him busy at that -marvellous writing table, looking very fresh and alert, exhaling a faint -fragrance of scented soap and with the cigar already well alight. You -may believe that I entered on my mission with many unpleasant -forebodings; but there was in that fat, admirably washed, little man such -a profound contempt for mankind that it amounted to a species of good -nature; which, unlike the milk of genuine kindness, was never in danger -of turning sour. Then, once, during a pause in business, while we were -waiting for the production of a document for which he had sent (perhaps -to the cellar?) I happened to remark, glancing round the room, that I had -never seen so many fine things assembled together out of a collection. -Whether this was unconscious diplomacy on my part, or not, I shouldn't -like to say--but the remark was true enough, and it pleased him -extremely. "It _is_ a collection," he said emphatically. "Only I live -right in it, which most collectors don't. But I see that you know what -you are looking at. Not many people who come here on business do. Stable -fittings are more in their way." - -I don't know whether my appreciation helped to advance my friend's -business but at any rate it helped our intercourse. He treated me with a -shade of familiarity as one of the initiated. - -The last time I called on him to conclude the transaction we were -interrupted by a person, something like a cross between a bookmaker and a -private secretary, who, entering through a door which was not the -anteroom door, walked up and stooped to whisper into his ear. - -"Eh? What? Who, did you say?" - -The nondescript person stooped and whispered again, adding a little -louder: "Says he won't detain you a moment." - -My little man glanced at me, said "Ah! Well," irresolutely. I got up -from my chair and offered to come again later. He looked whimsically -alarmed. "No, no. It's bad enough to lose my money but I don't want to -waste any more of my time over your friend. We must be done with this to- -day. Just go and have a look at that _garniture de cheminee_ yonder. -There's another, something like it, in the castle of Laeken, but mine's -much superior in design." - -I moved accordingly to the other side of that big room. The _garniture_ -was very fine. But while pretending to examine it I watched my man going -forward to meet a tall visitor, who said, "I thought you would be -disengaged so early. It's only a word or two"--and after a whispered -confabulation of no more than a minute, reconduct him to the door and -shake hands ceremoniously. "Not at all, not at all. Very pleased to be -of use. You can depend absolutely on my information"--"Oh thank you, -thank you. I just looked in." "Certainly, quite right. Any time . . . -Good morning." - -I had a good look at the visitor while they were exchanging these -civilities. He was clad in black. I remember perfectly that he wore a -flat, broad, black satin tie in which was stuck a large cameo pin; and a -small turn down collar. His hair, discoloured and silky, curled slightly -over his ears. His cheeks were hairless and round, and apparently soft. -He held himself very upright, walked with small steps and spoke gently in -an inward voice. Perhaps from contrast with the magnificent polish of -the room and the neatness of its owner, he struck me as dingy, indigent, -and, if not exactly humble, then much subdued by evil fortune. - -I wondered greatly at my fat little financier's civility to that dubious -personage when he asked me, as we resumed our respective seats, whether I -knew who it was that had just gone out. On my shaking my head negatively -he smiled queerly, said "De Barral," and enjoyed my surprise. Then -becoming grave: "That's a deep fellow, if you like. We all know where he -started from and where he got to; but nobody knows what he means to do." -He became thoughtful for a moment and added as if speaking to himself, "I -wonder what his game is." - -And, you know, there was no game, no game of any sort, or shape or kind. -It came out plainly at the trial. As I've told you before, he was a -clerk in a bank, like thousands of others. He got that berth as a second -start in life and there he stuck again, giving perfect satisfaction. Then -one day as though a supernatural voice had whispered into his ear or some -invisible fly had stung him, he put on his hat, went out into the street -and began advertising. That's absolutely all that there was to it. He -caught in the street the word of the time and harnessed it to his -preposterous chariot. - -One remembers his first modest advertisements headed with the magic word -Thrift, Thrift, Thrift, thrice repeated; promising ten per cent. on all -deposits and giving the address of the Thrift and Independence Aid -Association in Vauxhall Bridge Road. Apparently nothing more was -necessary. He didn't even explain what he meant to do with the money he -asked the public to pour into his lap. Of course he meant to lend it out -at high rates of interest. He did so--but he did it without system, -plan, foresight or judgment. And as he frittered away the sums that -flowed in, he advertised for more--and got it. During a period of -general business prosperity he set up The Orb Bank and The Sceptre Trust, -simply, it seems for advertising purposes. They were mere names. He was -totally unable to organize anything, to promote any sort of enterprise if -it were only for the purpose of juggling with the shares. At that time -he could have had for the asking any number of Dukes, retired Generals, -active M.P.'s, ex-ambassadors and so on as Directors to sit at the -wildest boards of his invention. But he never tried. He had no real -imagination. All he could do was to publish more advertisements and open -more branch offices of the Thrift and Independence, of The Orb, of The -Sceptre, for the receipt of deposits; first in this town, then in that -town, north and south--everywhere where he could find suitable premises -at a moderate rent. For this was the great characteristic of the -management. Modesty, moderation, simplicity. Neither The Orb nor The -Sceptre nor yet their parent the Thrift and Independence had built for -themselves the usual palaces. For this abstention they were praised in -silly public prints as illustrating in their management the principle of -Thrift for which they were founded. The fact is that de Barral simply -didn't think of it. Of course he had soon moved from Vauxhall Bridge -Road. He knew enough for that. What he got hold of next was an old, -enormous, rat-infested brick house in a small street off the Strand. -Strangers were taken in front of the meanest possible, begrimed, yellowy, -flat brick wall, with two rows of unadorned window-holes one above the -other, and were exhorted with bated breath to behold and admire the -simplicity of the head-quarters of the great financial force of the day. -The word THRIFT perched right up on the roof in giant gilt letters, and -two enormous shield-like brass-plates curved round the corners on each -side of the doorway were the only shining spots in de Barral's business -outfit. Nobody knew what operations were carried on inside except -this--that if you walked in and tendered your money over the counter it -would be calmly taken from you by somebody who would give you a printed -receipt. That and no more. It appears that such knowledge is -irresistible. People went in and tendered; and once it was taken from -their hands their money was more irretrievably gone from them than if -they had thrown it into the sea. This then, and nothing else was being -carried on in there . . . " - -"Come, Marlow," I said, "you exaggerate surely--if only by your way of -putting things. It's too startling." - -"I exaggerate!" he defended himself. "My way of putting things! My dear -fellow I have merely stripped the rags of business verbiage and financial -jargon off my statements. And you are startled! I am giving you the -naked truth. It's true too that nothing lays itself open to the charge -of exaggeration more than the language of naked truth. What comes with a -shock is admitted with difficulty. But what will you say to the end of -his career? - -It was of course sensational and tolerably sudden. It began with the Orb -Deposit Bank. Under the name of that institution de Barral with the -frantic obstinacy of an unimaginative man had been financing an Indian -prince who was prosecuting a claim for immense sums of money against the -government. It was an enormous number of scores of lakhs--a miserable -remnant of his ancestors' treasures--that sort of thing. And it was all -authentic enough. There was a real prince; and the claim too was -sufficiently real--only unfortunately it was not a valid claim. So the -prince lost his case on the last appeal and the beginning of de Barral's -end became manifest to the public in the shape of a half-sheet of note -paper wafered by the four corners on the closed door of The Orb offices -notifying that payment was stopped at that establishment. - -Its consort The Sceptre collapsed within the week. I won't say in -American parlance that suddenly the bottom fell out of the whole of de -Barral concerns. There never had been any bottom to it. It was like the -cask of Danaides into which the public had been pleased to pour its -deposits. That they were gone was clear; and the bankruptcy proceedings -which followed were like a sinister farce, bursts of laughter in a -setting of mute anguish--that of the depositors; hundreds of thousands of -them. The laughter was irresistible; the accompaniment of the bankrupt's -public examination. - -I don't know if it was from utter lack of all imagination or from the -possession in undue proportion of a particular kind of it, or from -both--and the three alternatives are possible--but it was discovered that -this man who had been raised to such a height by the credulity of the -public was himself more gullible than any of his depositors. He had been -the prey of all sorts of swindlers, adventurers, visionaries and even -lunatics. Wrapping himself up in deep and imbecile secrecy he had gone -in for the most fantastic schemes: a harbour and docks on the coast of -Patagonia, quarries in Labrador--such like speculations. Fisheries to -feed a canning Factory on the banks of the Amazon was one of them. A -principality to be bought in Madagascar was another. As the grotesque -details of these incredible transactions came out one by one ripples of -laughter ran over the closely packed court--each one a little louder than -the other. The audience ended by fairly roaring under the cumulative -effect of absurdity. The Registrar laughed, the barristers laughed, the -reporters laughed, the serried ranks of the miserable depositors watching -anxiously every word, laughed like one man. They laughed -hysterically--the poor wretches--on the verge of tears. - -There was only one person who remained unmoved. It was de Barral -himself. He preserved his serene, gentle expression, I am told (for I -have not witnessed those scenes myself), and looked around at the people -with an air of placid sufficiency which was the first hint to the world -of the man's overweening, unmeasurable conceit, hidden hitherto under a -diffident manner. It could be seen too in his dogged assertion that if -he had been given enough time and a lot more money everything would have -come right. And there were some people (yes, amongst his very victims) -who more than half believed him, even after the criminal prosecution -which soon followed. When placed in the dock he lost his steadiness as -if some sustaining illusion had gone to pieces within him suddenly. He -ceased to be himself in manner completely, and even in disposition, in so -far that his faded neutral eyes matching his discoloured hair so well, -were discovered then to be capable of expressing a sort of underhand -hate. He was at first defiant, then insolent, then broke down and burst -into tears; but it might have been from rage. Then he calmed down, -returned to his soft manner of speech and to that unassuming quiet -bearing which had been usual with him even in his greatest days. But it -seemed as though in this moment of change he had at last perceived what a -power he had been; for he remarked to one of the prosecuting counsel who -had assumed a lofty moral tone in questioning him, that--yes, he had -gambled--he liked cards. But that only a year ago a host of smart people -would have been only too pleased to take a hand at cards with him. Yes--he -went on--some of the very people who were there accommodated with seats -on the bench; and turning upon the counsel "You yourself as well," he -cried. He could have had half the town at his rooms to fawn upon him if -he had cared for that sort of thing. "Why, now I think of it, it took me -most of my time to keep people, just of your sort, off me," he ended with -a good humoured--quite unobtrusive, contempt, as though the fact had -dawned upon him for the first time. - -This was the moment, the only moment, when he had perhaps all the -audience in Court with him, in a hush of dreary silence. And then the -dreary proceedings were resumed. For all the outside excitement it was -the most dreary of all celebrated trials. The bankruptcy proceedings had -exhausted all the laughter there was in it. Only the fact of wide-spread -ruin remained, and the resentment of a mass of people for having been -fooled by means too simple to save their self-respect from a deep wound -which the cleverness of a consummate scoundrel would not have inflicted. -A shamefaced amazement attended these proceedings in which de Barral was -not being exposed alone. For himself his only cry was: Time! Time! Time -would have set everything right. In time some of these speculations of -his were certain to have succeeded. He repeated this defence, this -excuse, this confession of faith, with wearisome iteration. Everything -he had done or left undone had been to gain time. He had hypnotized -himself with the word. Sometimes, I am told, his appearance was -ecstatic, his motionless pale eyes seemed to be gazing down the vista of -future ages. Time--and of course, more money. "Ah! If only you had -left me alone for a couple of years more," he cried once in accents of -passionate belief. "The money was coming in all right." The deposits -you understand--the savings of Thrift. Oh yes they had been coming in to -the very last moment. And he regretted them. He had arrived to regard -them as his own by a sort of mystical persuasion. And yet it was a -perfectly true cry, when he turned once more on the counsel who was -beginning a question with the words "You have had all these immense sums -. . . " with the indignant retort "_What_ have I had out of them?" - -"It was perfectly true. He had had nothing out of them--nothing of the -prestigious or the desirable things of the earth, craved for by predatory -natures. He had gratified no tastes, had known no luxury; he had built -no gorgeous palaces, had formed no splendid galleries out of these -"immense sums." He had not even a home. He had gone into these rooms in -an hotel and had stuck there for years, giving no doubt perfect -satisfaction to the management. They had twice raised his rent to show I -suppose their high sense of his distinguished patronage. He had bought -for himself out of all the wealth streaming through his fingers neither -adulation nor love, neither splendour nor comfort. There was something -perfect in his consistent mediocrity. His very vanity seemed to miss the -gratification of even the mere show of power. In the days when he was -most fully in the public eye the invincible obscurity of his origins -clung to him like a shadowy garment. He had handled millions without -ever enjoying anything of what is counted as precious in the community of -men, because he had neither the brutality of temperament nor the fineness -of mind to make him desire them with the will power of a masterful -adventurer . . . " - -"You seem to have studied the man," I observed. - -"Studied," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "No! Not studied. I had no -opportunities. You know that I saw him only on that one occasion I told -you of. But it may be that a glimpse and no more is the proper way of -seeing an individuality; and de Barral was that, in virtue of his very -deficiencies for they made of him something quite unlike one's -preconceived ideas. There were also very few materials accessible to a -man like me to form a judgment from. But in such a case I verify believe -that a little is as good as a feast--perhaps better. If one has a taste -for that kind of thing the merest starting-point becomes a coign of -vantage, and then by a series of logically deducted verisimilitudes one -arrives at truth--or very near the truth--as near as any circumstantial -evidence can do. I have not studied de Barral but that is how I -understand him so far as he could be understood through the din of the -crash; the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the newspaper contents bills, -"The Thrift Frauds. Cross-examination of the accused. Extra -special"--blazing fiercely; the charitable appeals for the victims, the -grave tones of the dailies rumbling with compassion as if they were the -national bowels. All this lasted a whole week of industrious sittings. A -pressman whom I knew told me "He's an idiot." Which was possible. Before -that I overheard once somebody declaring that he had a criminal type of -face; which I knew was untrue. The sentence was pronounced by artificial -light in a stifling poisonous atmosphere. Something edifying was said by -the judge weightily, about the retribution overtaking the perpetrator of -"the most heartless frauds on an unprecedented scale." I don't -understand these things much, but it appears that he had juggled with -accounts, cooked balance sheets, had gathered in deposits months after he -ought to have known himself to be hopelessly insolvent, and done enough -of other things, highly reprehensible in the eyes of the law, to earn for -himself seven years' penal servitude. The sentence making its way -outside met with a good reception. A small mob composed mainly of people -who themselves did not look particularly clever and scrupulous, leavened -by a slight sprinkling of genuine pickpockets amused itself by cheering -in the most penetrating, abominable cold drizzle that I remember. I -happened to be passing there on my way from the East End where I had -spent my day about the Docks with an old chum who was looking after the -fitting out of a new ship. I am always eager, when allowed, to call on a -new ship. They interest me like charming young persons. - -I got mixed up in that crowd seething with an animosity as senseless as -things of the street always are, and it was while I was laboriously -making my way out of it that the pressman of whom I spoke was jostled -against me. He did me the justice to be surprised. "What? You here! -The last person in the world . . . If I had known I could have got you -inside. Plenty of room. Interest been over for the last three days. Got -seven years. Well, I am glad." - -"Why are you glad? Because he's got seven years?" I asked, greatly -incommoded by the pressure of a hulking fellow who was remarking to some -of his equally oppressive friends that the "beggar ought to have been -poleaxed." I don't know whether he had ever confided his savings to de -Barral but if so, judging from his appearance, they must have been the -proceeds of some successful burglary. The pressman by my side said 'No,' -to my question. He was glad because it was all over. He had suffered -greatly from the heat and the bad air of the court. The clammy, raw, -chill of the streets seemed to affect his liver instantly. He became -contemptuous and irritable and plied his elbows viciously making way for -himself and me. - -A dull affair this. All such cases were dull. No really dramatic -moments. The book-keeping of The Orb and all the rest of them was -certainly a burlesque revelation but the public did not care for -revelations of that kind. Dull dog that de Barral--he grumbled. He -could not or would not take the trouble to characterize for me the -appearance of that man now officially a criminal (we had gone across the -road for a drink) but told me with a sourly, derisive snigger that, after -the sentence had been pronounced the fellow clung to the dock long enough -to make a sort of protest. 'You haven't given me time. If I had been -given time I would have ended by being made a peer like some of them.' -And he had permitted himself his very first and last gesture in all these -days, raising a hard-clenched fist above his head. - -The pressman disapproved of that manifestation. It was not his business -to understand it. Is it ever the business of any pressman to understand -anything? I guess not. It would lead him too far away from the -actualities which are the daily bread of the public mind. He probably -thought the display worth very little from a picturesque point of view; -the weak voice; the colourless personality as incapable of an attitude as -a bed-post, the very fatuity of the clenched hand so ineffectual at that -time and place--no, it wasn't worth much. And then, for him, an -accomplished craftsman in his trade, thinking was distinctly "bad -business." His business was to write a readable account. But I who had -nothing to write, I permitted myself to use my mind as we sat before our -still untouched glasses. And the disclosure which so often rewards a -moment of detachment from mere visual impressions gave me a thrill very -much approaching a shudder. I seemed to understand that, with the shock -of the agonies and perplexities of his trial, the imagination of that -man, whose moods, notions and motives wore frequently an air of grotesque -mystery--that his imagination had been at last roused into activity. And -this was awful. Just try to enter into the feelings of a man whose -imagination wakes up at the very moment he is about to enter the tomb . . . " - -* * * * * - -"You must not think," went on Marlow after a pause, "that on that morning -with Fyne I went consciously in my mind over all this, let us call it -information; no, better say, this fund of knowledge which I had, or -rather which existed, in me in regard to de Barral. Information is -something one goes out to seek and puts away when found as you might do a -piece of lead: ponderous, useful, unvibrating, dull. Whereas knowledge -comes to one, this sort of knowledge, a chance acquisition preserving in -its repose a fine resonant quality . . . But as such distinctions touch -upon the transcendental I shall spare you the pain of listening to them. -There are limits to my cruelty. No! I didn't reckon up carefully in my -mind all this I have been telling you. How could I have done so, with -Fyne right there in the room? He sat perfectly still, statuesque in -homely fashion, after having delivered himself of his effective assent: -"Yes. The convict," and I, far from indulging in a reminiscent excursion -into the past, remained sufficiently in the present to muse in a vague, -absent-minded way on the respectable proportions and on the (upon the -whole) comely shape of his great pedestrian's calves, for he had thrown -one leg over his knee, carelessly, to conceal the trouble of his mind by -an air of ease. But all the same the knowledge was in me, the awakened -resonance of which I spoke just now; I was aware of it on that beautiful -day, so fresh, so warm and friendly, so accomplished--an exquisite -courtesy of the much abused English climate when it makes up its -meteorological mind to behave like a perfect gentleman. Of course the -English climate is never a rough. It suffers from spleen somewhat -frequently--but that is gentlemanly too, and I don't mind going to meet -him in that mood. He has his days of grey, veiled, polite melancholy, in -which he is very fascinating. How seldom he lapses into a blustering -manner, after all! And then it is mostly in a season when, appropriately -enough, one may go out and kill something. But his fine days are the -best for stopping at home, to read, to think, to muse--even to dream; in -fact to live fully, intensely and quietly, in the brightness of -comprehension, in that receptive glow of the mind, the gift of the clear, -luminous and serene weather. - -That day I had intended to live intensely and quietly, basking in the -weather's glory which would have lent enchantment to the most unpromising -of intellectual prospects. For a companion I had found a book, not -bemused with the cleverness of the day--a fine-weather book, simple and -sincere like the talk of an unselfish friend. But looking at little Fyne -seated in the room I understood that nothing would come of my -contemplative aspirations; that in one way or another I should be let in -for some form of severe exercise. Walking, it would be, I feared, since, -for me, that idea was inseparably associated with the visual impression -of Fyne. Where, why, how, a rapid striding rush could be brought in -helpful relation to the good Fyne's present trouble and perplexity I -could not imagine; except on the principle that senseless pedestrianism -was Fyne's panacea for all the ills and evils bodily and spiritual of the -universe. It could be of no use for me to say or do anything. It was -bound to come. Contemplating his muscular limb encased in a -golf-stocking, and under the strong impression of the information he had -just imparted I said wondering, rather irrationally: - -"And so de Barral had a wife and child! That girl's his daughter. And -how . . . " - -Fyne interrupted me by stating again earnestly, as though it were -something not easy to believe, that his wife and himself had tried to -befriend the girl in every way--indeed they had! I did not doubt him for -a moment, of course, but my wonder at this was more rational. At that -hour of the morning, you mustn't forget, I knew nothing as yet of Mrs. -Fyne's contact (it was hardly more) with de Barral's wife and child -during their exile at the Priory, in the culminating days of that man's -fame. - -Fyne who had come over, it was clear, solely to talk to me on that -subject, gave me the first hint of this initial, merely out of doors, -connection. "The girl was quite a child then," he continued. "Later on -she was removed out of Mrs. Fyne's reach in charge of a governess--a very -unsatisfactory person," he explained. His wife had then--h'm--met him; -and on her marriage she lost sight of the child completely. But after -the birth of Polly (Polly was the third Fyne girl) she did not get on -very well, and went to Brighton for some months to recover her -strength--and there, one day in the street, the child (she wore her hair -down her back still) recognized her outside a shop and rushed, actually -rushed, into Mrs. Fyne's arms. Rather touching this. And so, -disregarding the cold impertinence of that . . . h'm . . . governess, his -wife naturally responded. - -He was solemnly fragmentary. I broke in with the observation that it -must have been before the crash. - -Fyne nodded with deepened gravity, stating in his bass tone-- - -"Just before," and indulged himself with a weighty period of solemn -silence. - -De Barral, he resumed suddenly, was not coming to Brighton for week-ends -regularly, then. Must have been conscious already of the approaching -disaster. Mrs. Fyne avoided being drawn into making his acquaintance, -and this suited the views of the governess person, very jealous of any -outside influence. But in any case it would not have been an easy -matter. Extraordinary, stiff-backed, thin figure all in black, the -observed of all, while walking hand-in-hand with the girl; apparently -shy, but--and here Fyne came very near showing something like -insight--probably nursing under a diffident manner a considerable amount -of secret arrogance. Mrs. Fyne pitied Flora de Barral's fate long before -the catastrophe. Most unfortunate guidance. Very unsatisfactory -surroundings. The girl was known in the streets, was stared at in public -places as if she had been a sort of princess, but she was kept with a -very ominous consistency, from making any acquaintances--though of course -there were many people no doubt who would have been more than willing -to--h'm--make themselves agreeable to Miss de Barral. But this did not -enter into the plans of the governess, an intriguing person hatching a -most sinister plot under her severe air of distant, fashionable -exclusiveness. Good little Fyne's eyes bulged with solemn horror as he -revealed to me, in agitated speech, his wife's more than suspicions, at -the time, of that, Mrs., Mrs. What's her name's perfidious conduct. She -actually seemed to have--Mrs. Fyne asserted--formed a plot already to -marry eventually her charge to an impecunious relation of her own--a -young man with furtive eyes and something impudent in his manner, whom -that woman called her nephew, and whom she was always having down to stay -with her. - -"And perhaps not her nephew. No relation at all"--Fyne emitted with a -convulsive effort this, the most awful part of the suspicions Mrs. Fyne -used to impart to him piecemeal when he came down to spend his week-ends -gravely with her and the children. The Fynes, in their good-natured -concern for the unlucky child of the man busied in stirring casually so -many millions, spent the moments of their weekly reunion in wondering -earnestly what could be done to defeat the most wicked of conspiracies, -trying to invent some tactful line of conduct in such extraordinary -circumstances. I could see them, simple, and scrupulous, worrying -honestly about that unprotected big girl while looking at their own -little girls playing on the sea-shore. Fyne assured me that his wife's -rest was disturbed by the great problem of interference. - -"It was very acute of Mrs. Fyne to spot such a deep game," I said, -wondering to myself where her acuteness had gone to now, to let her be -taken unawares by a game so much simpler and played to the end under her -very nose. But then, at that time, when her nightly rest was disturbed -by the dread of the fate preparing for de Barral's unprotected child, she -was not engaged in writing a compendious and ruthless hand-book on the -theory and practice of life, for the use of women with a grievance. She -could as yet, before the task of evolving the philosophy of rebellious -action had affected her intuitive sharpness, perceive things which were, -I suspect, moderately plain. For I am inclined to believe that the woman -whom chance had put in command of Flora de Barral's destiny took no very -subtle pains to conceal her game. She was conscious of being a complete -master of the situation, having once for all established her ascendancy -over de Barral. She had taken all her measures against outside -observation of her conduct; and I could not help smiling at the thought -what a ghastly nuisance the serious, innocent Fynes must have been to -her. How exasperated she must have been by that couple falling into -Brighton as completely unforeseen as a bolt from the blue--if not so -prompt. How she must have hated them! - -But I conclude she would have carried out whatever plan she might have -formed. I can imagine de Barral accustomed for years to defer to her -wishes and, either through arrogance, or shyness, or simply because of -his unimaginative stupidity, remaining outside the social pale, knowing -no one but some card-playing cronies; I can picture him to myself -terrified at the prospect of having the care of a marriageable girl -thrust on his hands, forcing on him a complete change of habits and the -necessity of another kind of existence which he would not even have known -how to begin. It is evident to me that Mrs. What's her name would have -had her atrocious way with very little trouble even if the excellent -Fynes had been able to do something. She would simply have bullied de -Barral in a lofty style. There's nothing more subservient than an -arrogant man when his arrogance has once been broken in some particular -instance. - -However there was no time and no necessity for any one to do anything. -The situation itself vanished in the financial crash as a building -vanishes in an earthquake--here one moment and gone the next with only an -ill-omened, slight, preliminary rumble. Well, to say 'in a moment' is an -exaggeration perhaps; but that everything was over in just twenty-four -hours is an exact statement. Fyne was able to tell me all about it; and -the phrase that would depict the nature of the change best is: an instant -and complete destitution. I don't understand these matters very well, -but from Fyne's narrative it seemed as if the creditors or the -depositors, or the competent authorities, had got hold in the twinkling -of an eye of everything de Barral possessed in the world, down to his -watch and chain, the money in his trousers' pocket, his spare suits of -clothes, and I suppose the cameo pin out of his black satin cravat. -Everything! I believe he gave up the very wedding ring of his late wife. -The gloomy Priory with its damp park and a couple of farms had been made -over to Mrs. de Barral; but when she died (without making a will) it -reverted to him, I imagine. They got that of course; but it was a mere -crumb in a Sahara of starvation, a drop in the thirsty ocean. I dare say -that not a single soul in the world got the comfort of as much as a -recovered threepenny bit out of the estate. Then, less than crumbs, less -than drops, there were to be grabbed, the lease of the big Brighton -house, the furniture therein, the carriage and pair, the girl's riding -horse, her costly trinkets; down to the heavily gold-mounted collar of -her pedigree St. Bernard. The dog too went: the most noble-looking item -in the beggarly assets. - -What however went first of all or rather vanished was nothing in the -nature of an asset. It was that plotting governess with the trick of a -"perfect lady" manner (severely conventional) and the soul of a -remorseless brigand. When a woman takes to any sort of unlawful -man-trade, there's nothing to beat her in the way of thoroughness. It's -true that you will find people who'll tell you that this terrific -virulence in breaking through all established things, is altogether the -fault of men. Such people will ask you with a clever air why the servile -wars were always the most fierce, desperate and atrocious of all wars. -And you may make such answer as you can--even the eminently feminine one, -if you choose, so typical of the women's literal mind "I don't see what -this has to do with it!" How many arguments have been knocked over (I -won't say knocked down) by these few words! For if we men try to put the -spaciousness of all experiences into our reasoning and would fain put the -Infinite itself into our love, it isn't, as some writer has remarked, "It -isn't women's doing." Oh no. They don't care for these things. That -sort of aspiration is not much in their way; and it shall be a funny -world, the world of their arranging, where the Irrelevant would -fantastically step in to take the place of the sober humdrum Imaginative -. . . " - -I raised my hand to stop my friend Marlow. - -"Do you really believe what you have said?" I asked, meaning no offence, -because with Marlow one never could be sure. - -"Only on certain days of the year," said Marlow readily with a malicious -smile. "To-day I have been simply trying to be spacious and I perceive -I've managed to hurt your susceptibilities which are consecrated to -women. When you sit alone and silent you are defending in your mind the -poor women from attacks which cannot possibly touch them. I wonder what -can touch them? But to soothe your uneasiness I will point out again -that an Irrelevant world would be very amusing, if the women take care to -make it as charming as they alone can, by preserving for us certain well- -known, well-established, I'll almost say hackneyed, illusions, without -which the average male creature cannot get on. And that condition is -very important. For there is nothing more provoking than the Irrelevant -when it has ceased to amuse and charm; and then the danger would be of -the subjugated masculinity in its exasperation, making some brusque, -unguarded movement and accidentally putting its elbow through the fine -tissue of the world of which I speak. And that would be fatal to it. For -nothing looks more irretrievably deplorable than fine tissue which has -been damaged. The women themselves would be the first to become -disgusted with their own creation. - -There was something of women's highly practical sanity and also of their -irrelevancy in the conduct of Miss de Barral's amazing governess. It -appeared from Fyne's narrative that the day before the first rumble of -the cataclysm the questionable young man arrived unexpectedly in Brighton -to stay with his "Aunt." To all outward appearance everything was going -on normally; the fellow went out riding with the girl in the afternoon as -he often used to do--a sight which never failed to fill Mrs. Fyne with -indignation. Fyne himself was down there with his family for a whole -week and was called to the window to behold the iniquity in its progress -and to share in his wife's feelings. There was not even a groom with -them. And Mrs. Fyne's distress was so strong at this glimpse of the -unlucky girl all unconscious of her danger riding smilingly by, that Fyne -began to consider seriously whether it wasn't their plain duty to -interfere at all risks--simply by writing a letter to de Barral. He said -to his wife with a solemnity I can easily imagine "You ought to undertake -that task, my dear. You have known his wife after all. That's something -at any rate." On the other hand the fear of exposing Mrs. Fyne to some -nasty rebuff worried him exceedingly. Mrs. Fyne on her side gave way to -despondency. Success seemed impossible. Here was a woman for more than -five years in charge of the girl and apparently enjoying the complete -confidence of the father. What, that would be effective, could one say, -without proofs, without . . . This Mr. de Barral must be, Mrs. Fyne -pronounced, either a very stupid or a downright bad man, to neglect his -child so. - -You will notice that perhaps because of Fyne's solemn view of our -transient life and Mrs. Fyne's natural capacity for responsibility, it -had never occurred to them that the simplest way out of the difficulty -was to do nothing and dismiss the matter as no concern of theirs. Which -in a strict worldly sense it certainly was not. But they spent, Fyne -told me, a most disturbed afternoon, considering the ways and means of -dealing with the danger hanging over the head of the girl out for a ride -(and no doubt enjoying herself) with an abominable scamp. - - - -CHAPTER FOUR--THE GOVERNESS - - -And the best of it was that the danger was all over already. There was -no danger any more. The supposed nephew's appearance had a purpose. He -had come, full, full to trembling--with the bigness of his news. There -must have been rumours already as to the shaky position of the de -Barral's concerns; but only amongst those in the very inmost know. No -rumour or echo of rumour had reached the profane in the West-End--let -alone in the guileless marine suburb of Hove. The Fynes had no -suspicion; the governess, playing with cold, distinguished exclusiveness -the part of mother to the fabulously wealthy Miss de Barral, had no -suspicion; the masters of music, of drawing, of dancing to Miss de -Barral, had no idea; the minds of her medical man, of her dentist, of the -servants in the house, of the tradesmen proud of having the name of de -Barral on their books, were in a state of absolute serenity. Thus, that -fellow, who had unexpectedly received a most alarming straight tip from -somebody in the City arrived in Brighton, at about lunch-time, with -something very much in the nature of a deadly bomb in his possession. But -he knew better than to throw it on the public pavement. He ate his lunch -impenetrably, sitting opposite Flora de Barral, and then, on some excuse, -closeted himself with the woman whom little Fyne's charity described -(with a slight hesitation of speech however) as his "Aunt." - -What they said to each other in private we can imagine. She came out of -her own sitting-room with red spots on her cheek-bones, which having -provoked a question from her "beloved" charge, were accounted for by a -curt "I have a headache coming on." But we may be certain that the talk -being over she must have said to that young blackguard: "You had better -take her out for a ride as usual." We have proof positive of this in -Fyne and Mrs. Fyne observing them mount at the door and pass under the -windows of their sitting-room, talking together, and the poor girl all -smiles; because she enjoyed in all innocence the company of Charley. She -made no secret of it whatever to Mrs. Fyne; in fact, she had confided to -her, long before, that she liked him very much: a confidence which had -filled Mrs. Fyne with desolation and that sense of powerless anguish -which is experienced in certain kinds of nightmare. For how could she -warn the girl? She did venture to tell her once that she didn't like Mr. -Charley. Miss de Barral heard her with astonishment. How was it -possible not to like Charley? Afterwards with naive loyalty she told -Mrs. Fyne that, immensely as she was fond of her she could not hear a -word against Charley--the wonderful Charley. - -The daughter of de Barral probably enjoyed her jolly ride with the jolly -Charley (infinitely more jolly than going out with a stupid old riding- -master), very much indeed, because the Fynes saw them coming back at a -later hour than usual. In fact it was getting nearly dark. On -dismounting, helped off by the delightful Charley, she patted the neck of -her horse and went up the steps. Her last ride. She was then within a -few days of her sixteenth birthday, a slight figure in a riding habit, -rather shorter than the average height for her age, in a black bowler hat -from under which her fine rippling dark hair cut square at the ends was -hanging well down her back. The delightful Charley mounted again to take -the two horses round to the mews. Mrs. Fyne remaining at the window saw -the house door close on Miss de Barral returning from her last ride. - -And meantime what had the governess (out of a nobleman's family) so -judiciously selected (a lady, and connected with well-known county people -as she said) to direct the studies, guard the health, form the mind, -polish the manners, and generally play the perfect mother to that -luckless child--what had she been doing? Well, having got rid of her -charge by the most natural device possible, which proved her practical -sense, she started packing her belongings, an act which showed her clear -view of the situation. She had worked methodically, rapidly, and well, -emptying the drawers, clearing the tables in her special apartment of -that big house, with something silently passionate in her thoroughness; -taking everything belonging to her and some things of less unquestionable -ownership, a jewelled penholder, an ivory and gold paper knife (the house -was full of common, costly objects), some chased silver boxes presented -by de Barral and other trifles; but the photograph of Flora de Barral, -with the loving inscription, which stood on her writing desk, of the most -modern and expensive style, in a silver-gilt frame, she neglected to -take. Having accidentally, in the course of the operations, knocked it -off on the floor she let it lie there after a downward glance. Thus it, -or the frame at least, became, I suppose, part of the assets in the de -Barral bankruptcy. - -At dinner that evening the child found her company dull and brusque. It -was uncommonly slow. She could get nothing from her governess but -monosyllables, and the jolly Charley actually snubbed the various cheery -openings of his "little chum"--as he used to call her at times,--but not -at that time. No doubt the couple were nervous and preoccupied. For all -this we have evidence, and for the fact that Flora being offended with -the delightful nephew of her profoundly respected governess sulked -through the rest of the evening and was glad to retire early. Mrs., -Mrs.--I've really forgotten her name--the governess, invited her nephew -to her sitting-room, mentioning aloud that it was to talk over some -family matters. This was meant for Flora to hear, and she heard -it--without the slightest interest. In fact there was nothing -sufficiently unusual in such an invitation to arouse in her mind even a -passing wonder. She went bored to bed and being tired with her long ride -slept soundly all night. Her last sleep, I won't say of innocence--that -word would not render my exact meaning, because it has a special meaning -of its own--but I will say: of that ignorance, or better still, of that -unconsciousness of the world's ways, the unconsciousness of danger, of -pain, of humiliation, of bitterness, of falsehood. An unconsciousness -which in the case of other beings like herself is removed by a gradual -process of experience and information, often only partial at that, with -saving reserves, softening doubts, veiling theories. Her unconsciousness -of the evil which lives in the secret thoughts and therefore in the open -acts of mankind, whenever it happens that evil thought meets evil -courage; her unconsciousness was to be broken into with profane violence -with desecrating circumstances, like a temple violated by a mad, vengeful -impiety. Yes, that very young girl, almost no more than a child--this -was what was going to happen to her. And if you ask me, how, wherefore, -for what reason? I will answer you: Why, by chance! By the merest -chance, as things do happen, lucky and unlucky, terrible or tender, -important or unimportant; and even things which are neither, things so -completely neutral in character that you would wonder why they do happen -at all if you didn't know that they, too, carry in their insignificance -the seeds of further incalculable chances. - -Of course, all the chances were that de Barral should have fallen upon a -perfectly harmless, naive, usual, inefficient specimen of respectable -governess for his daughter; or on a commonplace silly adventuress who -would have tried, say, to marry him or work some other sort of common -mischief in a small way. Or again he might have chanced on a model of -all the virtues, or the repository of all knowledge, or anything equally -harmless, conventional, and middle class. All calculations were in his -favour; but, chance being incalculable, he fell upon an individuality -whom it is much easier to define by opprobrious names than to classify in -a calm and scientific spirit--but an individuality certainly, and a -temperament as well. Rare? No. There is a certain amount of what I -would politely call unscrupulousness in all of us. Think for instance of -the excellent Mrs. Fyne, who herself, and in the bosom of her family, -resembled a governess of a conventional type. Only, her mental excesses -were theoretical, hedged in by so much humane feeling and conventional -reserves, that they amounted to no more than mere libertinage of thought; -whereas the other woman, the governess of Flora de Barral, was, as you -may have noticed, severely practical--terribly practical. No! Hers was -not a rare temperament, except in its fierce resentment of repression; a -feeling which like genius or lunacy is apt to drive people into sudden -irrelevancy. Hers was feminine irrelevancy. A male genius, a male -ruffian, or even a male lunatic, would not have behaved exactly as she -did behave. There is a softness in masculine nature, even the most -brutal, which acts as a check. - -While the girl slept those two, the woman of forty, an age in itself -terrible, and that hopeless young "wrong 'un" of twenty-three (also well -connected I believe) had some sort of subdued row in the cleared rooms: -wardrobes open, drawers half pulled out and empty, trunks locked and -strapped, furniture in idle disarray, and not so much as a single scrap -of paper left behind on the tables. The maid, whom the governess and the -pupil shared between them, after finishing with Flora, came to the door -as usual, but was not admitted. She heard the two voices in dispute -before she knocked, and then being sent away retreated at once--the only -person in the house convinced at that time that there was "something up." - -Dark and, so to speak, inscrutable spaces being met with in life there -must be such places in any statement dealing with life. In what I am -telling you of now--an episode of one of my humdrum holidays in the green -country, recalled quite naturally after all the years by our meeting a -man who has been a blue-water sailor--this evening confabulation is a -dark, inscrutable spot. And we may conjecture what we like. I have no -difficulty in imagining that the woman--of forty, and the chief of the -enterprise--must have raged at large. And perhaps the other did not rage -enough. Youth feels deeply it is true, but it has not the same vivid -sense of lost opportunities. It believes in the absolute reality of -time. And then, in that abominable scamp with his youth already soiled, -withered like a plucked flower ready to be flung on some rotting heap of -rubbish, no very genuine feeling about anything could exist--not even -about the hazards of his own unclean existence. A sneering half-laugh -with some such remark as: "We are properly sold and no mistake" would -have been enough to make trouble in that way. And then another sneer, -"Waste time enough over it too," followed perhaps by the bitter retort -from the other party "You seemed to like it well enough though, playing -the fool with that chit of a girl." Something of that sort. Don't you -see it--eh . . . " - -Marlow looked at me with his dark penetrating glance. I was struck by -the absolute verisimilitude of this suggestion. But we were always -tilting at each other. I saw an opening and pushed my uncandid thrust. - -"You have a ghastly imagination," I said with a cheerfully sceptical -smile. - -"Well, and if I have," he returned unabashed. "But let me remind you -that this situation came to me unasked. I am like a puzzle-headed chief- -mate we had once in the dear old _Samarcand_ when I was a youngster. The -fellow went gravely about trying to "account to himself"--his favourite -expression--for a lot of things no one would care to bother one's head -about. He was an old idiot but he was also an accomplished practical -seaman. I was quite a boy and he impressed me. I must have caught the -disposition from him." - -"Well--go on with your accounting then," I said, assuming an air of -resignation. - -"That's just it." Marlow fell into his stride at once. "That's just it. -Mere disappointed cupidity cannot account for the proceedings of the next -morning; proceedings which I shall not describe to you--but which I shall -tell you of presently, not as a matter of conjecture but of actual fact. -Meantime returning to that evening altercation in deadened tones within -the private apartment of Miss de Barral's governess, what if I were to -tell you that disappointment had most likely made them touchy with each -other, but that perhaps the secret of his careless, railing behaviour, -was in the thought, springing up within him with an emphatic oath of -relief "Now there's nothing to prevent me from breaking away from that -old woman." And that the secret of her envenomed rage, not against this -miserable and attractive wretch, but against fate, accident and the whole -course of human life, concentrating its venom on de Barral and including -the innocent girl herself, was in the thought, in the fear crying within -her "Now I have nothing to hold him with . . . " - -I couldn't refuse Marlow the tribute of a prolonged whistle "Phew! So -you suppose that . . . " - -He waved his hand impatiently. - -"I don't suppose. It was so. And anyhow why shouldn't you accept the -supposition. Do you look upon governesses as creatures above suspicion -or necessarily of moral perfection? I suppose their hearts would not -stand looking into much better than other people's. Why shouldn't a -governess have passions, all the passions, even that of libertinage, and -even ungovernable passions; yet suppressed by the very same means which -keep the rest of us in order: early training--necessity--circumstances--fear -of consequences; till there comes an age, a time when the restraint of -years becomes intolerable--and infatuation irresistible . . . " - -"But if infatuation--quite possible I admit," I argued, "how do you -account for the nature of the conspiracy." - -"You expect a cogency of conduct not usual in women," said Marlow. "The -subterfuges of a menaced passion are not to be fathomed. You think it is -going on the way it looks, whereas it is capable, for its own ends, of -walking backwards into a precipice. - -When one once acknowledges that she was not a common woman, then all this -is easily understood. She was abominable but she was not common. She -had suffered in her life not from its constant inferiority but from -constant self-repression. A common woman finding herself placed in a -commanding position might have formed the design to become the second -Mrs. de Barral. Which would have been impracticable. De Barral would -not have known what to do with a wife. But even if by some impossible -chance he had made advances, this governess would have repulsed him with -scorn. She had treated him always as an inferior being with an assured, -distant politeness. In her composed, schooled manner she despised and -disliked both father and daughter exceedingly. I have a notion that she -had always disliked intensely all her charges including the two ducal (if -they were ducal) little girls with whom she had dazzled de Barral. What -an odious, ungratified existence it must have been for a woman as avid of -all the sensuous emotions which life can give as most of her betters. - -She had seen her youth vanish, her freshness disappear, her hopes die, -and now she felt her flaming middle-age slipping away from her. No -wonder that with her admirably dressed, abundant hair, thickly sprinkled -with white threads and adding to her elegant aspect the piquant -distinction of a powdered coiffure--no wonder, I say, that she clung -desperately to her last infatuation for that graceless young scamp, even -to the extent of hatching for him that amazing plot. He was not so far -gone in degradation as to make him utterly hopeless for such an attempt. -She hoped to keep him straight with that enormous bribe. She was clearly -a woman uncommon enough to live without illusions--which, of course, does -not mean that she was reasonable. She had said to herself, perhaps with -a fury of self-contempt "In a few years I shall be too old for anybody. -Meantime I shall have him--and I shall hold him by throwing to him the -money of that ordinary, silly, little girl of no account." Well, it was -a desperate expedient--but she thought it worth while. And besides there -is hardly a woman in the world, no matter how hard, depraved or frantic, -in whom something of the maternal instinct does not survive, unconsumed -like a salamander, in the fires of the most abandoned passion. Yes there -might have been that sentiment for him too. There _was_ no doubt. So I -say again: No wonder! No wonder that she raged at everything--and -perhaps even at him, with contradictory reproaches: for regretting the -girl, a little fool who would never in her life be worth anybody's -attention, and for taking the disaster itself with a cynical levity in -which she perceived a flavour of revolt. - -And so the altercation in the night went on, over the irremediable. He -arguing "What's the hurry? Why clear out like this?" perhaps a little -sorry for the girl and as usual without a penny in his pocket, -appreciating the comfortable quarters, wishing to linger on as long as -possible in the shameless enjoyment of this already doomed luxury. There -was really no hurry for a few days. Always time enough to vanish. And, -with that, a touch of masculine softness, a sort of regard for -appearances surviving his degradation: "You might behave decently at the -last, Eliza." But there was no softness in the sallow face under the -gala effect of powdered hair, its formal calmness gone, the dark-ringed -eyes glaring at him with a sort of hunger. "No! No! If it is as you -say then not a day, not an hour, not a moment." She stuck to it, very -determined that there should be no more of that boy and girl philandering -since the object of it was gone; angry with herself for having suffered -from it so much in the past, furious at its having been all in vain. - -But she was reasonable enough not to quarrel with him finally. What was -the good? She found means to placate him. The only means. As long as -there was some money to be got she had hold of him. "Now go away. We -shall do no good by any more of this sort of talk. I want to be alone -for a bit." He went away, sulkily acquiescent. There was a room always -kept ready for him on the same floor, at the further end of a short -thickly carpeted passage. - -How she passed the night, this woman with no illusions to help her -through the hours which must have been sleepless I shouldn't like to say. -It ended at last; and this strange victim of the de Barral failure, whose -name would never be known to the Official Receiver, came down to -breakfast, impenetrable in her everyday perfection. From the very first, -somehow, she had accepted the fatal news for true. All her life she had -never believed in her luck, with that pessimism of the passionate who at -bottom feel themselves to be the outcasts of a morally restrained -universe. But this did not make it any easier, on opening the morning -paper feverishly, to see the thing confirmed. Oh yes! It was there. The -Orb had suspended payment--the first growl of the storm faint as yet, but -to the initiated the forerunner of a deluge. As an item of news it was -not indecently displayed. It was not displayed at all in a sense. The -serious paper, the only one of the great dailies which had always -maintained an attitude of reserve towards the de Barral group of banks, -had its "manner." Yes! a modest item of news! But there was also, on -another page, a special financial article in a hostile tone beginning -with the words "We have always feared" and a guarded, half-column leader, -opening with the phrase: "It is a deplorable sign of the times" what was, -in effect, an austere, general rebuke to the absurd infatuations of the -investing public. She glanced through these articles, a line here and a -line there--no more was necessary to catch beyond doubt the murmur of the -oncoming flood. Several slighting references by name to de Barral -revived her animosity against the man, suddenly, as by the effect of -unforeseen moral support. The miserable wretch! . . . " - -* * * * * - -"--You understand," Marlow interrupted the current of his narrative, -"that in order to be consecutive in my relation of this affair I am -telling you at once the details which I heard from Mrs. Fyne later in the -day, as well as what little Fyne imparted to me with his usual solemnity -during that morning call. As you may easily guess the Fynes, in their -apartments, had read the news at the same time, and, as a matter of fact, -in the same august and highly moral newspaper, as the governess in the -luxurious mansion a few doors down on the opposite side of the street. -But they read them with different feelings. They were thunderstruck. -Fyne had to explain the full purport of the intelligence to Mrs. Fyne -whose first cry was that of relief. Then that poor child would be safe -from these designing, horrid people. Mrs. Fyne did not know what it -might mean to be suddenly reduced from riches to absolute penury. Fyne -with his masculine imagination was less inclined to rejoice extravagantly -at the girl's escape from the moral dangers which had been menacing her -defenceless existence. It was a confoundedly big price to pay. What an -unfortunate little thing she was! "We might be able to do something to -comfort that poor child at any rate for the time she is here," said Mrs. -Fyne. She felt under a sort of moral obligation not to be indifferent. -But no comfort for anyone could be got by rushing out into the street at -this early hour; and so, following the advice of Fyne not to act hastily, -they both sat down at the window and stared feelingly at the great house, -awful to their eyes in its stolid, prosperous, expensive respectability -with ruin absolutely standing at the door. - -By that time, or very soon after, all Brighton had the information and -formed a more or less just appreciation of its gravity. The butler in -Miss de Barral's big house had seen the news, perhaps earlier than -anybody within a mile of the Parade, in the course of his morning duties -of which one was to dry the freshly delivered paper before the fire--an -occasion to glance at it which no intelligent man could have neglected. -He communicated to the rest of the household his vaguely forcible -impression that something had gone d---bly wrong with the affairs of "her -father in London." - -This brought an atmosphere of constraint through the house, which Flora -de Barral coming down somewhat later than usual could not help noticing -in her own way. Everybody seemed to stare so stupidly somehow; she -feared a dull day. - -In the dining-room the governess in her place, a newspaper half-concealed -under the cloth on her lap, after a few words exchanged with lips that -seemed hardly to move, remaining motionless, her eyes fixed before her in -an enduring silence; and presently Charley coming in to whom she did not -even give a glance. He hardly said good morning, though he had a half- -hearted try to smile at the girl, and sitting opposite her with his eyes -on his plate and slight quivers passing along the line of his -clean-shaven jaw, he too had nothing to say. It was dull, horribly dull -to begin one's day like this; but she knew what it was. These -never-ending family affairs! It was not for the first time that she had -suffered from their depressing after-effects on these two. It was a -shame that the delightful Charley should be made dull by these stupid -talks, and it was perfectly stupid of him to let himself be upset like -this by his aunt. - -When after a period of still, as if calculating, immobility, her -governess got up abruptly and went out with the paper in her hand, almost -immediately afterwards followed by Charley who left his breakfast half -eaten, the girl was positively relieved. They would have it out that -morning whatever it was, and be themselves again in the afternoon. At -least Charley would be. To the moods of her governess she did not attach -so much importance. - -For the first time that morning the Fynes saw the front door of the awful -house open and the objectionable young man issue forth, his rascality -visible to their prejudiced eyes in his very bowler hat and in the smart -cut of his short fawn overcoat. He walked away rapidly like a man -hurrying to catch a train, glancing from side to side as though he were -carrying something off. Could he be departing for good? Undoubtedly, -undoubtedly! But Mrs. Fyne's fervent "thank goodness" turned out to be a -bit, as the Americans--some Americans--say "previous." In a very short -time the odious fellow appeared again, strolling, absolutely strolling -back, his hat now tilted a little on one side, with an air of leisure and -satisfaction. Mrs. Fyne groaned not only in the spirit, at this sight, -but in the flesh, audibly; and asked her husband what it might mean. Fyne -naturally couldn't say. Mrs. Fyne believed that there was something -horrid in progress and meantime the object of her detestation had gone up -the steps and had knocked at the door which at once opened to admit him. - -He had been only as far as the bank. - -His reason for leaving his breakfast unfinished to run after Miss de -Barral's governess, was to speak to her in reference to that very errand -possessing the utmost possible importance in his eyes. He shrugged his -shoulders at the nervousness of her eyes and hands, at the half-strangled -whisper "I had to go out. I could hardly contain myself." That was her -affair. He was, with a young man's squeamishness, rather sick of her -ferocity. He did not understand it. Men do not accumulate hate against -each other in tiny amounts, treasuring every pinch carefully till it -grows at last into a monstrous and explosive hoard. He had run out after -her to remind her of the balance at the bank. What about lifting that -money without wasting any more time? She had promised him to leave -nothing behind. - -An account opened in her name for the expenses of the establishment in -Brighton, had been fed by de Barral with deferential lavishness. The -governess crossed the wide hall into a little room at the side where she -sat down to write the cheque, which he hastened out to go and cash as if -it were stolen or a forgery. As observed by the Fynes, his uneasy -appearance on leaving the house arose from the fact that his first -trouble having been caused by a cheque of doubtful authenticity, the -possession of a document of the sort made him unreasonably uncomfortable -till this one was safely cashed. And after all, you know it was stealing -of an indirect sort; for the money was de Barral's money if the account -was in the name of the accomplished lady. At any rate the cheque was -cashed. On getting hold of the notes and gold he recovered his jaunty -bearing, it being well known that with certain natures the presence of -money (even stolen) in the pocket, acts as a tonic, or at least as a -stimulant. He cocked his hat a little on one side as though he had had a -drink or two--which indeed he might have had in reality, to celebrate the -occasion. - -The governess had been waiting for his return in the hall, disregarding -the side-glances of the butler as he went in and out of the dining-room -clearing away the breakfast things. It was she, herself, who had opened -the door so promptly. "It's all right," he said touching his -breast-pocket; and she did not dare, the miserable wretch without -illusions, she did not dare ask him to hand it over. They looked at each -other in silence. He nodded significantly: "Where is she now?" and she -whispered "Gone into the drawing-room. Want to see her again?" with an -archly black look which he acknowledged by a muttered, surly: "I am -damned if I do. Well, as you want to bolt like this, why don't we go -now?" - -She set her lips with cruel obstinacy and shook her head. She had her -idea, her completed plan. At that moment the Fynes, still at the window -and watching like a pair of private detectives, saw a man with a long -grey beard and a jovial face go up the steps helping himself with a thick -stick, and knock at the door. Who could he be? - -He was one of Miss de Barral's masters. She had lately taken up painting -in water-colours, having read in a high-class woman's weekly paper that a -great many princesses of the European royal houses were cultivating that -art. This was the water-colour morning; and the teacher, a veteran of -many exhibitions, of a venerable and jovial aspect, had turned up with -his usual punctuality. He was no great reader of morning papers, and -even had he seen the news it is very likely he would not have understood -its real purport. At any rate he turned up, as the governess expected -him to do, and the Fynes saw him pass through the fateful door. - -He bowed cordially to the lady in charge of Miss de Barral's education, -whom he saw in the hall engaged in conversation with a very good-looking -but somewhat raffish young gentleman. She turned to him graciously: -"Flora is already waiting for you in the drawing-room." - -The cultivation of the art said to be patronized by princesses was -pursued in the drawing-room from considerations of the right kind of -light. The governess preceded the master up the stairs and into the room -where Miss de Barral was found arrayed in a holland pinafore (also of the -right kind for the pursuit of the art) and smilingly expectant. The -water-colour lesson enlivened by the jocular conversation of the kindly, -humorous, old man was always great fun; and she felt she would be -compensated for the tiresome beginning of the day. - -Her governess generally was present at the lesson; but on this occasion -she only sat down till the master and pupil had gone to work in earnest, -and then as though she had suddenly remembered some order to give, rose -quietly and went out of the room. - -Once outside, the servants summoned by the passing maid without a bell -being rung, and quick, quick, let all this luggage be taken down into the -hall, and let one of you call a cab. She stood outside the drawing-room -door on the landing, looking at each piece, trunk, leather cases, -portmanteaus, being carried past her, her brows knitted and her aspect so -sombre and absorbed that it took some little time for the butler to -muster courage enough to speak to her. But he reflected that he was a -free-born Briton and had his rights. He spoke straight to the point but -in the usual respectful manner. - -"Beg you pardon, ma'am--but are you going away for good?" - -He was startled by her tone. Its unexpected, unlady-like harshness fell -on his trained ear with the disagreeable effect of a false note. "Yes. I -am going away. And the best thing for all of you is to go away too, as -soon as you like. You can go now, to-day, this moment. You had your -wages paid you only last week. The longer you stay the greater your -loss. But I have nothing to do with it now. You are the servants of Mr. -de Barral--you know." - -The butler was astounded by the manner of this advice, and as his eyes -wandered to the drawing-room door the governess extended her arm as if to -bar the way. "Nobody goes in there." And that was said still in another -tone, such a tone that all trace of the trained respectfulness vanished -from the butler's bearing. He stared at her with a frank wondering gaze. -"Not till I am gone," she added, and there was such an expression on her -face that the man was daunted by the mystery of it. He shrugged his -shoulders slightly and without another word went down the stairs on his -way to the basement, brushing in the hall past Mr. Charles who hat on -head and both hands rammed deep into his overcoat pockets paced up and -down as though on sentry duty there. - -The ladies' maid was the only servant upstairs, hovering in the passage -on the first floor, curious and as if fascinated by the woman who stood -there guarding the door. Being beckoned closer imperiously and asked by -the governess to bring out of the now empty rooms the hat and veil, the -only objects besides the furniture still to be found there, she did so in -silence but inwardly fluttered. And while waiting uneasily, with the -veil, before that woman who, without moving a step away from the drawing- -room door was pinning with careless haste her hat on her head, she heard -within a sudden burst of laughter from Miss de Barral enjoying the fun of -the water-colour lesson given her for the last time by the cheery old -man. - -Mr. and Mrs. Fyne ambushed at their window--a most incredible occupation -for people of their kind--saw with renewed anxiety a cab come to the -door, and watched some luggage being carried out and put on its roof. The -butler appeared for a moment, then went in again. What did it mean? Was -Flora going to be taken to her father; or were these people, that woman -and her horrible nephew, about to carry her off somewhere? Fyne couldn't -tell. He doubted the last, Flora having now, he judged, no value, either -positive or speculative. Though no great reader of character he did not -credit the governess with humane intentions. He confessed to me naively -that he was excited as if watching some action on the stage. Then the -thought struck him that the girl might have had some money settled on -her, be possessed of some means, of some little fortune of her own and -therefore-- - -He imparted this theory to his wife who shared fully his consternation. -"I can't believe the child will go away without running in to say good- -bye to us," she murmured. "We must find out! I shall ask her." But at -that very moment the cab rolled away, empty inside, and the door of the -house which had been standing slightly ajar till then was pushed to. - -They remained silent staring at it till Mrs. Fyne whispered doubtfully "I -really think I must go over." Fyne didn't answer for a while (his is a -reflective mind, you know), and then as if Mrs. Fyne's whispers had an -occult power over that door it opened wide again and the white-bearded -man issued, astonishingly active in his movements, using his stick almost -like a leaping-pole to get down the steps; and hobbled away briskly along -the pavement. Naturally the Fynes were too far off to make out the -expression of his face. But it would not have helped them very much to a -guess at the conditions inside the house. The expression was humorously -puzzled--nothing more. - -For, at the end of his lesson, seizing his trusty stick and coming out -with his habitual vivacity, he very nearly cannoned just outside the -drawing-room door into the back of Miss de Barral's governess. He -stopped himself in time and she turned round swiftly. It was -embarrassing; he apologised; but her face was not startled; it was not -aware of him; it wore a singular expression of resolution. A very -singular expression which, as it were, detained him for a moment. In -order to cover his embarrassment, he made some inane remark on the -weather, upon which, instead of returning another inane remark according -to the tacit rules of the game, she only gave him a smile of unfathomable -meaning. Nothing could have been more singular. The good-looking young -gentleman of questionable appearance took not the slightest notice of him -in the hall. No servant was to be seen. He let himself out pulling the -door to behind him with a crash as, in a manner, he was forced to do to -get it shut at all. - -When the echo of it had died away the woman on the landing leaned over -the banister and called out bitterly to the man below "Don't you want to -come up and say good-bye." He had an impatient movement of the shoulders -and went on pacing to and fro as though he had not heard. But suddenly -he checked himself, stood still for a moment, then with a gloomy face and -without taking his hands out of his pockets ran smartly up the stairs. -Already facing the door she turned her head for a whispered taunt: "Come! -Confess you were dying to see her stupid little face once more,"--to -which he disdained to answer. - -Flora de Barral, still seated before the table at which she had been -wording on her sketch, raised her head at the noise of the opening door. -The invading manner of their entrance gave her the sense of something she -had never seen before. She knew them well. She knew the woman better -than she knew her father. There had been between them an intimacy of -relation as great as it can possibly be without the final closeness of -affection. The delightful Charley walked in, with his eyes fixed on the -back of her governess whose raised veil hid her forehead like a brown -band above the black line of the eyebrows. The girl was astounded and -alarmed by the altogether unknown expression in the woman's face. The -stress of passion often discloses an aspect of the personality completely -ignored till then by its closest intimates. There was something like an -emanation of evil from her eyes and from the face of the other, who, -exactly behind her and overtopping her by half a head, kept his eyelids -lowered in a sinister fashion--which in the poor girl, reached, stirred, -set free that faculty of unreasoning explosive terror lying locked up at -the bottom of all human hearts and of the hearts of animals as well. With -suddenly enlarged pupils and a movement as instinctive almost as the -bounding of a startled fawn, she jumped up and found herself in the -middle of the big room, exclaiming at those amazing and familiar -strangers. - -"What do you want?" - -You will note that she cried: What do you want? Not: What has happened? -She told Mrs. Fyne that she had received suddenly the feeling of being -personally attacked. And that must have been very terrifying. The woman -before her had been the wisdom, the authority, the protection of life, -security embodied and visible and undisputed. - -You may imagine then the force of the shock in the intuitive perception -not merely of danger, for she did not know what was alarming her, but in -the sense of the security being gone. And not only security. I don't -know how to explain it clearly. Look! Even a small child lives, plays -and suffers in terms of its conception of its own existence. Imagine, if -you can, a fact coming in suddenly with a force capable of shattering -that very conception itself. It was only because of the girl being still -so much of a child that she escaped mental destruction; that, in other -words she got over it. Could one conceive of her more mature, while -still as ignorant as she was, one must conclude that she would have -become an idiot on the spot--long before the end of that experience. -Luckily, people, whether mature or not mature (and who really is ever -mature?) are for the most part quite incapable of understanding what is -happening to them: a merciful provision of nature to preserve an average -amount of sanity for working purposes in this world . . . " - -"But we, my dear Marlow, have the inestimable advantage of understanding -what is happening to others," I struck in. "Or at least some of us seem -to. Is that too a provision of nature? And what is it for? Is it that -we may amuse ourselves gossiping about each other's affairs? You for -instance seem--" - -"I don't know what I seem," Marlow silenced me, "and surely life must be -amused somehow. It would be still a very respectable provision if it -were only for that end. But from that same provision of understanding, -there springs in us compassion, charity, indignation, the sense of -solidarity; and in minds of any largeness an inclination to that -indulgence which is next door to affection. I don't mean to say that I -am inclined to an indulgent view of the precious couple which broke in -upon an unsuspecting girl. They came marching in (it's the very -expression she used later on to Mrs. Fyne) but at her cry they stopped. -It must have been startling enough to them. It was like having the mask -torn off when you don't expect it. The man stopped for good; he didn't -offer to move a step further. But, though the governess had come in -there for the very purpose of taking the mask off for the first time in -her life, she seemed to look upon the frightened cry as a fresh -provocation. "What are you screaming for, you little fool?" she said -advancing alone close to the girl who was affected exactly as if she had -seen Medusa's head with serpentine locks set mysteriously on the -shoulders of that familiar person, in that brown dress, under that hat -she knew so well. It made her lose all her hold on reality. She told -Mrs. Fyne: "I didn't know where I was. I didn't even know that I was -frightened. If she had told me it was a joke I would have laughed. If -she had told me to put on my hat and go out with her I would have gone to -put on my hat and gone out with her and never said a single word; I -should have been convinced I had been mad for a minute or so, and I would -have worried myself to death rather than breathe a hint of it to her or -anyone. But the wretch put her face close to mine and I could not move. -Directly I had looked into her eyes I felt grown on to the carpet." - -It was years afterwards that she used to talk like this to Mrs. Fyne--and -to Mrs. Fyne alone. Nobody else ever heard the story from her lips. But -it was never forgotten. It was always felt; it remained like a mark on -her soul, a sort of mystic wound, to be contemplated, to be meditated -over. And she said further to Mrs. Fyne, in the course of many -confidences provoked by that contemplation, that, as long as that woman -called her names, it was almost soothing, it was in a manner reassuring. -Her imagination had, like her body, gone off in a wild bound to meet the -unknown; and then to hear after all something which more in its tone than -in its substance was mere venomous abuse, had steadied the inward flutter -of all her being. - -"She called me a little fool more times than I can remember. I! A fool! -Why, Mrs. Fyne! I do assure you I had never yet thought at all; never of -anything in the world, till then. I just went on living. And one can't -be a fool without one has at least tried to think. But what had I ever -to think about?" - -"And no doubt," commented Marlow, "her life had been a mere life of -sensations--the response to which can neither be foolish nor wise. It -can only be temperamental; and I believe that she was of a generally -happy disposition, a child of the average kind. Even when she was asked -violently whether she imagined that there was anything in her, apart from -her money, to induce any intelligent person to take any sort of interest -in her existence, she only caught her breath in one dry sob and said -nothing, made no other sound, made no movement. When she was viciously -assured that she was in heart, mind, manner and appearance, an utterly -common and insipid creature, she remained still, without indignation, -without anger. She stood, a frail and passive vessel into which the -other went on pouring all the accumulated dislike for all her pupils, her -scorn of all her employers (the ducal one included), the accumulated -resentment, the infinite hatred of all these unrelieved years of--I won't -say hypocrisy. The practice of perfect hypocrisy is a relief in itself, -a secret triumph of the vilest sort, no doubt, but still a way of getting -even with the common morality from which some of us appear to suffer so -much. No! I will say the years, the passionate, bitter years, of -restraint, the iron, admirably mannered restraint at every moment, in a -never-failing perfect correctness of speech, glances, movements, smiles, -gestures, establishing for her a high reputation, an impressive record of -success in her sphere. It had been like living half strangled for years. - -And all this torture for nothing, in the end! What looked at last like a -possible prize (oh, without illusions! but still a prize) broken in her -hands, fallen in the dust, the bitter dust, of disappointment, she -revelled in the miserable revenge--pretty safe too--only regretting the -unworthiness of the girlish figure which stood for so much she had longed -to be able to spit venom at, if only once, in perfect liberty. The -presence of the young man at her back increased both her satisfaction and -her rage. But the very violence of the attack seemed to defeat its end -by rendering the representative victim as it were insensible. The cause -of this outrage naturally escaping the girl's imagination her attitude -was in effect that of dense, hopeless stupidity. And it is a fact that -the worst shocks of life are often received without outcries, without -gestures, without a flow of tears and the convulsions of sobbing. The -insatiable governess missed these signs exceedingly. This pitiful -stolidity was only a fresh provocation. Yet the poor girl was deadly -pale. - -"I was cold," she used to explain to Mrs. Fyne. "I had had time to get -terrified. She had pushed her face so near mine and her teeth looked as -though she wanted to bite me. Her eyes seemed to have become quite dry, -hard and small in a lot of horrible wrinkles. I was too afraid of her to -shudder, too afraid of her to put my fingers to my ears. I didn't know -what I expected her to call me next, but when she told me I was no better -than a beggar--that there would be no more masters, no more servants, no -more horses for me--I said to myself: Is that all? I should have laughed -if I hadn't been too afraid of her to make the least little sound." - -It seemed that poor Flora had to know all the possible phases of that -sort of anguish, beginning with instinctive panic, through the bewildered -stage, the frozen stage and the stage of blanched apprehension, down to -the instinctive prudence of extreme terror--the stillness of the mouse. -But when she heard herself called the child of a cheat and a swindler, -the very monstrous unexpectedness of this caused in her a revulsion -towards letting herself go. She screamed out all at once "You mustn't -speak like this of Papa!" - -The effort of it uprooted her from that spot where her little feet seemed -dug deep into the thick luxurious carpet, and she retreated backwards to -a distant part of the room, hearing herself repeat "You mustn't, you -mustn't" as if it were somebody else screaming. She came to a chair and -flung herself into it. Thereupon the somebody else ceased screaming and -she lolled, exhausted, sightless, in a silent room, as if indifferent to -everything and without a single thought in her head. - -The next few seconds seemed to last for ever so long; a black abyss of -time separating what was past and gone from the reappearance of the -governess and the reawakening of fear. And that woman was forcing the -words through her set teeth: "You say I mustn't, I mustn't. All the -world will be speaking of him like this to-morrow. They will say it, and -they'll print it. You shall hear it and you shall read it--and then you -shall know whose daughter you are." - -Her face lighted up with an atrocious satisfaction. "He's nothing but a -thief," she cried, "this father of yours. As to you I have never been -deceived in you for a moment. I have been growing more and more sick of -you for years. You are a vulgar, silly nonentity, and you shall go back -to where you belong, whatever low place you have sprung from, and beg -your bread--that is if anybody's charity will have anything to do with -you, which I doubt--" - -She would have gone on regardless of the enormous eyes, of the open mouth -of the girl who sat up suddenly with the wild staring expression of being -choked by invisible fingers on her throat, and yet horribly pale. The -effect on her constitution was so profound, Mrs. Fyne told me, that she -who as a child had a rather pretty delicate colouring, showed a white -bloodless face for a couple of years afterwards, and remained always -liable at the slightest emotion to an extraordinary ghost-like whiteness. -The end came in the abomination of desolation of the poor child's -miserable cry for help: "Charley! Charley!" coming from her throat in -hidden gasping efforts. Her enlarged eyes had discovered him where he -stood motionless and dumb. - -He started from his immobility, a hand withdrawn brusquely from the -pocket of his overcoat, strode up to the woman, seized her by the arm -from behind, saying in a rough commanding tone: "Come away, Eliza." In -an instant the child saw them close together and remote, near the door, -gone through the door, which she neither heard nor saw being opened or -shut. But it was shut. Oh yes, it was shut. Her slow unseeing glance -wandered all over the room. For some time longer she remained leaning -forward, collecting her strength, doubting if she would be able to stand. -She stood up at last. Everything about her spun round in an oppressive -silence. She remembered perfectly--as she told Mrs. Fyne--that clinging -to the arm of the chair she called out twice "Papa! Papa!" At the -thought that he was far away in London everything about her became quite -still. Then, frightened suddenly by the solitude of that empty room, she -rushed out of it blindly. - -* * * * * - -With that fatal diffidence in well doing, inherent in the present -condition of humanity, the Fynes continued to watch at their window. -"It's always so difficult to know what to do for the best," Fyne assured -me. It is. Good intentions stand in their own way so much. Whereas if -you want to do harm to anyone you needn't hesitate. You have only to go -on. No one will reproach you with your mistakes or call you a -confounded, clumsy meddler. The Fynes watched the door, the closed -street door inimical somehow to their benevolent thoughts, the face of -the house cruelly impenetrable. It was just as on any other day. The -unchanged daily aspect of inanimate things is so impressive that Fyne -went back into the room for a moment, picked up the paper again, and ran -his eyes over the item of news. No doubt of it. It looked very bad. He -came back to the window and Mrs. Fyne. Tired out as she was she sat -there resolute and ready for responsibility. But she had no suggestion -to offer. People do fear a rebuff wonderfully, and all her audacity was -in her thoughts. She shrank from the incomparably insolent manner of the -governess. Fyne stood by her side, as in those old-fashioned photographs -of married couples where you see a husband with his hand on the back of -his wife's chair. And they were about as efficient as an old photograph, -and as still, till Mrs. Fyne started slightly. The street door had swung -open, and, bursting out, appeared the young man, his hat (Mrs. Fyne -observed) tilted forward over his eyes. After him the governess slipped -through, turning round at once to shut the door behind her with care. -Meantime the man went down the white steps and strode along the pavement, -his hands rammed deep into the pockets of his fawn overcoat. The woman, -that woman of composed movements, of deliberate superior manner, took a -little run to catch up with him, and directly she had caught up with him -tried to introduce her hand under his arm. Mrs. Fyne saw the brusque -half turn of the fellow's body as one avoids an importunate contact, -defeating her attempt rudely. She did not try again but kept pace with -his stride, and Mrs. Fyne watched them, walking independently, turn the -corner of the street side by side, disappear for ever. - -The Fynes looked at each other eloquently, doubtfully: What do you think -of this? Then with common accord turned their eyes back to the street -door, closed, massive, dark; the great, clear-brass knocker shining in a -quiet slant of sunshine cut by a diagonal line of heavy shade filling the -further end of the street. Could the girl be already gone? Sent away to -her father? Had she any relations? Nobody but de Barral himself ever -came to see her, Mrs. Fyne remembered; and she had the instantaneous, -profound, maternal perception of the child's loneliness--and a girl too! -It was irresistible. And, besides, the departure of the governess was -not without its encouraging influence. "I am going over at once to find -out," she declared resolutely but still staring across the street. Her -intention was arrested by the sight of that awful, sombrely glistening -door, swinging back suddenly on the yawning darkness of the hall, out of -which literally flew out, right out on the pavement, almost without -touching the white steps, a little figure swathed in a holland pinafore -up to the chin, its hair streaming back from its head, darting past a -lamp-post, past the red pillar-box . . . "Here," cried Mrs. Fyne; "she's -coming here! Run, John! Run!" - -Fyne bounded out of the room. This is his own word. Bounded! He -assured me with intensified solemnity that he bounded; and the sight of -the short and muscular Fyne bounding gravely about the circumscribed -passages and staircases of a small, very high class, private hotel, would -have been worth any amount of money to a man greedy of memorable -impressions. But as I looked at him, the desire of laughter at my very -lips, I asked myself: how many men could be found ready to compromise -their cherished gravity for the sake of the unimportant child of a ruined -financier with an ugly, black cloud already wreathing his head. I didn't -laugh at little Fyne. I encouraged him: "You did!--very good . . . -Well?" - -His main thought was to save the child from some unpleasant interference. -There was a porter downstairs, page boys; some people going away with -their trunks in the passage; a railway omnibus at the door, -white-breasted waiters dodging about the entrance. - -He was in time. He was at the door before she reached it in her blind -course. She did not recognize him; perhaps she did not see him. He -caught her by the arm as she ran past and, very sensibly, without trying -to check her, simply darted in with her and up the stairs, causing no end -of consternation amongst the people in his way. They scattered. What -might have been their thoughts at the spectacle of a shameless middle- -aged man abducting headlong into the upper regions of a respectable hotel -a terrified young girl obviously under age, I don't know. And Fyne (he -told me so) did not care for what people might think. All he wanted was -to reach his wife before the girl collapsed. For a time she ran with him -but at the last flight of stairs he had to seize and half drag, half -carry her to his wife. Mrs. Fyne waited at the door with her quite -unmoved physiognomy and her readiness to confront any sort of -responsibility, which already characterized her, long before she became a -ruthless theorist. Relieved, his mission accomplished, Fyne closed -hastily the door of the sitting-room. - -But before long both Fynes became frightened. After a period of -immobility in the arms of Mrs. Fyne, the girl, who had not said a word, -tore herself out from that slightly rigid embrace. She struggled dumbly -between them, they did not know why, soundless and ghastly, till she sank -exhausted on a couch. Luckily the children were out with the two nurses. -The hotel housemaid helped Mrs. Fyne to put Flora de Barral to bed. She -was as if gone speechless and insane. She lay on her back, her face -white like a piece of paper, her dark eyes staring at the ceiling, her -awful immobility broken by sudden shivering fits with a loud chattering -of teeth in the shadowy silence of the room, the blinds pulled down, Mrs. -Fyne sitting by patiently, her arms folded, yet inwardly moved by the -riddle of that distress of which she could not guess the word, and saying -to herself: "That child is too emotional--much too emotional to be ever -really sound!" As if anyone not made of stone could be perfectly sound -in this world. And then how sound? In what sense--to resist what? Force -or corruption? And even in the best armour of steel there are joints a -treacherous stroke can always find if chance gives the opportunity. - -General considerations never had the power to trouble Mrs. Fyne much. The -girl not being in a state to be questioned she waited by the bedside. -Fyne had crossed over to the house, his scruples overcome by his anxiety -to discover what really had happened. He did not have to lift the -knocker; the door stood open on the inside gloom of the hall; he walked -into it and saw no one about, the servants having assembled for a fatuous -consultation in the basement. Fyne's uplifted bass voice startled them -down there, the butler coming up, staring and in his shirt sleeves, very -suspicious at first, and then, on Fyne's explanation that he was the -husband of a lady who had called several times at the house--Miss de -Barral's mother's friend--becoming humanely concerned and communicative, -in a man to man tone, but preserving his trained high-class servant's -voice: "Oh bless you, sir, no! She does not mean to come back. She told -me so herself"--he assured Fyne with a faint shade of contempt creeping -into his tone. - -As regards their young lady nobody downstairs had any idea that she had -run out of the house. He dared say they all would have been willing to -do their very best for her, for the time being; but since she was now -with her mother's friends . . . - -He fidgeted. He murmured that all this was very unexpected. He wanted -to know what he had better do with letters or telegrams which might -arrive in the course of the day. - -"Letters addressed to Miss de Barral, you had better bring over to my -hotel over there," said Fyne beginning to feel extremely worried about -the future. The man said "Yes, sir," adding, "and if a letter comes -addressed to Mrs. . . . " - -Fyne stopped him by a gesture. "I don't know . . . Anything you like." - -"Very well, sir." - -The butler did not shut the street door after Fyne, but remained on the -doorstep for a while, looking up and down the street in the spirit of -independent expectation like a man who is again his own master. Mrs. -Fyne hearing her husband return came out of the room where the girl was -lying in bed. "No change," she whispered; and Fyne could only make a -hopeless sign of ignorance as to what all this meant and how it would -end. - -He feared future complications--naturally; a man of limited means, in a -public position, his time not his own. Yes. He owned to me in the -parlour of my farmhouse that he had been very much concerned then at the -possible consequences. But as he was making this artless confession I -said to myself that, whatever consequences and complications he might -have imagined, the complication from which he was suffering now could -never, never have presented itself to his mind. Slow but sure (for I -conceive that the Book of Destiny has been written up from the beginning -to the last page) it had been coming for something like six years--and -now it had come. The complication was there! I looked at his unshaken -solemnity with the amused pity we give the victim of a funny if somewhat -ill-natured practical joke. - -"Oh hang it," he exclaimed--in no logical connection with what he had -been relating to me. Nevertheless the exclamation was intelligible -enough. - -However at first there were, he admitted, no untoward complications, no -embarrassing consequences. To a telegram in guarded terms dispatched to -de Barral no answer was received for more than twenty-four hours. This -certainly caused the Fynes some anxiety. When the answer arrived late on -the evening of next day it was in the shape of an elderly man. An -unexpected sort of man. Fyne explained to me with precision that he -evidently belonged to what is most respectable in the lower middle -classes. He was calm and slow in his speech. He was wearing a frock- -coat, had grey whiskers meeting under his chin, and declared on entering -that Mr. de Barral was his cousin. He hastened to add that he had not -seen his cousin for many years, while he looked upon Fyne (who received -him alone) with so much distrust that Fyne felt hurt (the person actually -refusing at first the chair offered to him) and retorted tartly that he, -for his part, had _never_ seen Mr. de Barral, in his life, and that, -since the visitor did not want to sit down, he, Fyne, begged him to state -his business as shortly as possible. The man in black sat down then with -a faint superior smile. - -He had come for the girl. His cousin had asked him in a note delivered -by a messenger to go to Brighton at once and take "his girl" over from a -gentleman named Fyne and give her house-room for a time in his family. -And there he was. His business had not allowed him to come sooner. His -business was the manufacture on a large scale of cardboard boxes. He had -two grown-up girls of his own. He had consulted his wife and so that was -all right. The girl would get a welcome in his home. His home most -likely was not what she had been used to but, etc. etc. - -All the time Fyne felt subtly in that man's manner a derisive disapproval -of everything that was not lower middle class, a profound respect for -money, a mean sort of contempt for speculators that fail, and a conceited -satisfaction with his own respectable vulgarity. - -With Mrs. Fyne the manner of the obscure cousin of de Barral was but -little less offensive. He looked at her rather slyly but her cold, -decided demeanour impressed him. Mrs. Fyne on her side was simply -appalled by the personage, but did not show it outwardly. Not even when -the man remarked with false simplicity that Florrie--her name was Florrie -wasn't it? would probably miss at first all her grand friends. And when -he was informed that the girl was in bed, not feeling well at all he -showed an unsympathetic alarm. She wasn't an invalid was she? No. What -was the matter with her then? - -An extreme distaste for that respectable member of society was depicted -in Fyne's face even as he was telling me of him after all these years. He -was a specimen of precisely the class of which people like the Fynes have -the least experience; and I imagine he jarred on them painfully. He -possessed all the civic virtues in their very meanest form, and the -finishing touch was given by a low sort of consciousness he manifested of -possessing them. His industry was exemplary. He wished to catch the -earliest possible train next morning. It seems that for seven and twenty -years he had never missed being seated on his office-stool at the factory -punctually at ten o'clock every day. He listened to Mrs. Fyne's -objections with undisguised impatience. Why couldn't Florrie get up and -have her breakfast at eight like other people? In his house the -breakfast was at eight sharp. Mrs. Fyne's polite stoicism overcame him -at last. He had come down at a very great personal inconvenience, he -assured her with displeasure, but he gave up the early train. - -The good Fynes didn't dare to look at each other before this unforeseen -but perfectly authorized guardian, the same thought springing up in their -minds: Poor girl! Poor girl! If the women of the family were like this -too! . . . And of course they would be. Poor girl! But what could they -have done even if they had been prepared to raise objections. The person -in the frock-coat had the father's note; he had shown it to Fyne. Just a -request to take care of the girl--as her nearest relative--without any -explanation or a single allusion to the financial catastrophe, its tone -strangely detached and in its very silence on the point giving occasion -to think that the writer was not uneasy as to the child's future. -Probably it was that very idea which had set the cousin so readily in -motion. Men had come before out of commercial crashes with estates in -the country and a comfortable income, if not for themselves then for -their wives. And if a wife could be made comfortable by a little -dexterous management then why not a daughter? Yes. This possibility -might have been discussed in the person's household and judged worth -acting upon. - -The man actually hinted broadly that such was his belief and in face of -Fyne's guarded replies gave him to understand that he was not the dupe of -such reticences. Obviously he looked upon the Fynes as being -disappointed because the girl was taken away from them. They, by a -diplomatic sacrifice in the interests of poor Flora, had asked the man to -dinner. He accepted ungraciously, remarking that he was not used to late -hours. He had generally a bit of supper about half-past eight or nine. -However . . . - -He gazed contemptuously round the prettily decorated dining-room. He -wrinkled his nose in a puzzled way at the dishes offered to him by the -waiter but refused none, devouring the food with a great appetite and -drinking ("swilling" Fyne called it) gallons of ginger beer, which was -procured for him (in stone bottles) at his request. The difficulty of -keeping up a conversation with that being exhausted Mrs. Fyne herself, -who had come to the table armed with adamantine resolution. The only -memorable thing he said was when, in a pause of gorging himself "with -these French dishes" he deliberately let his eyes roam over the little -tables occupied by parties of diners, and remarked that his wife did for -a moment think of coming down with him, but that he was glad she didn't -do so. "She wouldn't have been at all happy seeing all this alcohol -about. Not at all happy," he declared weightily. - -"You must have had a charming evening," I said to Fyne, "if I may judge -from the way you have kept the memory green." - -"Delightful," he growled with, positively, a flash of anger at the -recollection, but lapsed back into his solemnity at once. After we had -been silent for a while I asked whether the man took away the girl next -day. - -Fyne said that he did; in the afternoon, in a fly, with a few clothes the -maid had got together and brought across from the big house. He only saw -Flora again ten minutes before they left for the railway station, in the -Fynes' sitting-room at the hotel. It was a most painful ten minutes for -the Fynes. The respectable citizen addressed Miss de Barral as "Florrie" -and "my dear," remarking to her that she was not very big "there's not -much of you my dear" in a familiarly disparaging tone. Then turning to -Mrs. Fyne, and quite loud "She's very white in the face. Why's that?" To -this Mrs. Fyne made no reply. She had put the girl's hair up that -morning with her own hands. It changed her very much, observed Fyne. He, -naturally, played a subordinate, merely approving part. All he could do -for Miss de Barral personally was to go downstairs and put her into the -fly himself, while Miss de Barral's nearest relation, having been -shouldered out of the way, stood by, with an umbrella and a little black -bag, watching this proceeding with grim amusement, as it seemed. It was -difficult to guess what the girl thought or what she felt. She no longer -looked a child. She whispered to Fyne a faint "Thank you," from the fly, -and he said to her in very distinct tones and while still holding her -hand: "Pray don't forget to write fully to my wife in a day or two, Miss -de Barral." Then Fyne stepped back and the cousin climbed into the fly -muttering quite audibly: "I don't think you'll be troubled much with her -in the future;" without however looking at Fyne on whom he did not even -bestow a nod. The fly drove away. - - - -CHAPTER FIVE--THE TEA-PARTY - - -"Amiable personality," I observed seeing Fyne on the point of falling -into a brown study. But I could not help adding with meaning: "He hadn't -the gift of prophecy though." - -Fyne got up suddenly with a muttered "No, evidently not." He was gloomy, -hesitating. I supposed that he would not wish to play chess that -afternoon. This would dispense me from leaving my rooms on a day much -too fine to be wasted in walking exercise. And I was disappointed when -picking up his cap he intimated to me his hope of seeing me at the -cottage about four o'clock--as usual. - -"It wouldn't be as usual." I put a particular stress on that remark. He -admitted, after a short reflection, that it would not be. No. Not as -usual. In fact it was his wife who hoped, rather, for my presence. She -had formed a very favourable opinion of my practical sagacity. - -This was the first I ever heard of it. I had never suspected that Mrs. -Fyne had taken the trouble to distinguish in me the signs of sagacity or -folly. The few words we had exchanged last night in the excitement--or -the bother--of the girl's disappearance, were the first moderately -significant words which had ever passed between us. I had felt myself -always to be in Mrs. Fyne's view her husband's chess-player and nothing -else--a convenience--almost an implement. - -"I am highly flattered," I said. "I have always heard that there are no -limits to feminine intuition; and now I am half inclined to believe it is -so. But still I fail to see in what way my sagacity, practical or -otherwise, can be of any service to Mrs. Fyne. One man's sagacity is -very much like any other man's sagacity. And with you at hand--" - -Fyne, manifestly not attending to what I was saying, directed straight at -me his worried solemn eyes and struck in: - -"Yes, yes. Very likely. But you will come--won't you?" - -I had made up my mind that no Fyne of either sex would make me walk three -miles (there and back to their cottage) on this fine day. If the Fynes -had been an average sociable couple one knows only because leisure must -be got through somehow, I would have made short work of that special -invitation. But they were not that. Their undeniable humanity had to be -acknowledged. At the same time I wanted to have my own way. So I -proposed that I should be allowed the pleasure of offering them a cup of -tea at my rooms. - -A short reflective pause--and Fyne accepted eagerly in his own and his -wife's name. A moment after I heard the click of the gate-latch and then -in an ecstasy of barking from his demonstrative dog his serious head went -past my window on the other side of the hedge, its troubled gaze fixed -forward, and the mind inside obviously employed in earnest speculation of -an intricate nature. One at least of his wife's girl-friends had become -more than a mere shadow for him. I surmised however that it was not of -the girl-friend but of his wife that Fyne was thinking. He was an -excellent husband. - -I prepared myself for the afternoon's hospitalities, calling in the -farmer's wife and reviewing with her the resources of the house and the -village. She was a helpful woman. But the resources of my sagacity I -did not review. Except in the gross material sense of the afternoon tea -I made no preparations for Mrs. Fyne. - -It was impossible for me to make any such preparations. I could not tell -what sort of sustenance she would look for from my sagacity. And as to -taking stock of the wares of my mind no one I imagine is anxious to do -that sort of thing if it can be avoided. A vaguely grandiose state of -mental self-confidence is much too agreeable to be disturbed recklessly -by such a delicate investigation. Perhaps if I had had a helpful woman -at my elbow, a dear, flattering acute, devoted woman . . . There are in -life moments when one positively regrets not being married. No! I don't -exaggerate. I have said--moments, not years or even days. Moments. The -farmer's wife obviously could not be asked to assist. She could not have -been expected to possess the necessary insight and I doubt whether she -would have known how to be flattering enough. She was being helpful in -her own way, with an extraordinary black bonnet on her head, a good mile -off by that time, trying to discover in the village shops a piece of -eatable cake. The pluck of women! The optimism of the dear creatures! - -And she managed to find something which looked eatable. That's all I -know as I had no opportunity to observe the more intimate effects of that -comestible. I myself never eat cake, and Mrs. Fyne, when she arrived -punctually, brought with her no appetite for cake. She had no appetite -for anything. But she had a thirst--the sign of deep, of tormenting -emotion. Yes it was emotion, not the brilliant sunshine--more brilliant -than warm as is the way of our discreet self-repressed, distinguished, -insular sun, which would not turn a real lady scarlet--not on any -account. Mrs. Fyne looked even cool. She wore a white skirt and coat; a -white hat with a large brim reposed on her smoothly arranged hair. The -coat was cut something like an army mess-jacket and the style suited her. -I dare say there are many youthful subalterns, and not the worst-looking -too, who resemble Mrs. Fyne in the type of face, in the sunburnt -complexion, down to that something alert in bearing. But not many would -have had that aspect breathing a readiness to assume any responsibility -under Heaven. This is the sort of courage which ripens late in life and -of course Mrs. Fyne was of mature years for all her unwrinkled face. - -She looked round the room, told me positively that I was very comfortable -there; to which I assented, humbly, acknowledging my undeserved good -fortune. - -"Why undeserved?" she wanted to know. - -"I engaged these rooms by letter without asking any questions. It might -have been an abominable hole," I explained to her. "I always do things -like that. I don't like to be bothered. This is no great proof of -sagacity--is it? Sagacious people I believe like to exercise that -faculty. I have heard that they can't even help showing it in the -veriest trifles. It must be very delightful. But I know nothing of it. -I think that I have no sagacity--no practical sagacity." - -Fyne made an inarticulate bass murmur of protest. I asked after the -children whom I had not seen yet since my return from town. They had -been very well. They were always well. Both Fyne and Mrs. Fyne spoke of -the rude health of their children as if it were a result of moral -excellence; in a peculiar tone which seemed to imply some contempt for -people whose children were liable to be unwell at times. One almost felt -inclined to apologize for the inquiry. And this annoyed me; -unreasonably, I admit, because the assumption of superior merit is not a -very exceptional weakness. Anxious to make myself disagreeable by way of -retaliation I observed in accents of interested civility that the dear -girls must have been wondering at the sudden disappearance of their -mother's young friend. Had they been putting any awkward questions about -Miss Smith. Wasn't it as Miss Smith that Miss de Barral had been -introduced to me? - -Mrs. Fyne, staring fixedly but also colouring deeper under her tan, told -me that the children had never liked Flora very much. She hadn't the -high spirits which endear grown-ups to healthy children, Mrs. Fyne -explained unflinchingly. Flora had been staying at the cottage several -times before. Mrs. Fyne assured me that she often found it very -difficult to have her in the house. - -"But what else could we do?" she exclaimed. - -That little cry of distress quite genuine in its inexpressiveness, -altered my feeling towards Mrs. Fyne. It would have been so easy to have -done nothing and to have thought no more about it. My liking for her -began while she was trying to tell me of the night she spent by the -girl's bedside, the night before her departure with her unprepossessing -relative. That Mrs. Fyne found means to comfort the child I doubt very -much. She had not the genius for the task of undoing that which the hate -of an infuriated woman had planned so well. - -You will tell me perhaps that children's impressions are not durable. -That's true enough. But here, child is only a manner of speaking. The -girl was within a few days of her sixteenth birthday; she was old enough -to be matured by the shock. The very effort she had to make in conveying -the impression to Mrs. Fyne, in remembering the details, in finding -adequate words--or any words at all--was in itself a terribly -enlightening, an ageing process. She had talked a long time, -uninterrupted by Mrs. Fyne, childlike enough in her wonder and pain, -pausing now and then to interject the pitiful query: "It was cruel of -her. Wasn't it cruel, Mrs. Fyne?" - -For Charley she found excuses. He at any rate had not said anything, -while he had looked very gloomy and miserable. He couldn't have taken -part against his aunt--could he? But after all he did, when she called -upon him, take "that cruel woman away." He had dragged her out by the -arm. She had seen that plainly. She remembered it. That was it! The -woman was mad. "Oh! Mrs. Fyne, don't tell me she wasn't mad. If you -had only seen her face . . . " - -But Mrs. Fyne was unflinching in her idea that as much truth as could be -told was due in the way of kindness to the girl, whose fate she feared -would be to live exposed to the hardest realities of unprivileged -existences. She explained to her that there were in the world -evil-minded, selfish people. Unscrupulous people . . . These two persons -had been after her father's money. The best thing she could do was to -forget all about them. - -"After papa's money? I don't understand," poor Flora de Barral had -murmured, and lay still as if trying to think it out in the silence and -shadows of the room where only a night-light was burning. Then she had a -long shivering fit while holding tight the hand of Mrs. Fyne whose -patient immobility by the bedside of that brutally murdered childhood did -infinite honour to her humanity. That vigil must have been the more -trying because I could see very well that at no time did she think the -victim particularly charming or sympathetic. It was a manifestation of -pure compassion, of compassion in itself, so to speak, not many women -would have been capable of displaying with that unflinching steadiness. -The shivering fit over, the girl's next words in an outburst of sobs -were, "Oh! Mrs. Fyne, am I really such a horrid thing as she has made me -out to be?" - -"No, no!" protested Mrs. Fyne. "It is your former governess who is -horrid and odious. She is a vile woman. I cannot tell you that she was -mad but I think she must have been beside herself with rage and full of -evil thoughts. You must try not to think of these abominations, my dear -child." - -They were not fit for anyone to think of much, Mrs. Fyne commented to me -in a curt positive tone. All that had been very trying. The girl was -like a creature struggling under a net. - -"But how can I forget? she called my father a cheat and a swindler! Do -tell me Mrs. Fyne that it isn't true. It can't be true. How can it be -true?" - -She sat up in bed with a sudden wild motion as if to jump out and flee -away from the sound of the words which had just passed her own lips. Mrs. -Fyne restrained her, soothed her, induced her at last to lay her head on -her pillow again, assuring her all the time that nothing this woman had -had the cruelty to say deserved to be taken to heart. The girl, -exhausted, cried quietly for a time. It may be she had noticed something -evasive in Mrs. Fyne's assurances. After a while, without stirring, she -whispered brokenly: - -"That awful woman told me that all the world would call papa these awful -names. Is it possible? Is it possible?" - -Mrs. Fyne kept silent. - -"Do say something to me, Mrs. Fyne," the daughter of de Barral insisted -in the same feeble whisper. - -Again Mrs. Fyne assured me that it had been very trying. Terribly -trying. "Yes, thanks, I will." She leaned back in the chair with folded -arms while I poured another cup of tea for her, and Fyne went out to -pacify the dog which, tied up under the porch, had become suddenly very -indignant at somebody having the audacity to walk along the lane. Mrs. -Fyne stirred her tea for a long time, drank a little, put the cup down -and said with that air of accepting all the consequences: - -"Silence would have been unfair. I don't think it would have been kind -either. I told her that she must be prepared for the world passing a -very severe judgment on her father . . . " - -* * * * * - -"Wasn't it admirable," cried Marlow interrupting his narrative. -"Admirable!" And as I looked dubiously at this unexpected enthusiasm he -started justifying it after his own manner. - -"I say admirable because it was so characteristic. It was perfect. -Nothing short of genius could have found better. And this was nature! As -they say of an artist's work: this was a perfect Fyne. -Compassion--judiciousness--something correctly measured. None of your -dishevelled sentiment. And right! You must confess that nothing could -have been more right. I had a mind to shout "Brava! Brava!" but I did -not do that. I took a piece of cake and went out to bribe the Fyne dog -into some sort of self-control. His sharp comical yapping was -unbearable, like stabs through one's brain, and Fyne's deeply modulated -remonstrances abashed the vivacious animal no more than the deep, patient -murmur of the sea abashes a nigger minstrel on a popular beach. Fyne was -beginning to swear at him in low, sepulchral tones when I appeared. The -dog became at once wildly demonstrative, half strangling himself in his -collar, his eyes and tongue hanging out in the excess of his -incomprehensible affection for me. This was before he caught sight of -the cake in my hand. A series of vertical springs high up in the air -followed, and then, when he got the cake, he instantly lost his interest -in everything else. - -Fyne was slightly vexed with me. As kind a master as any dog could wish -to have, he yet did not approve of cake being given to dogs. The Fyne -dog was supposed to lead a Spartan existence on a diet of repulsive -biscuits with an occasional dry, hygienic, bone thrown in. Fyne looked -down gloomily at the appeased animal, I too looked at that fool-dog; and -(you know how one's memory gets suddenly stimulated) I was reminded -visually, with an almost painful distinctness, of the ghostly white face -of the girl I saw last accompanied by that dog--deserted by that dog. I -almost heard her distressed voice as if on the verge of resentful tears -calling to the dog, the unsympathetic dog. Perhaps she had not the power -of evoking sympathy, that personal gift of direct appeal to the feelings. -I said to Fyne, mistrusting the supine attitude of the dog: - -"Why don't you let him come inside?" - -Oh dear no! He couldn't think of it! I might indeed have saved my -breath, I knew it was one of the Fynes' rules of life, part of their -solemnity and responsibility, one of those things that were part of their -unassertive but ever present superiority, that their dog must not be -allowed in. It was most improper to intrude the dog into the houses of -the people they were calling on--if it were only a careless bachelor in -farmhouse lodgings and a personal friend of the dog. It was out of the -question. But they would let him bark one's sanity away outside one's -window. They were strangely consistent in their lack of imaginative -sympathy. I didn't insist but simply led the way back to the parlour, -hoping that no wayfarer would happen along the lane for the next hour or -so to disturb the dog's composure. - -Mrs. Fyne seated immovable before the table charged with plates, cups, -jugs, a cold teapot, crumbs, and the general litter of the entertainment -turned her head towards us. - -"You see, Mr. Marlow," she said in an unexpectedly confidential tone: -"they are so utterly unsuited for each other." - -At the moment I did not know how to apply this remark. I thought at -first of Fyne and the dog. Then I adjusted it to the matter in hand -which was neither more nor less than an elopement. Yes, by Jove! It was -something very much like an elopement--with certain unusual -characteristics of its own which made it in a sense equivocal. With -amused wonder I remembered that my sagacity was requisitioned in such a -connection. How unexpected! But we never know what tests our gifts may -be put to. Sagacity dictated caution first of all. I believe caution to -be the first duty of sagacity. Fyne sat down as if preparing himself to -witness a joust, I thought. - -"Do you think so, Mrs. Fyne?" I said sagaciously. "Of course you are in -a position . . . " I was continuing with caution when she struck out -vivaciously for immediate assent. - -"Obviously! Clearly! You yourself must admit . . . " - -"But, Mrs. Fyne," I remonstrated, "you forget that I don't know your -brother." - -This argument which was not only sagacious but true, overwhelmingly true, -unanswerably true, seemed to surprise her. - -I wondered why. I did not know enough of her brother for the remotest -guess at what he might be like. I had never set eyes on the man. I -didn't know him so completely that by contrast I seemed to have known -Miss de Barral--whom I had seen twice (altogether about sixty minutes) -and with whom I had exchanged about sixty words--from the cradle so to -speak. And perhaps, I thought, looking down at Mrs. Fyne (I had remained -standing) perhaps she thinks that this ought to be enough for a sagacious -assent. - -She kept silent; and I looking at her with polite expectation, went on -addressing her mentally in a mood of familiar approval which would have -astonished her had it been audible: You my dear at any rate are a sincere -woman . . . " - -"I call a woman sincere," Marlow began again after giving me a cigar and -lighting one himself, "I call a woman sincere when she volunteers a -statement resembling remotely in form what she really would like to say, -what she really thinks ought to be said if it were not for the necessity -to spare the stupid sensitiveness of men. The women's rougher, simpler, -more upright judgment, embraces the whole truth, which their tact, their -mistrust of masculine idealism, ever prevents them from speaking in its -entirety. And their tact is unerring. We could not stand women speaking -the truth. We could not bear it. It would cause infinite misery and -bring about most awful disturbances in this rather mediocre, but still -idealistic fool's paradise in which each of us lives his own little -life--the unit in the great sum of existence. And they know it. They -are merciful. This generalization does not apply exactly to Mrs. Fyne's -outburst of sincerity in a matter in which neither my affections nor my -vanity were engaged. That's why, may be, she ventured so far. For a -woman she chose to be as open as the day with me. There was not only the -form but almost the whole substance of her thought in what she said. She -believed she could risk it. She had reasoned somewhat in this way; -there's a man, possessing a certain amount of sagacity . . . " - -Marlow paused with a whimsical look at me. The last few words he had -spoken with the cigar in his teeth. He took it out now by an ample -movement of his arm and blew a thin cloud. - -"You smile? It would have been more kind to spare my blushes. But as a -matter of fact I need not blush. This is not vanity; it is analysis. -We'll let sagacity stand. But we must also note what sagacity in this -connection stands for. When you see this you shall see also that there -was nothing in it to alarm my modesty. I don't think Mrs. Fyne credited -me with the possession of wisdom tempered by common sense. And had I had -the wisdom of the Seven Sages of Antiquity, she would not have been moved -to confidence or admiration. The secret scorn of women for the capacity -to consider judiciously and to express profoundly a meditated conclusion -is unbounded. They have no use for these lofty exercises which they look -upon as a sort of purely masculine game--game meaning a respectable -occupation devised to kill time in this man-arranged life which must be -got through somehow. What women's acuteness really respects are the -inept "ideas" and the sheeplike impulses by which our actions and -opinions are determined in matters of real importance. For if women are -not rational they are indeed acute. Even Mrs. Fyne was acute. The good -woman was making up to her husband's chess-player simply because she had -scented in him that small portion of 'femininity,' that drop of superior -essence of which I am myself aware; which, I gratefully acknowledge, has -saved me from one or two misadventures in my life either ridiculous or -lamentable, I am not very certain which. It matters very little. Anyhow -misadventures. Observe that I say 'femininity,' a privilege--not -'feminism,' an attitude. I am not a feminist. It was Fyne who on -certain solemn grounds had adopted that mental attitude; but it was -enough to glance at him sitting on one side, to see that he was purely -masculine to his finger-tips, masculine solidly, densely, -amusingly,--hopelessly. - -I did glance at him. You don't get your sagacity recognized by a man's -wife without feeling the propriety and even the need to glance at the man -now and again. So I glanced at him. Very masculine. So much so that -"hopelessly" was not the last word of it. He was helpless. He was bound -and delivered by it. And if by the obscure promptings of my composite -temperament I beheld him with malicious amusement, yet being in fact, by -definition and especially from profound conviction, a man, I could not -help sympathizing with him largely. Seeing him thus disarmed, so -completely captive by the very nature of things I was moved to speak to -him kindly. - -"Well. And what do you think of it?" - -"I don't know. How's one to tell? But I say that the thing is done now -and there's an end of it," said the masculine creature as bluntly as his -innate solemnity permitted. - -Mrs. Fyne moved a little in her chair. I turned to her and remarked -gently that this was a charge, a criticism, which was often made. Some -people always ask: What could he see in her? Others wonder what she -could have seen in him? Expressions of unsuitability. - -She said with all the emphasis of her quietly folded arms: - -"I know perfectly well what Flora has seen in my brother." - -I bowed my head to the gust but pursued my point. - -"And then the marriage in most cases turns out no worse than the average, -to say the least of it." - -Mrs. Fyne was disappointed by the optimistic turn of my sagacity. She -rested her eyes on my face as though in doubt whether I had enough -femininity in my composition to understand the case. - -I waited for her to speak. She seemed to be asking herself; Is it after -all, worth while to talk to that man? You understand how provoking this -was. I looked in my mind for something appallingly stupid to say, with -the object of distressing and teasing Mrs. Fyne. It is humiliating to -confess a failure. One would think that a man of average intelligence -could command stupidity at will. But it isn't so. I suppose it's a -special gift or else the difficulty consists in being relevant. -Discovering that I could find no really telling stupidity, I turned to -the next best thing; a platitude. I advanced, in a common-sense tone, -that, surely, in the matter of marriage a man had only himself to please. - -Mrs. Fyne received this without the flutter of an eyelid. Fyne's -masculine breast, as might have been expected, was pierced by that old, -regulation shaft. He grunted most feelingly. I turned to him with false -simplicity. "Don't you agree with me?" - -"The very thing I've been telling my wife," he exclaimed in his extra- -manly bass. "We have been discussing--" - -A discussion in the Fyne menage! How portentous! Perhaps the very first -difference they had ever had: Mrs. Fyne unflinching and ready for any -responsibility, Fyne solemn and shrinking--the children in bed upstairs; -and outside the dark fields, the shadowy contours of the land on the -starry background of the universe, with the crude light of the open -window like a beacon for the truant who would never come back now; a -truant no longer but a downright fugitive. Yet a fugitive carrying off -spoils. It was the flight of a raider--or a traitor? This affair of the -purloined brother, as I had named it to myself, had a very puzzling -physiognomy. The girl must have been desperate, I thought, hearing the -grave voice of Fyne well enough but catching the sense of his words not -at all, except the very last words which were: - -"Of course, it's extremely distressing." - -I looked at him inquisitively. What was distressing him? The purloining -of the son of the poet-tyrant by the daughter of the financier-convict. -Or only, if I may say so, the wind of their flight disturbing the solemn -placidity of the Fynes' domestic atmosphere. My incertitude did not last -long, for he added: - -"Mrs. Fyne urges me to go to London at once." - -One could guess at, almost see, his profound distaste for the journey, -his distress at a difference of feeling with his wife. With his serious -view of the sublunary comedy Fyne suffered from not being able to agree -solemnly with her sentiment as he was accustomed to do, in recognition of -having had his way in one supreme instance; when he made her elope with -him--the most momentous step imaginable in a young lady's life. He had -been really trying to acknowledge it by taking the rightness of her -feeling for granted on every other occasion. It had become a sort of -habit at last. And it is never pleasant to break a habit. The man was -deeply troubled. I said: "Really! To go to London!" - -He looked dumbly into my eyes. It was pathetic and funny. "And you of -course feel it would be useless," I pursued. - -He evidently felt that, though he said nothing. He only went on blinking -at me with a solemn and comical slowness. "Unless it be to carry there -the family's blessing," I went on, indulging my chaffing humour steadily, -in a rather sneaking fashion, for I dared not look at Mrs. Fyne, to my -right. No sound or movement came from that direction. "You think very -naturally that to match mere good, sound reasons, against the passionate -conclusions of love is a waste of intellect bordering on the absurd." - -He looked surprised as if I had discovered something very clever. He, -dear man, had thought of nothing at all. - -He simply knew that he did not want to go to London on that mission. Mere -masculine delicacy. In a moment he became enthusiastic. - -"Yes! Yes! Exactly. A man in love . . . You hear, my dear? Here you -have an independent opinion--" - -"Can anything be more hopeless," I insisted to the fascinated little -Fyne, "than to pit reason against love. I must confess however that in -this case when I think of that poor girl's sharp chin I wonder if . . . " - -My levity was too much for Mrs. Fyne. Still leaning back in her chair -she exclaimed: - -"Mr. Marlow!" - -* * * * * - -As if mysteriously affected by her indignation the absurd Fyne dog began -to bark in the porch. It might have been at a trespassing bumble-bee -however. That animal was capable of any eccentricity. Fyne got up -quickly and went out to him. I think he was glad to leave us alone to -discuss that matter of his journey to London. A sort of anti-sentimental -journey. He, too, apparently, had confidence in my sagacity. It was -touching, this confidence. It was at any rate more genuine than the -confidence his wife pretended to have in her husband's chess-player, of -three successive holidays. Confidence be hanged! Sagacity--indeed! She -had simply marched in without a shadow of misgiving to make me back her -up. But she had delivered herself into my hands . . . " - -Interrupting his narrative Marlow addressed me in his tone between grim -jest and grim earnest: - -"Perhaps you didn't know that my character is upon the whole rather -vindictive." - -"No, I didn't know," I said with a grin. "That's rather unusual for a -sailor. They always seemed to me the least vindictive body of men in the -world." - -"H'm! Simple souls," Marlow muttered moodily. "Want of opportunity. The -world leaves them alone for the most part. For myself it's towards women -that I feel vindictive mostly, in my small way. I admit that it is -small. But then the occasions in themselves are not great. Mainly I -resent that pretence of winding us round their dear little fingers, as of -right. Not that the result ever amounts to much generally. There are so -very few momentous opportunities. It is the assumption that each of us -is a combination of a kid and an imbecile which I find provoking--in a -small way; in a very small way. You needn't stare as though I were -breathing fire and smoke out of my nostrils. I am not a women-devouring -monster. I am not even what is technically called "a brute." I hope -there's enough of a kid and an imbecile in me to answer the requirements -of some really good woman eventually--some day . . . Some day. Why do -you gasp? You don't suppose I should be afraid of getting married? That -supposition would be offensive . . . " - -"I wouldn't dream of offending you," I said. - -"Very well. But meantime please remember that I was not married to Mrs. -Fyne. That lady's little finger was none of my legal property. I had -not run off with it. It was Fyne who had done that thing. Let him be -wound round as much as his backbone could stand--or even more, for all I -cared. His rushing away from the discussion on the transparent pretence -of quieting the dog confirmed my notion of there being a considerable -strain on his elasticity. I confronted Mrs. Fyne resolved not to assist -her in her eminently feminine occupation of thrusting a stick in the -spokes of another woman's wheel. - -She tried to preserve her calm-eyed superiority. She was familiar and -olympian, fenced in by the tea-table, that excellent symbol of domestic -life in its lighter hour and its perfect security. In a few severely -unadorned words she gave me to understand that she had ventured to hope -for some really helpful suggestion from me. To this almost chiding -declaration--because my vindictiveness seldom goes further than a bit of -teasing--I said that I was really doing my best. And being a -physiognomist . . . " - -"Being what?" she interrupted me. - -"A physiognomist," I repeated raising my voice a little. "A -physiognomist, Mrs. Fyne. And on the principles of that science a -pointed little chin is a sufficient ground for interference. You want to -interfere--do you not?" - -Her eyes grew distinctly bigger. She had never been bantered before in -her life. The late subtle poet's method of making himself unpleasant was -merely savage and abusive. Fyne had been always solemnly subservient. -What other men she knew I cannot tell but I assume they must have been -gentlemanly creatures. The girl-friends sat at her feet. How could she -recognize my intention. She didn't know what to make of my tone. - -"Are you serious in what you say?" she asked slowly. And it was -touching. It was as if a very young, confiding girl had spoken. I felt -myself relenting. - -"No. I am not, Mrs. Fyne," I said. "I didn't know I was expected to be -serious as well as sagacious. No. That science is farcical and -therefore I am not serious. It's true that most sciences are farcical -except those which teach us how to put things together." - -"The question is how to keep these two people apart," she struck in. She -had recovered. I admired the quickness of women's wit. Mental agility -is a rare perfection. And aren't they agile! Aren't they--just! And -tenacious! When they once get hold you may uproot the tree but you won't -shake them off the branch. In fact the more you shake . . . But only -look at the charm of contradictory perfections! No wonder men give -in--generally. I won't say I was actually charmed by Mrs. Fyne. I was -not delighted with her. What affected me was not what she displayed but -something which she could not conceal. And that was emotion--nothing -less. The form of her declaration was dry, almost peremptory--but not -its tone. Her voice faltered just the least bit, she smiled faintly; and -as we were looking straight at each other I observed that her eyes were -glistening in a peculiar manner. She was distressed. And indeed that -Mrs. Fyne should have appealed to me at all was in itself the evidence of -her profound distress. "By Jove she's desperate too," I thought. This -discovery was followed by a movement of instinctive shrinking from this -unreasonable and unmasculine affair. They were all alike, with their -supreme interest aroused only by fighting with each other about some man: -a lover, a son, a brother. - -"But do you think there's time yet to do anything?" I asked. - -She had an impatient movement of her shoulders without detaching herself -from the back of the chair. Time! Of course? It was less than forty- -eight hours since she had followed him to London . . . I am no great -clerk at those matters but I murmured vaguely an allusion to special -licences. We couldn't tell what might have happened to-day already. But -she knew better, scornfully. Nothing had happened. - -"Nothing's likely to happen before next Friday week,--if then." - -This was wonderfully precise. Then after a pause she added that she -should never forgive herself if some effort were not made, an appeal. - -"To your brother?" I asked. - -"Yes. John ought to go to-morrow. Nine o'clock train." - -"So early as that!" I said. But I could not find it in my heart to -pursue this discussion in a jocular tone. I submitted to her several -obvious arguments, dictated apparently by common sense but in reality by -my secret compassion. Mrs. Fyne brushed them aside, with the -semi-conscious egoism of all safe, established, existences. They had -known each other so little. Just three weeks. And of that time, too -short for the birth of any serious sentiment, the first week had to be -deducted. They would hardly look at each other to begin with. Flora -barely consented to acknowledge Captain Anthony's presence. Good -morning--good night--that was all--absolutely the whole extent of their -intercourse. Captain Anthony was a silent man, completely unused to the -society of girls of any sort and so shy in fact that he avoided raising -his eyes to her face at the table. It was perfectly absurd. It was even -inconvenient, embarrassing to her--Mrs. Fyne. After breakfast Flora -would go off by herself for a long walk and Captain Anthony (Mrs. Fyne -referred to him at times also as Roderick) joined the children. But he -was actually too shy to get on terms with his own nieces. - -This would have sounded pathetic if I hadn't known the Fyne children who -were at the same time solemn and malicious, and nursed a secret contempt -for all the world. No one could get on terms with those fresh and comely -young monsters! They just tolerated their parents and seemed to have a -sort of mocking understanding among themselves against all outsiders, yet -with no visible affection for each other. They had the habit of -exchanging derisive glances which to a shy man must have been very -trying. They thought their uncle no doubt a bore and perhaps an ass. - -I was not surprised to hear that very soon Anthony formed the habit of -crossing the two neighbouring fields to seek the shade of a clump of elms -at a good distance from the cottage. He lay on the grass and smoked his -pipe all the morning. Mrs. Fyne wondered at her brother's indolent -habits. He had asked for books it is true but there were but few in the -cottage. He read them through in three days and then continued to lie -contentedly on his back with no other companion but his pipe. Amazing -indolence! The live-long morning, Mrs. Fyne, busy writing upstairs in -the cottage, could see him out of the window. She had a very long sight, -and these elms were grouped on a rise of the ground. His indolence was -plainly exposed to her criticism on a gentle green slope. Mrs. Fyne -wondered at it; she was disgusted too. But having just then 'commenced -author,' as you know, she could not tear herself away from the -fascinating novelty. She let him wallow in his vice. I imagine Captain -Anthony must have had a rather pleasant time in a quiet way. It was, I -remember, a hot dry summer, favourable to contemplative life out of -doors. And Mrs. Fyne was scandalized. Women don't understand the force -of a contemplative temperament. It simply shocks them. They feel -instinctively that it is the one which escapes best the domination of -feminine influences. The dear girls were exchanging jeering remarks -about "lazy uncle Roderick" openly, in her indulgent hearing. And it was -so strange, she told me, because as a boy he was anything but indolent. -On the contrary. Always active. - -I remarked that a man of thirty-five was no longer a boy. It was an -obvious remark but she received it without favour. She told me -positively that the best, the nicest men remained boys all their lives. -She was disappointed not to be able to detect anything boyish in her -brother. Very, very sorry. She had not seen him for fifteen years or -thereabouts, except on three or four occasions for a few hours at a time. -No. Not a trace of the boy, he used to be, left in him. - -She fell silent for a moment and I mused idly on the boyhood of little -Fyne. I could not imagine what it might have been like. His dominant -trait was clearly the remnant of still earlier days, because I've never -seen such staring solemnity as Fyne's except in a very young baby. But -where was he all that time? Didn't he suffer contamination from the -indolence of Captain Anthony, I inquired. I was told that Mr. Fyne was -very little at the cottage at the time. Some colleague of his was -convalescing after a severe illness in a little seaside village in the -neighbourhood and Fyne went off every morning by train to spend the day -with the elderly invalid who had no one to look after him. It was a very -praiseworthy excuse for neglecting his brother-in-law "the son of the -poet, you know," with whom he had nothing in common even in the remotest -degree. If Captain Anthony (Roderick) had been a pedestrian it would -have been sufficient; but he was not. Still, in the afternoon, he went -sometimes for a slow casual stroll, by himself of course, the children -having definitely cold-shouldered him, and his only sister being busy -with that inflammatory book which was to blaze upon the world a year or -more afterwards. It seems however that she was capable of detaching her -eyes from her task now and then, if only for a moment, because it was -from that garret fitted out for a study that one afternoon she observed -her brother and Flora de Barral coming down the road side by side. They -had met somewhere accidentally (which of them crossed the other's path, -as the saying is, I don't know), and were returning to tea together. She -noticed that they appeared to be conversing without constraint. - -"I had the simplicity to be pleased," Mrs. Fyne commented with a dry -little laugh. "Pleased for both their sakes." Captain Anthony shook off -his indolence from that day forth, and accompanied Miss Flora frequently -on her morning walks. Mrs. Fyne remained pleased. She could now forget -them comfortably and give herself up to the delights of audacious thought -and literary composition. Only a week before the blow fell she, -happening to raise her eyes from the paper, saw two figures seated on the -grass under the shade of the elms. She could make out the white blouse. -There could be no mistake. - -"I suppose they imagined themselves concealed by the hedge. They forgot -no doubt I was working in the garret," she said bitterly. "Or perhaps -they didn't care. They were right. I am rather a simple person . . . " -She laughed again . . . "I was incapable of suspecting such duplicity." - -"Duplicity is a strong word, Mrs. Fyne--isn't it?" I expostulated. "And -considering that Captain Anthony himself . . . " - -"Oh well--perhaps," she interrupted me. Her eyes which never strayed -away from mine, her set features, her whole immovable figure, how well I -knew those appearances of a person who has "made up her mind." A very -hopeless condition that, specially in women. I mistrusted her concession -so easily, so stonily made. She reflected a moment. "Yes. I ought to -have said--ingratitude, perhaps." - -After having thus disengaged her brother and pushed the poor girl a -little further off as it were--isn't women's cleverness perfectly -diabolic when they are really put on their mettle?--after having done -these things and also made me feel that I was no match for her, she went -on scrupulously: "One doesn't like to use that word either. The claim is -very small. It's so little one could do for her. Still . . . " - -"I dare say," I exclaimed, throwing diplomacy to the winds. "But really, -Mrs. Fyne, it's impossible to dismiss your brother like this out of the -business . . . " - -"She threw herself at his head," Mrs. Fyne uttered firmly. - -"He had no business to put his head in the way, then," I retorted with an -angry laugh. I didn't restrain myself because her fixed stare seemed to -express the purpose to daunt me. I was not afraid of her, but it -occurred to me that I was within an ace of drifting into a downright -quarrel with a lady and, besides, my guest. There was the cold teapot, -the emptied cups, emblems of hospitality. It could not be. I cut short -my angry laugh while Mrs. Fyne murmured with a slight movement of her -shoulders, "He! Poor man! Oh come . . . " - -By a great effort of will I found myself able to smile amiably, to speak -with proper softness. - -"My dear Mrs. Fyne, you forget that I don't know him--not even by sight. -It's difficult to imagine a victim as passive as all that; but granting -you the (I very nearly said: imbecility, but checked myself in time) -innocence of Captain Anthony, don't you think now, frankly, that there is -a little of your own fault in what has happened. You bring them -together, you leave your brother to himself!" - -She sat up and leaning her elbow on the table sustained her head in her -open palm casting down her eyes. Compunction? It was indeed a very off- -hand way of treating a brother come to stay for the first time in fifteen -years. I suppose she discovered very soon that she had nothing in common -with that sailor, that stranger, fashioned and marked by the sea of long -voyages. In her strong-minded way she had scorned pretences, had gone to -her writing which interested her immensely. A very praiseworthy thing -your sincere conduct,--if it didn't at times resemble brutality so much. -But I don't think it was compunction. That sentiment is rare in women -. . . " - -"Is it?" I interrupted indignantly. - -"You know more women than I do," retorted the unabashed Marlow. "You -make it your business to know them--don't you? You go about a lot -amongst all sorts of people. You are a tolerably honest observer. Well, -just try to remember how many instances of compunction you have seen. I -am ready to take your bare word for it. Compunction! Have you ever seen -as much as its shadow? Have you ever? Just a shadow--a passing shadow! -I tell you it is so rare that you may call it non-existent. They are too -passionate. Too pedantic. Too courageous with themselves--perhaps. No -I don't think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne felt the slightest compunction -at her treatment of her sea-going brother. What _he_ thought of it who -can tell? It is possible that he wondered why he had been so insistently -urged to come. It is possible that he wondered bitterly--or -contemptuously--or humbly. And it may be that he was only surprised and -bored. Had he been as sincere in his conduct as his only sister he would -have probably taken himself off at the end of the second day. But -perhaps he was afraid of appearing brutal. I am not far removed from the -conviction that between the sincerities of his sister and of his dear -nieces, Captain Anthony of the _Ferndale_ must have had his loneliness -brought home to his bosom for the first time of his life, at an age, -thirty-five or thereabouts, when one is mature enough to feel the pang of -such a discovery. Angry or simply sad but certainly disillusioned he -wanders about and meets the girl one afternoon and under the sway of a -strong feeling forgets his shyness. This is no supposition. It is a -fact. There was such a meeting in which the shyness must have perished -before we don't know what encouragement, or in the community of mood made -apparent by some casual word. You remember that Mrs. Fyne saw them one -afternoon coming back to the cottage together. Don't you think that I -have hit on the psychology of the situation? . . . " - -"Doubtless . . . " I began to ponder. - -"I was very certain of my conclusions at the time," Marlow went on -impatiently. "But don't think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne in her new -attitude and toying thoughtfully with a teaspoon was about to surrender. -She murmured: - -"It's the last thing I should have thought could happen." - -"You didn't suppose they were romantic enough," I suggested dryly. - -She let it pass and with great decision but as if speaking to herself, - -"Roderick really must be warned." - -She didn't give me the time to ask of what precisely. She raised her -head and addressed me. - -"I am surprised and grieved more than I can tell you at Mr. Fyne's -resistance. We have been always completely at one on every question. And -that we should differ now on a point touching my brother so closely is a -most painful surprise to me." Her hand rattled the teaspoon brusquely by -an involuntary movement. "It is intolerable," she added -tempestuously--for Mrs. Fyne that is. I suppose she had nerves of her -own like any other woman. - -Under the porch where Fyne had sought refuge with the dog there was -silence. I took it for a proof of deep sagacity. I don't mean on the -part of the dog. He was a confirmed fool. - -I said: - -"You want absolutely to interfere . . . ?" Mrs. Fyne nodded just -perceptibly . . . "Well--for my part . . . but I don't really know how -matters stand at the present time. You have had a letter from Miss de -Barral. What does that letter say?" - -"She asks for her valise to be sent to her town address," Mrs. Fyne -uttered reluctantly and stopped. I waited a bit--then exploded. - -"Well! What's the matter? Where's the difficulty? Does your husband -object to that? You don't mean to say that he wants you to appropriate -the girl's clothes?" - -"Mr. Marlow!" - -"Well, but you talk of a painful difference of opinion with your husband, -and then, when I ask for information on the point, you bring out a -valise. And only a few moments ago you reproached me for not being -serious. I wonder who is the serious person of us two now." - -She smiled faintly and in a friendly tone, from which I concluded at once -that she did not mean to show me the girl's letter, she said that -undoubtedly the letter disclosed an understanding between Captain Anthony -and Flora de Barral. - -"What understanding?" I pressed her. "An engagement is an -understanding." - -"There is no engagement--not yet," she said decisively. "That letter, -Mr. Marlow, is couched in very vague terms. That is why--" - -I interrupted her without ceremony. - -"You still hope to interfere to some purpose. Isn't it so? Yes? But -how should you have liked it if anybody had tried to interfere between -you and Mr. Fyne at the time when your understanding with each other -could still have been described in vague terms?" - -She had a genuine movement of astonished indignation. It is with the -accent of perfect sincerity that she cried out at me: - -"But it isn't at all the same thing! How can you!" - -Indeed how could I! The daughter of a poet and the daughter of a convict -are not comparable in the consequences of their conduct if their -necessity may wear at times a similar aspect. Amongst these consequences -I could perceive undesirable cousins for these dear healthy girls, and -such like, possible causes of embarrassment in the future. - -"No! You can't be serious," Mrs. Fyne's smouldering resentment broke out -again. "You haven't thought--" - -"Oh yes, Mrs. Fyne! I have thought. I am still thinking. I am even -trying to think like you." - -"Mr. Marlow," she said earnestly. "Believe me that I really am thinking -of my brother in all this . . . " I assured her that I quite believed -she was. For there is no law of nature making it impossible to think of -more than one person at a time. Then I said: - -"She has told him all about herself of course." - -"All about her life," assented Mrs. Fyne with an air, however, of making -some mental reservation which I did not pause to investigate. "Her -life!" I repeated. "That girl must have had a mighty bad time of it." - -"Horrible," Mrs. Fyne admitted with a ready frankness very creditable -under the circumstances, and a warmth of tone which made me look at her -with a friendly eye. "Horrible! No! You can't imagine the sort of -vulgar people she became dependent on . . . You know her father never -attempted to see her while he was still at large. After his arrest he -instructed that relative of his--the odious person who took her away from -Brighton--not to let his daughter come to the court during the trial. He -refused to hold any communication with her whatever." - -I remembered what Mrs. Fyne had told me before of the view she had years -ago of de Barral clinging to the child at the side of his wife's grave -and later on of these two walking hand in hand the observed of all eyes -by the sea. Pictures from Dickens--pregnant with pathos. - - - -CHAPTER SIX--FLORA - - -"A very singular prohibition," remarked Mrs. Fyne after a short silence. -"He seemed to love the child." - -She was puzzled. But I surmised that it might have been the sullenness -of a man unconscious of guilt and standing at bay to fight his -"persecutors," as he called them; or else the fear of a softer emotion -weakening his defiant attitude; perhaps, even, it was a self-denying -ordinance, in order to spare the girl the sight of her father in the -dock, accused of cheating, sentenced as a swindler--proving the -possession of a certain moral delicacy. - -Mrs. Fyne didn't know what to think. She supposed it might have been -mere callousness. But the people amongst whom the girl had fallen had -positively not a grain of moral delicacy. Of that she was certain. Mrs. -Fyne could not undertake to give me an idea of their abominable -vulgarity. Flora used to tell her something of her life in that -household, over there, down Limehouse way. It was incredible. It passed -Mrs. Fyne's comprehension. It was a sort of moral savagery which she -could not have thought possible. - -I, on the contrary, thought it very possible. I could imagine easily how -the poor girl must have been bewildered and hurt at her reception in that -household--envied for her past while delivered defenceless to the tender -mercies of people without any fineness either of feeling or mind, unable -to understand her misery, grossly curious, mistaking her manner for -disdain, her silent shrinking for pride. The wife of the "odious person" -was witless and fatuously conceited. Of the two girls of the house one -was pious and the other a romp; both were coarse-minded--if they may be -credited with any mind at all. The rather numerous men of the family -were dense and grumpy, or dense and jocose. None in that grubbing lot -had enough humanity to leave her alone. At first she was made much of, -in an offensively patronising manner. The connection with the great de -Barral gratified their vanity even in the moment of the smash. They -dragged her to their place of worship, whatever it might have been, where -the congregation stared at her, and they gave parties to other beings -like themselves at which they exhibited her with ignoble -self-satisfaction. She did not know how to defend herself from their -importunities, insolence and exigencies. She lived amongst them, a -passive victim, quivering in every nerve, as if she were flayed. After -the trial her position became still worse. On the least occasion and -even on no occasions at all she was scolded, or else taunted with her -dependence. The pious girl lectured her on her defects, the romping girl -teased her with contemptuous references to her accomplishments, and was -always trying to pick insensate quarrels with her about some "fellow" or -other. The mother backed up her girls invariably, adding her own silly, -wounding remarks. I must say they were probably not aware of the -ugliness of their conduct. They were nasty amongst themselves as a -matter of course; their disputes were nauseating in origin, in manner, in -the spirit of mean selfishness. These women, too, seemed to enjoy -greatly any sort of row and were always ready to combine together to make -awful scenes to the luckless girl on incredibly flimsy pretences. Thus -Flora on one occasion had been reduced to rage and despair, had her most -secret feelings lacerated, had obtained a view of the utmost baseness to -which common human nature can descend--I won't say _a propos de bottes_ -as the French would excellently put it, but literally _a propos_ of some -mislaid cheap lace trimmings for a nightgown the romping one was making -for herself. Yes, that was the origin of one of the grossest scenes -which, in their repetition, must have had a deplorable effect on the -unformed character of the most pitiful of de Barral's victims. I have it -from Mrs. Fyne. The girl turned up at the Fynes' house at half-past nine -on a cold, drizzly evening. She had walked bareheaded, I believe, just -as she ran out of the house, from somewhere in Poplar to the -neighbourhood of Sloane Square--without stopping, without drawing breath, -if only for a sob. - -"We were having some people to dinner," said the anxious sister of -Captain Anthony. - -She had heard the front door bell and wondered what it might mean. The -parlourmaid managed to whisper to her without attracting attention. The -servants had been frightened by the invasion of that wild girl in a muddy -skirt and with wisps of damp hair sticking to her pale cheeks. But they -had seen her before. This was not the first occasion, nor yet the last. - -Directly she could slip away from her guests Mrs. Fyne ran upstairs. - -"I found her in the night nursery crouching on the floor, her head -resting on the cot of the youngest of my girls. The eldest was sitting -up in bed looking at her across the room." - -Only a nightlight was burning there. Mrs. Fyne raised her up, took her -over to Mr. Fyne's little dressing-room on the other side of the landing, -to a fire by which she could dry herself, and left her there. She had to -go back to her guests. - -A most disagreeable surprise it must have been to the Fynes. Afterwards -they both went up and interviewed the girl. She jumped up at their -entrance. She had shaken her damp hair loose; her eyes were dry--with -the heat of rage. - -I can imagine little Fyne solemnly sympathetic, solemnly listening, -solemnly retreating to the marital bedroom. Mrs. Fyne pacified the girl, -and, fortunately, there was a bed which could be made up for her in the -dressing-room. - -"But--what could one do after all!" concluded Mrs. Fyne. - -And this stereotyped exclamation, expressing the difficulty of the -problem and the readiness (at any rate) of good intentions, made me, as -usual, feel more kindly towards her. - -Next morning, very early, long before Fyne had to start for his office, -the "odious personage" turned up, not exactly unexpected perhaps, but -startling all the same, if only by the promptness of his action. From -what Flora herself related to Mrs. Fyne, it seems that without being very -perceptibly less "odious" than his family he had in a rather mysterious -fashion interposed his authority for the protection of the girl. "Not -that he cares," explained Flora. "I am sure he does not. I could not -stand being liked by any of these people. If I thought he liked me I -would drown myself rather than go back with him." - -For of course he had come to take "Florrie" home. The scene was the -dining-room--breakfast interrupted, dishes growing cold, little Fyne's -toast growing leathery, Fyne out of his chair with his back to the fire, -the newspaper on the carpet, servants shut out, Mrs. Fyne rigid in her -place with the girl sitting beside her--the "odious person," who had -bustled in with hardly a greeting, looking from Fyne to Mrs. Fyne as -though he were inwardly amused at something he knew of them; and then -beginning ironically his discourse. He did not apologize for disturbing -Fyne and his "good lady" at breakfast, because he knew they did not want -(with a nod at the girl) to have more of her than could be helped. He -came the first possible moment because he had his business to attend to. -He wasn't drawing a tip-top salary (this staring at Fyne) in a -luxuriously furnished office. Not he. He had risen to be an employer of -labour and was bound to give a good example. - -I believe the fellow was aware of, and enjoyed quietly, the consternation -his presence brought to the bosom of Mr. and Mrs. Fyne. He turned -briskly to the girl. Mrs. Fyne confessed to me that they had remained -all three silent and inanimate. He turned to the girl: "What's this -game, Florrie? You had better give it up. If you expect me to run all -over London looking for you every time you happen to have a tiff with -your auntie and cousins you are mistaken. I can't afford it." - -Tiff--was the sort of definition to take one's breath away, having regard -to the fact that both the word convict and the word pauper had been used -a moment before Flora de Barral ran away from the quarrel about the lace -trimmings. Yes, these very words! So at least the girl had told Mrs. -Fyne the evening before. The word tiff in connection with her tale had a -peculiar savour, a paralysing effect. Nobody made a sound. The relative -of de Barral proceeded uninterrupted to a display of magnanimity. "Auntie -told me to tell you she's sorry--there! And Amelia (the romping sister) -shan't worry you again. I'll see to that. You ought to be satisfied. -Remember your position." - -Emboldened by the utter stillness pervading the room he addressed himself -to Mrs. Fyne with stolid effrontery: - -"What I say is that people should be good-natured. She can't stand being -chaffed. She puts on her grand airs. She won't take a bit of a joke -from people as good as herself anyway. We are a plain lot. We don't -like it. And that's how trouble begins." - -Insensible to the stony stare of three pairs of eyes, which, if the -stories of our childhood as to the power of the human eye are true, ought -to have been enough to daunt a tiger, that unabashed manufacturer from -the East End fastened his fangs, figuratively speaking, into the poor -girl and prepared to drag her away for a prey to his cubs of both sexes. -"Auntie has thought of sending you your hat and coat. I've got them -outside in the cab." - -Mrs. Fyne looked mechanically out of the window. A four-wheeler stood -before the gate under the weeping sky. The driver in his conical cape -and tarpaulin hat, streamed with water. The drooping horse looked as -though it had been fished out, half unconscious, from a pond. Mrs. Fyne -found some relief in looking at that miserable sight, away from the room -in which the voice of the amiable visitor resounded with a vulgar -intonation exhorting the strayed sheep to return to the delightful fold. -"Come, Florrie, make a move. I can't wait on you all day here." - -Mrs. Fyne heard all this without turning her head away from the window. -Fyne on the hearthrug had to listen and to look on too. I shall not try -to form a surmise as to the real nature of the suspense. Their very -goodness must have made it very anxious. The girl's hands were lying in -her lap; her head was lowered as if in deep thought; and the other went -on delivering a sort of homily. Ingratitude was condemned in it, the -sinfulness of pride was pointed out--together with the proverbial fact -that it "goes before a fall." There were also some sound remarks as to -the danger of nonsensical notions and the disadvantages of a quick -temper. It sets one's best friends against one. "And if anybody ever -wanted friends in the world it's you, my girl." Even respect for -parental authority was invoked. "In the first hour of his trouble your -father wrote to me to take care of you--don't forget it. Yes, to me, -just a plain man, rather than to any of his fine West-End friends. You -can't get over that. And a father's a father no matter what a mess he's -got himself into. You ain't going to throw over your own father--are -you?" - -It was difficult to say whether he was more absurd than cruel or more -cruel than absurd. Mrs. Fyne, with the fine ear of a woman, seemed to -detect a jeering intention in his meanly unctuous tone, something more -vile than mere cruelty. She glanced quickly over her shoulder and saw -the girl raise her two hands to her head, then let them fall again on her -lap. Fyne in front of the fire was like the victim of an unholy -spell--bereft of motion and speech but obviously in pain. It was a short -pause of perfect silence, and then that "odious creature" (he must have -been really a remarkable individual in his way) struck out into sarcasm. - -"Well? . . . " Again a silence. "If you have fixed it up with the lady -and gentleman present here for your board and lodging you had better say -so. I don't want to interfere in a bargain I know nothing of. But I -wonder how your father will take it when he comes out . . . or don't you -expect him ever to come out?" - -At that moment, Mrs. Fyne told me she met the girl's eyes. There was -that in them which made her shut her own. She also felt as though she -would have liked to put her fingers in her ears. She restrained herself, -however; and the "plain man" passed in his appalling versatility from -sarcasm to veiled menace. - -"You have--eh? Well and good. But before I go home let me ask you, my -girl, to think if by any chance you throwing us over like this won't be -rather bad for your father later on? Just think it over." - -He looked at his victim with an air of cunning mystery. She jumped up so -suddenly that he started back. Mrs. Fyne rose too, and even the spell -was removed from her husband. But the girl dropped again into the chair -and turned her head to look at Mrs. Fyne. This time it was no accidental -meeting of fugitive glances. It was a deliberate communication. To my -question as to its nature Mrs. Fyne said she did not know. "Was it -appealing?" I suggested. "No," she said. "Was it frightened, angry, -crushed, resigned?" "No! No! Nothing of these." But it had frightened -her. She remembered it to this day. She had been ever since fancying -she could detect the lingering reflection of that look in all the girl's -glances. In the attentive, in the casual--even in the grateful -glances--in the expression of the softest moods. - -"Has she her soft moods, then?" I asked with interest. - -Mrs Fyne, much moved by her recollections, heeded not my inquiry. All -her mental energy was concentrated on the nature of that memorable -glance. The general tradition of mankind teaches us that glances occupy -a considerable place in the self-expression of women. Mrs. Fyne was -trying honestly to give me some idea, as much perhaps to satisfy her own -uneasiness as my curiosity. She was frowning in the effort as you see -sometimes a child do (what is delightful in women is that they so often -resemble intelligent children--I mean the crustiest, the sourest, the -most battered of them do--at times). She was frowning, I say, and I was -beginning to smile faintly at her when all at once she came out with -something totally unexpected. - -"It was horribly merry," she said. - -I suppose she must have been satisfied by my sudden gravity because she -looked at me in a friendly manner. - -"Yes, Mrs. Fyne," I said, smiling no longer. "I see. It would have been -horrible even on the stage." - -"Ah!" she interrupted me--and I really believe her change of attitude -back to folded arms was meant to check a shudder. "But it wasn't on the -stage, and it was not with her lips that she laughed." - -"Yes. It must have been horrible," I assented. "And then she had to go -away ultimately--I suppose. You didn't say anything?" - -"No," said Mrs. Fyne. "I rang the bell and told one of the maids to go -and bring the hat and coat out of the cab. And then we waited." - -I don't think that there ever was such waiting unless possibly in a jail -at some moment or other on the morning of an execution. The servant -appeared with the hat and coat, and then, still as on the morning of an -execution, when the condemned, I believe, is offered a breakfast, Mrs. -Fyne, anxious that the white-faced girl should swallow something warm (if -she could) before leaving her house for an interminable drive through raw -cold air in a damp four-wheeler--Mrs. Fyne broke the awful silence: "You -really must try to eat something," in her best resolute manner. She -turned to the "odious person" with the same determination. "Perhaps you -will sit down and have a cup of coffee, too." - -The worthy "employer of labour" sat down. He might have been awed by -Mrs. Fyne's peremptory manner--for she did not think of conciliating him -then. He sat down, provisionally, like a man who finds himself much -against his will in doubtful company. He accepted ungraciously the cup -handed to him by Mrs. Fyne, took an unwilling sip or two and put it down -as if there were some moral contamination in the coffee of these -"swells." Between whiles he directed mysteriously inexpressive glances -at little Fyne, who, I gather, had no breakfast that morning at all. -Neither had the girl. She never moved her hands from her lap till her -appointed guardian got up, leaving his cup half full. - -"Well. If you don't mean to take advantage of this lady's kind offer I -may just as well take you home at once. I want to begin my day--I do." - -After a few more dumb, leaden-footed minutes while Flora was putting on -her hat and jacket, the Fynes without moving, without saying anything, -saw these two leave the room. - -"She never looked back at us," said Mrs. Fyne. "She just followed him -out. I've never had such a crushing impression of the miserable -dependence of girls--of women. This was an extreme case. But a young -man--any man--could have gone to break stones on the roads or something -of that kind--or enlisted--or--" - -It was very true. Women can't go forth on the high roads and by-ways to -pick up a living even when dignity, independence, or existence itself are -at stake. But what made me interrupt Mrs. Fyne's tirade was my profound -surprise at the fact of that respectable citizen being so willing to keep -in his home the poor girl for whom it seemed there was no place in the -world. And not only willing but anxious. I couldn't credit him with -generous impulses. For it seemed obvious to me from what I had learned -that, to put it mildly, he was not an impulsive person. - -"I confess that I can't understand his motive," I exclaimed. - -"This is exactly what John wondered at, at first," said Mrs. Fyne. By -that time an intimacy--if not exactly confidence--had sprung up between -us which permitted her in this discussion to refer to her husband as -John. "You know he had not opened his lips all that time," she pursued. -"I don't blame his restraint. On the contrary. What could he have said? -I could see he was observing the man very thoughtfully." - -"And so, Mr. Fyne listened, observed and meditated," I said. "That's an -excellent way of coming to a conclusion. And may I ask at what -conclusion he had managed to arrive? On what ground did he cease to -wonder at the inexplicable? For I can't admit humanity to be the -explanation. It would be too monstrous." - -It was nothing of the sort, Mrs. Fyne assured me with some resentment, as -though I had aspersed little Fyne's sanity. Fyne very sensibly had set -himself the mental task of discovering the self-interest. I should not -have thought him capable of so much cynicism. He said to himself that -for people of that sort (religious fears or the vanity of righteousness -put aside) money--not great wealth, but money, just a little money--is -the measure of virtue, of expediency, of wisdom--of pretty well -everything. But the girl was absolutely destitute. The father was in -prison after the most terribly complete and disgraceful smash of modern -times. And then it dawned upon Fyne that this was just it. The great -smash, in the great dust of vanishing millions! Was it possible that -they all had vanished to the last penny? Wasn't there, somewhere, -something palpable; some fragment of the fabric left? - -"That's it," had exclaimed Fyne, startling his wife by this explosive -unseating of his lips less than half an hour after the departure of de -Barral's cousin with de Barral's daughter. It was still in the dining- -room, very near the time for him to go forth affronting the elements in -order to put in another day's work in his country's service. All he -could say at the moment in elucidation of this breakdown from his usual -placid solemnity was: - -"The fellow imagines that de Barral has got some plunder put away -somewhere." - -This being the theory arrived at by Fyne, his comment on it was that a -good many bankrupts had been known to have taken such a precaution. It -was possible in de Barral's case. Fyne went so far in his display of -cynical pessimism as to say that it was extremely probable. - -He explained at length to Mrs. Fyne that de Barral certainly did not take -anyone into his confidence. But the beastly relative had made up his low -mind that it was so. He was selfish and pitiless in his stupidity, but -he had clearly conceived the notion of making a claim on de Barral when -de Barral came out of prison on the strength of having "looked after" (as -he would have himself expressed it) his daughter. He nursed his hopes, -such as they were, in secret, and it is to be supposed kept them even -from his wife. - -I could see it very well. That belief accounted for his mysterious air -while he interfered in favour of the girl. He was the only protector she -had. It was as though Flora had been fated to be always surrounded by -treachery and lies stifling every better impulse, every instinctive -aspiration of her soul to trust and to love. It would have been enough -to drive a fine nature into the madness of universal suspicion--into any -sort of madness. I don't know how far a sense of humour will stand by -one. To the foot of the gallows, perhaps. But from my recollection of -Flora de Barral I feared that she hadn't much sense of humour. She had -cried at the desertion of the absurd Fyne dog. That animal was certainly -free from duplicity. He was frank and simple and ridiculous. The -indignation of the girl at his unhypocritical behaviour had been funny -but not humorous. - -As you may imagine I was not very anxious to resume the discussion on the -justice, expediency, effectiveness or what not, of Fyne's journey to -London. It isn't that I was unfaithful to little Fyne out in the porch -with the dog. (They kept amazingly quiet there. Could they have gone to -sleep?) What I felt was that either my sagacity or my conscience would -come out damaged from that campaign. And no man will willingly put -himself in the way of moral damage. I did not want a war with Mrs. Fyne. -I much preferred to hear something more of the girl. I said: - -"And so she went away with that respectable ruffian." - -Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders slightly--"What else could she have done?" -I agreed with her by another hopeless gesture. It isn't so easy for a -girl like Flora de Barral to become a factory hand, a pathetic seamstress -or even a barmaid. She wouldn't have known how to begin. She was the -captive of the meanest conceivable fate. And she wasn't mean enough for -it. It is to be remarked that a good many people are born curiously -unfitted for the fate awaiting them on this earth. As I don't want you -to think that I am unduly partial to the girl we shall say that she -failed decidedly to endear herself to that simple, virtuous and, I -believe, teetotal household. It's my conviction that an angel would have -failed likewise. It's no use going into details; suffice it to state -that before the year was out she was again at the Fynes' door. - -This time she was escorted by a stout youth. His large pale face wore a -smile of inane cunning soured by annoyance. His clothes were new and the -indescribable smartness of their cut, a _genre_ which had never been -obtruded on her notice before, astonished Mrs. Fyne, who came out into -the hall with her hat on; for she was about to go out to hear a new -pianist (a girl) in a friend's house. The youth addressing Mrs. Fyne -easily begged her not to let "that silly thing go back to us any more." -There had been, he said, nothing but "ructions" at home about her for the -last three weeks. Everybody in the family was heartily sick of -quarrelling. His governor had charged him to bring her to this address -and say that the lady and gentleman were quite welcome to all there was -in it. She hadn't enough sense to appreciate a plain, honest English -home and she was better out of it. - -The young, pimply-faced fellow was vexed by this job his governor had -sprung on him. It was the cause of his missing an appointment for that -afternoon with a certain young lady. The lady he was engaged to. But he -meant to dash back and try for a sight of her that evening yet "if he -were to burst over it." "Good-bye, Florrie. Good luck to you--and I -hope I'll never see your face again." - -With that he ran out in lover-like haste leaving the hall-door wide open. -Mrs. Fyne had not found a word to say. She had been too much taken aback -even to gasp freely. But she had the presence of mind to grab the girl's -arm just as she, too, was running out into the street--with the haste, I -suppose, of despair and to keep I don't know what tragic tryst. - -"You stopped her with your own hand, Mrs. Fyne," I said. "I presume she -meant to get away. That girl is no comedian--if I am any judge." - -"Yes! I had to use some force to drag her in." - -Mrs. Fyne had no difficulty in stating the truth. "You see I was in the -very act of letting myself out when these two appeared. So that, when -that unpleasant young man ran off, I found myself alone with Flora. It -was all I could do to hold her in the hall while I called to the servants -to come and shut the door." - -As is my habit, or my weakness, or my gift, I don't know which, I -visualized the story for myself. I really can't help it. And the vision -of Mrs. Fyne dressed for a rather special afternoon function, engaged in -wrestling with a wild-eyed, white-faced girl had a certain dramatic -fascination. - -"Really!" I murmured. - -"Oh! There's no doubt that she struggled," said Mrs. Fyne. She -compressed her lips for a moment and then added: "As to her being a -comedian that's another question." - -Mrs. Fyne had returned to her attitude of folded arms. I saw before me -the daughter of the refined poet accepting life whole with its -unavoidable conditions of which one of the first is the instinct of self- -preservation and the egoism of every living creature. "The fact remains -nevertheless that you--yourself--have, in your own words, pulled her in," -I insisted in a jocular tone, with a serious intention. - -"What was one to do," exclaimed Mrs. Fyne with almost comic exasperation. -"Are you reproaching me with being too impulsive?" - -And she went on telling me that she was not that in the least. One of -the recommendations she always insisted on (to the girl-friends, I -imagine) was to be on guard against impulse. Always! But I had not been -there to see the face of Flora at the time. If I had it would be -haunting me to this day. Nobody unless made of iron would have allowed a -human being with a face like that to rush out alone into the streets. - -"And doesn't it haunt you, Mrs. Fyne?" I asked. - -"No, not now," she said implacably. "Perhaps if I had let her go it -might have done . . . Don't conclude, though, that I think she was -playing a comedy then, because after struggling at first she ended by -remaining. She gave up very suddenly. She collapsed in our arms, mine -and the maid's who came running up in response to my calls, and . . . " - -"And the door was then shut," I completed the phrase in my own way. - -"Yes, the door was shut," Mrs. Fyne lowered and raised her head slowly. - -I did not ask her for details. Of one thing I am certain, and that is -that Mrs. Fyne did not go out to the musical function that afternoon. She -was no doubt considerably annoyed at missing the privilege of hearing -privately an interesting young pianist (a girl) who, since, had become -one of the recognized performers. Mrs. Fyne did not dare leave her -house. As to the feelings of little Fyne when he came home from the -office, via his club, just half an hour before dinner, I have no -information. But I venture to affirm that in the main they were kindly, -though it is quite possible that in the first moment of surprise he had -to keep down a swear-word or two. - -* * * * * - -The long and the short of it all is that next day the Fynes made up their -minds to take into their confidence a certain wealthy old lady. With -certain old ladies the passing years bring back a sort of mellowed -youthfulness of feeling, an optimistic outlook, liking for novelty, -readiness for experiment. The old lady was very much interested: "Do let -me see the poor thing!" She was accordingly allowed to see Flora de -Barral in Mrs. Fyne's drawing-room on a day when there was no one else -there, and she preached to her with charming, sympathetic authority: "The -only way to deal with our troubles, my dear child, is to forget them. You -must forget yours. It's very simple. Look at me. I always forget mine. -At your age one ought to be cheerful." - -Later on when left alone with Mrs. Fyne she said to that lady: "I do hope -the child will manage to be cheerful. I can't have sad faces near me. At -my age one needs cheerful companions." - -And in this hope she carried off Flora de Barral to Bournemouth for the -winter months in the quality of reader and companion. She had said to -her with kindly jocularity: "We shall have a good time together. I am -not a grumpy old woman." But on their return to London she sought Mrs. -Fyne at once. She had discovered that Flora was not naturally cheerful. -When she made efforts to be it was still worse. The old lady couldn't -stand the strain of that. And then, to have the whole thing out, she -could not bear to have for a companion anyone who did not love her. She -was certain that Flora did not love her. Why? She couldn't say. -Moreover, she had caught the girl looking at her in a peculiar way at -times. Oh no!--it was not an evil look--it was an unusual expression -which one could not understand. And when one remembered that her father -was in prison shut up together with a lot of criminals and so on--it made -one uncomfortable. If the child had only tried to forget her troubles! -But she obviously was incapable or unwilling to do so. And that was -somewhat perverse--wasn't it? Upon the whole, she thought it would be -better perhaps-- - -Mrs. Fyne assented hurriedly to the unspoken conclusion: "Oh certainly! -Certainly," wondering to herself what was to be done with Flora next; but -she was not very much surprised at the change in the old lady's view of -Flora de Barral. She almost understood it. - -What came next was a German family, the continental acquaintances of the -wife of one of Fyne's colleagues in the Home Office. Flora of the -enigmatical glances was dispatched to them without much reflection. As -it was not considered absolutely necessary to take them into full -confidence, they neither expected the girl to be specially cheerful nor -were they discomposed unduly by the indescribable quality of her glances. -The German woman was quite ordinary; there were two boys to look after; -they were ordinary, too, I presume; and Flora, I understand, was very -attentive to them. If she taught them anything it must have been by -inspiration alone, for she certainly knew nothing of teaching. But it -was mostly "conversation" which was demanded from her. Flora de Barral -conversing with two small German boys, regularly, industriously, -conscientiously, in order to keep herself alive in the world which held -for her the past we know and the future of an even more undesirable -quality--seems to me a very fantastic combination. But I believe it was -not so bad. She was being, she wrote, mercifully drugged by her task. -She had learned to "converse" all day long, mechanically, absently, as if -in a trance. An uneasy trance it must have been! Her worst moments were -when off duty--alone in the evening, shut up in her own little room, her -dulled thoughts waking up slowly till she started into the full -consciousness of her position, like a person waking up in contact with -something venomous--a snake, for instance--experiencing a mad impulse to -fling the thing away and run off screaming to hide somewhere. - -At this period of her existence Flora de Barral used to write to Mrs. -Fyne not regularly but fairly often. I don't know how long she would -have gone on "conversing" and, incidentally, helping to supervise the -beautifully stocked linen closets of that well-to-do German household, if -the man of it had not developed in the intervals of his avocations (he -was a merchant and a thoroughly domesticated character) a psychological -resemblance to the Bournemouth old lady. It appeared that he, too, -wanted to be loved. - -He was not, however, of a conquering temperament--a kiss-snatching, door- -bursting type of libertine. In the very act of straying from the path of -virtue he remained a respectable merchant. It would have been perhaps -better for Flora if he had been a mere brute. But he set about his -sinister enterprise in a sentimental, cautious, almost paternal manner; -and thought he would be safe with a pretty orphan. The girl for all her -experience was still too innocent, and indeed not yet sufficiently aware -of herself as a woman, to mistrust these masked approaches. She did not -see them, in fact. She thought him sympathetic--the first expressively -sympathetic person she had ever met. She was so innocent that she could -not understand the fury of the German woman. For, as you may imagine, -the wifely penetration was not to be deceived for any great length of -time--the more so that the wife was older than the husband. The man with -the peculiar cowardice of respectability never said a word in Flora's -defence. He stood by and heard her reviled in the most abusive terms, -only nodding and frowning vaguely from time to time. It will give you -the idea of the girl's innocence when I say that at first she actually -thought this storm of indignant reproaches was caused by the discovery of -her real name and her relation to a convict. She had been sent out under -an assumed name--a highly recommended orphan of honourable parentage. Her -distress, her burning cheeks, her endeavours to express her regret for -this deception were taken for a confession of guilt. "You attempted to -bring dishonour to my home," the German woman screamed at her. - -Here's a misunderstanding for you! Flora de Barral, who felt the shame -but did not believe in the guilt of her father, retorted fiercely, -"Nevertheless I am as honourable as you are." And then the German woman -nearly went into a fit from rage. "I shall have you thrown out into the -street." - -Flora was not exactly thrown out into the street, I believe, but she was -bundled bag and baggage on board a steamer for London. Did I tell you -these people lived in Hamburg? Well yes--sent to the docks late on a -rainy winter evening in charge of some sneering lackey or other who -behaved to her insolently and left her on deck burning with indignation, -her hair half down, shaking with excitement and, truth to say, scared as -near as possible into hysterics. If it had not been for the stewardess -who, without asking questions, good soul, took charge of her quietly in -the ladies' saloon (luckily it was empty) it is by no means certain she -would ever have reached England. I can't tell if a straw ever saved a -drowning man, but I know that a mere glance is enough to make despair -pause. For in truth we who are creatures of impulse are not creatures of -despair. Suicide, I suspect, is very often the outcome of mere mental -weariness--not an act of savage energy but the final symptom of complete -collapse. The quiet, matter-of-fact attentions of a ship's stewardess, -who did not seem aware of other human agonies than sea-sickness, who -talked of the probable weather of the passage--it would be a rough night, -she thought--and who insisted in a professionally busy manner, "Let me -make you comfortable down below at once, miss," as though she were -thinking of nothing else but her tip--was enough to dissipate the shades -of death gathering round the mortal weariness of bewildered thinking -which makes the idea of non-existence welcome so often to the young. -Flora de Barral did lie down, and it may be presumed she slept. At any -rate she survived the voyage across the North Sea and told Mrs. Fyne all -about it, concealing nothing and receiving no rebuke--for Mrs. Fyne's -opinions had a large freedom in their pedantry. She held, I suppose, -that a woman holds an absolute right--or possesses a perfect excuse--to -escape in her own way from a man-mismanaged world. - -* * * * * - -What is to be noted is that even in London, having had time to take a -reflective view, poor Flora was far from being certain as to the true -inwardness of her violent dismissal. She felt the humiliation of it with -an almost maddened resentment. - -"And did you enlighten her on the point?" I ventured to ask. - -Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders with a philosophical acceptance of all the -necessities which ought not to be. Something had to be said, she -murmured. She had told the girl enough to make her come to the right -conclusion by herself. - -"And she did?" - -"Yes. Of course. She isn't a goose," retorted Mrs. Fyne tartly. - -"Then her education is completed," I remarked with some bitterness. -"Don't you think she ought to be given a chance?" - -Mrs. Fyne understood my meaning. - -"Not this one," she snapped in a quite feminine way. "It's all very well -for you to plead, but I--" - -"I do not plead. I simply asked. It seemed natural to ask what you -thought." - -"It's what I feel that matters. And I can't help my feelings. You may -guess," she added in a softer tone, "that my feelings are mostly -concerned with my brother. We were very fond of each other. The -difference of our ages was not very great. I suppose you know he is a -little younger than I am. He was a sensitive boy. He had the habit of -brooding. It is no use concealing from you that neither of us was happy -at home. You have heard, no doubt . . . Yes? Well, I was made still -more unhappy and hurt--I don't mind telling you that. He made his way to -some distant relations of our mother's people who I believe were not -known to my father at all. I don't wish to judge their action." - -I interrupted Mrs. Fyne here. I had heard. Fyne was not very -communicative in general, but he was proud of his father-in-law--"Carleon -Anthony, the poet, you know." Proud of his celebrity without approving -of his character. It was on that account, I strongly suspect, that he -seized with avidity upon the theory of poetical genius being allied to -madness, which he got hold of in some idiotic book everybody was reading -a few years ago. It struck him as being truth itself--illuminating like -the sun. He adopted it devoutly. He bored me with it sometimes. Once, -just to shut him up, I asked quietly if this theory which he regarded as -so incontrovertible did not cause him some uneasiness about his wife and -the dear girls? He transfixed me with a pitying stare and requested me -in his deep solemn voice to remember the "well-established fact" that -genius was not transmissible. - -I said only "Oh! Isn't it?" and he thought he had silenced me by an -unanswerable argument. But he continued to talk of his glorious father- -in-law, and it was in the course of that conversation that he told me -how, when the Liverpool relations of the poet's late wife naturally -addressed themselves to him in considerable concern, suggesting a -friendly consultation as to the boy's future, the incensed (but always -refined) poet wrote in answer a letter of mere polished _badinage_ which -offended mortally the Liverpool people. This witty outbreak of what was -in fact mortification and rage appeared to them so heartless that they -simply kept the boy. They let him go to sea not because he was in their -way but because he begged hard to be allowed to go. - -"Oh! You do know," said Mrs. Fyne after a pause. "Well--I felt myself -very much abandoned. Then his choice of life--so extraordinary, so -unfortunate, I may say. I was very much grieved. I should have liked -him to have been distinguished--or at any rate to remain in the social -sphere where we could have had common interests, acquaintances, thoughts. -Don't think that I am estranged from him. But the precise truth is that -I do not know him. I was most painfully affected when he was here by the -difficulty of finding a single topic we could discuss together." - -While Mrs. Fyne was talking of her brother I let my thoughts wander out -of the room to little Fyne who by leaving me alone with his wife had, so -to speak, entrusted his domestic peace to my honour. - -"Well, then, Mrs. Fyne, does it not strike you that it would be -reasonable under the circumstances to let your brother take care of -himself?" - -"And suppose I have grounds to think that he can't take care of himself -in a given instance." She hesitated in a funny, bashful manner which -roused my interest. Then: - -"Sailors I believe are very susceptible," she added with forced -assurance. - -I burst into a laugh which only increased the coldness of her observing -stare. - -"They are. Immensely! Hopelessly! My dear Mrs. Fyne, you had better -give it up! It only makes your husband miserable." - -"And I am quite miserable too. It is really our first difference . . . " - -"Regarding Miss de Barral?" I asked. - -"Regarding everything. It's really intolerable that this girl should be -the occasion. I think he really ought to give way." - -She turned her chair round a little and picking up the book I had been -reading in the morning began to turn the leaves absently. - -Her eyes being off me, I felt I could allow myself to leave the room. Its -atmosphere had become hopeless for little Fyne's domestic peace. You may -smile. But to the solemn all things are solemn. I had enough sagacity -to understand that. - -I slipped out into the porch. The dog was slumbering at Fyne's feet. The -muscular little man leaning on his elbow and gazing over the fields -presented a forlorn figure. He turned his head quickly, but seeing I was -alone, relapsed into his moody contemplation of the green landscape. - -I said loudly and distinctly: "I've come out to smoke a cigarette," and -sat down near him on the little bench. Then lowering my voice: -"Tolerance is an extremely difficult virtue," I said. "More difficult -for some than heroism. More difficult than compassion." - -I avoided looking at him. I knew well enough that he would not like this -opening. General ideas were not to his taste. He mistrusted them. I -lighted a cigarette, not that I wanted to smoke, but to give another -moment to the consideration of the advice--the diplomatic advice I had -made up my mind to bowl him over with. And I continued in subdued tones. - -"I have been led to make these remarks by what I have discovered since -you left us. I suspected from the first. And now I am certain. What -your wife cannot tolerate in this affair is Miss de Barral being what she -is." - -He made a movement, but I kept my eyes away from him and went on -steadily. "That is--her being a woman. I have some idea of Mrs. Fyne's -mental attitude towards society with its injustices, with its atrocious -or ridiculous conventions. As against them there is no audacity of -action your wife's mind refuses to sanction. The doctrine which I -imagine she stuffs into the pretty heads of your girl-guests is almost -vengeful. A sort of moral fire-and-sword doctrine. How far the lesson -is wise is not for me to say. I don't permit myself to judge. I seem to -see her very delightful disciples singeing themselves with the torches, -and cutting their fingers with the swords of Mrs. Fyne's furnishing." - -"My wife holds her opinions very seriously," murmured Fyne suddenly. - -"Yes. No doubt," I assented in a low voice as before. "But it is a mere -intellectual exercise. What I see is that in dealing with reality Mrs. -Fyne ceases to be tolerant. In other words, that she can't forgive Miss -de Barral for being a woman and behaving like a woman. And yet this is -not only reasonable and natural, but it is her only chance. A woman -against the world has no resources but in herself. Her only means of -action is to be what _she is_. You understand what I mean." - -Fyne mumbled between his teeth that he understood. But he did not seem -interested. What he expected of me was to extricate him from a difficult -situation. I don't know how far credible this may sound, to less solemn -married couples, but to remain at variance with his wife seemed to him a -considerable incident. Almost a disaster. - -"It looks as though I didn't care what happened to her brother," he said. -"And after all if anything . . . " - -I became a little impatient but without raising my tone: - -"What thing?" I asked. "The liability to get penal servitude is so far -like genius that it isn't hereditary. And what else can be objected to -the girl? All the energy of her deeper feelings, which she would use up -vainly in the danger and fatigue of a struggle with society may be turned -into devoted attachment to the man who offers her a way of escape from -what can be only a life of moral anguish. I don't mention the physical -difficulties." - -Glancing at Fyne out of the corner of one eye I discovered that he was -attentive. He made the remark that I should have said all this to his -wife. It was a sensible enough remark. But I had given Mrs. Fyne up. I -asked him if his impression was that his wife meant to entrust him with a -letter for her brother? - -No. He didn't think so. There were certain reasons which made Mrs. Fyne -unwilling to commit her arguments to paper. Fyne was to be primed with -them. But he had no doubt that if he persisted in his refusal she would -make up her mind to write. - -"She does not wish me to go unless with a full conviction that she is -right," said Fyne solemnly. - -"She's very exacting," I commented. And then I reflected that she was -used to it. "Would nothing less do for once?" - -"You don't mean that I should give way--do you?" asked Fyne in a whisper -of alarmed suspicion. - -As this was exactly what I meant, I let his fright sink into him. He -fidgeted. If the word may be used of so solemn a personage, he wriggled. -And when the horrid suspicion had descended into his very heels, so to -speak, he became very still. He sat gazing stonily into space bounded by -the yellow, burnt-up slopes of the rising ground a couple of miles away. -The face of the down showed the white scar of the quarry where not more -than sixteen hours before Fyne and I had been groping in the dark with -horrible apprehension of finding under our hands the shattered body of a -girl. For myself I had in addition the memory of my meeting with her. -She was certainly walking very near the edge--courting a sinister -solution. But, now, having by the most unexpected chance come upon a -man, she had found another way to escape from the world. Such world as -was open to her--without shelter, without bread, without honour. The -best she could have found in it would have been a precarious dole of pity -diminishing as her years increased. The appeal of the abandoned child -Flora to the sympathies of the Fynes had been irresistible. But now she -had become a woman, and Mrs. Fyne was presenting an implacable front to a -particularly feminine transaction. I may say triumphantly feminine. It -is true that Mrs. Fyne did not want women to be women. Her theory was -that they should turn themselves into unscrupulous sexless nuisances. An -offended theorist dwelt in her bosom somewhere. In what way she expected -Flora de Barral to set about saving herself from a most miserable -existence I can't conceive; but I verify believe that she would have -found it easier to forgive the girl an actual crime; say the rifling of -the Bournemouth old lady's desk, for instance. And then--for Mrs. Fyne -was very much of a woman herself--her sense of proprietorship was very -strong within her; and though she had not much use for her brother, yet -she did not like to see him annexed by another woman. By a chit of a -girl. And such a girl, too. Nothing is truer than that, in this world, -the luckless have no right to their opportunities--as if misfortune were -a legal disqualification. Fyne's sentiments (as they naturally would be -in a man) had more stability. A good deal of his sympathy survived. -Indeed I heard him murmur "Ghastly nuisance," but I knew it was of the -integrity of his domestic accord that he was thinking. With my eyes on -the dog lying curled up in sleep in the middle of the porch I suggested -in a subdued impersonal tone: "Yes. Why not let yourself be persuaded?" - -I never saw little Fyne less solemn. He hissed through his teeth in -unexpectedly figurative style that it would take a lot to persuade him to -"push under the head of a poor devil of a girl quite sufficiently -plucky"--and snorted. He was still gazing at the distant quarry, and I -think he was affected by that sight. I assured him that I was far from -advising him to do anything so cruel. I am convinced he had always -doubted the soundness of my principles, because he turned on me swiftly -as though he had been on the watch for a lapse from the straight path. - -"Then what do you mean? That I should pretend!" - -"No! What nonsense! It would be immoral. I may however tell you that -if I had to make a choice I would rather do something immoral than -something cruel. What I meant was that, not believing in the efficacy of -the interference, the whole question is reduced to your consenting to do -what your wife wishes you to do. That would be acting like a gentleman, -surely. And acting unselfishly too, because I can very well understand -how distasteful it may be to you. Generally speaking, an unselfish -action is a moral action. I'll tell you what. I'll go with you." - -He turned round and stared at me with surprise and suspicion. "You would -go with me?" he repeated. - -"You don't understand," I said, amused at the incredulous disgust of his -tone. "I must run up to town, to-morrow morning. Let us go together. -You have a set of travelling chessmen." - -His physiognomy, contracted by a variety of emotions, relaxed to a -certain extent at the idea of a game. I told him that as I had business -at the Docks he should have my company to the very ship. - -"We shall beguile the way to the wilds of the East by improving -conversation," I encouraged him. - -"My brother-in-law is staying at an hotel--the Eastern Hotel," he said, -becoming sombre again. "I haven't the slightest idea where it is." - -"I know the place. I shall leave you at the door with the comfortable -conviction that you are doing what's right since it pleases a lady and -cannot do any harm to anybody whatever." - -"You think so? No harm to anybody?" he repeated doubtfully. - -"I assure you it's not the slightest use," I said with all possible -emphasis which seemed only to increase the solemn discontent of his -expression. - -"But in order that my going should be a perfectly candid proceeding I -must first convince my wife that it isn't the slightest use," he objected -portentously. - -"Oh, you casuist!" I said. And I said nothing more because at that -moment Mrs. Fyne stepped out into the porch. We rose together at her -appearance. Her clear, colourless, unflinching glance enveloped us both -critically. I sustained the chill smilingly, but Fyne stooped at once to -release the dog. He was some time about it; then simultaneously with his -recovery of upright position the animal passed at one bound from -profoundest slumber into most tumultuous activity. Enveloped in the -tornado of his inane scurryings and barkings I took Mrs. Fyne's hand -extended to me woodenly and bowed over it with deference. She walked -down the path without a word; Fyne had preceded her and was waiting by -the open gate. They passed out and walked up the road surrounded by a -low cloud of dust raised by the dog gyrating madly about their two -figures progressing side by side with rectitude and propriety, and (I -don't know why) looking to me as if they had annexed the whole country- -side. Perhaps it was that they had impressed me somehow with the sense -of their superiority. What superiority? Perhaps it consisted just in -their limitations. It was obvious that neither of them had carried away -a high opinion of me. But what affected me most was the indifference of -the Fyne dog. He used to precipitate himself at full speed and with a -frightful final upward spring upon my waistcoat, at least once at each of -our meetings. He had neglected that ceremony this time notwithstanding -my correct and even conventional conduct in offering him a cake; it -seemed to me symbolic of my final separation from the Fyne household. And -I remembered against him how on a certain day he had abandoned poor Flora -de Barral--who was morbidly sensitive. - -I sat down in the porch and, maybe inspired by secret antagonism to the -Fynes, I said to myself deliberately that Captain Anthony must be a fine -fellow. Yet on the facts as I knew them he might have been a dangerous -trifler or a downright scoundrel. He had made a miserable, hopeless girl -follow him clandestinely to London. It is true that the girl had written -since, only Mrs. Fyne had been remarkably vague as to the contents. They -were unsatisfactory. They did not positively announce imminent nuptials -as far as I could make it out from her rather mysterious hints. But then -her inexperience might have led her astray. There was no fathoming the -innocence of a woman like Mrs. Fyne who, venturing as far as possible in -theory, would know nothing of the real aspect of things. It would have -been comic if she were making all this fuss for nothing. But I rejected -this suspicion for the honour of human nature. - -I imagined to myself Captain Anthony as simple and romantic. It was much -more pleasant. Genius is not hereditary but temperament may be. And he -was the son of a poet with an admirable gift of individualising, of -etherealizing the common-place; of making touching, delicate, fascinating -the most hopeless conventions of the, so-called, refined existence. - -What I could not understand was Mrs. Fyne's dog-in-the-manger attitude. -Sentimentally she needed that brother of hers so little! What could it -matter to her one way or another--setting aside common humanity which -would suggest at least a neutral attitude. Unless indeed it was the -blind working of the law that in our world of chances the luckless _must_ -be put in the wrong somehow. - -And musing thus on the general inclination of our instincts towards -injustice I met unexpectedly, at the turn of the road, as it were, a -shape of duplicity. It might have been unconscious on Mrs. Fyne's part, -but her leading idea appeared to me to be not to keep, not to preserve -her brother, but to get rid of him definitely. She did not hope to stop -anything. She had too much sense for that. Almost anyone out of an -idiot asylum would have had enough sense for that. She wanted the -protest to be made, emphatically, with Fyne's fullest concurrence in -order to make all intercourse for the future impossible. Such an action -would estrange the pair for ever from the Fynes. She understood her -brother and the girl too. Happy together, they would never forgive that -outspoken hostility--and should the marriage turn out badly . . . Well, -it would be just the same. Neither of them would be likely to bring -their troubles to such a good prophet of evil. - -Yes. That must have been her motive. The inspiration of a possibly -unconscious Machiavellism! Either she was afraid of having a sister-in- -law to look after during the husband's long absences; or dreaded the more -or less distant eventuality of her brother being persuaded to leave the -sea, the friendly refuge of his unhappy youth, and to settle on shore, -bringing to her very door this undesirable, this embarrassing connection. -She wanted to be done with it--maybe simply from the fatigue of -continuous effort in good or evil, which, in the bulk of common mortals, -accounts for so many surprising inconsistencies of conduct. - -I don't know that I had classed Mrs. Fyne, in my thoughts, amongst common -mortals. She was too quietly sure of herself for that. But little Fyne, -as I spied him next morning (out of the carriage window) speeding along -the platform, looked very much like a common, flustered mortal who has -made a very near thing of catching his train: the starting wild eyes, the -tense and excited face, the distracted gait, all the common symptoms were -there, rendered more impressive by his native solemnity which flapped -about him like a disordered garment. Had he--I asked myself with -interest--resisted his wife to the very last minute and then bolted up -the road from the last conclusive argument, as though it had been a -loaded gun suddenly produced? I opened the carriage door, and a vigorous -porter shoved him in from behind just as the end of the rustic platform -went gliding swiftly from under his feet. He was very much out of -breath, and I waited with some curiosity for the moment he would recover -his power of speech. That moment came. He said "Good morning" with a -slight gasp, remained very still for another minute and then pulled out -of his pocket the travelling chessboard, and holding it in his hand, -directed at me a glance of inquiry. - -"Yes. Certainly," I said, very much disappointed. - - - -CHAPTER SEVEN--ON THE PAVEMENT - - -Fyne was not willing to talk; but as I had been already let into the -secret, the fair-minded little man recognized that I had some right to -information if I insisted on it. And I did insist, after the third game. -We were yet some way from the end of our journey. - -"Oh, if you want to know," was his somewhat impatient opening. And then -he talked rather volubly. First of all his wife had not given him to -read the letter received from Flora (I had suspected him of having it in -his pocket), but had told him all about the contents. It was not at all -what it should have been even if the girl had wished to affirm her right -to disregard the feelings of all the world. Her own had been trampled in -the dirt out of all shape. Extraordinary thing to say--I would admit, -for a young girl of her age. The whole tone of that letter was wrong, -quite wrong. It was certainly not the product of a--say, of a -well-balanced mind. - -"If she were given some sort of footing in this world," I said, "if only -no bigger than the palm of my hand, she would probably learn to keep a -better balance." - -Fyne ignored this little remark. His wife, he said, was not the sort of -person to be addressed mockingly on a serious subject. There was an -unpleasant strain of levity in that letter, extending even to the -references to Captain Anthony himself. Such a disposition was enough, -his wife had pointed out to him, to alarm one for the future, had all the -circumstances of that preposterous project been as satisfactory as in -fact they were not. Other parts of the letter seemed to have a -challenging tone--as if daring them (the Fynes) to approve her conduct. -And at the same time implying that she did not care, that it was for -their own sakes that she hoped they would "go against the world--the -horrid world which had crushed poor papa." - -Fyne called upon me to admit that this was pretty cool--considering. And -there was another thing, too. It seems that for the last six months (she -had been assisting two ladies who kept a kindergarten school in -Bayswater--a mere pittance), Flora had insisted on devoting all her spare -time to the study of the trial. She had been looking up files of old -newspapers, and working herself up into a state of indignation with what -she called the injustice and the hypocrisy of the prosecution. Her -father, Fyne reminded me, had made some palpable hits in his answers in -Court, and she had fastened on them triumphantly. She had reached the -conclusion of her father's innocence, and had been brooding over it. Mrs. -Fyne had pointed out to him the danger of this. - -The train ran into the station and Fyne, jumping out directly it came to -a standstill, seemed glad to cut short the conversation. We walked in -silence a little way, boarded a bus, then walked again. I don't suppose -that since the days of his childhood, when surely he was taken to see the -Tower, he had been once east of Temple Bar. He looked about him -sullenly; and when I pointed out in the distance the rounded front of the -Eastern Hotel at the bifurcation of two very broad, mean, shabby -thoroughfares, rising like a grey stucco tower above the lowly roofs of -the dirty-yellow, two-storey houses, he only grunted disapprovingly. - -"I wouldn't lay too much stress on what you have been telling me," I -observed quietly as we approached that unattractive building. "No man -will believe a girl who has just accepted his suit to be not well -balanced,--you know." - -"Oh! Accepted his suit," muttered Fyne, who seemed to have been very -thoroughly convinced indeed. "It may have been the other way about." And -then he added: "I am going through with it." - -I said that this was very praiseworthy but that a certain moderation of -statement . . . He waved his hand at me and mended his pace. I guessed -that he was anxious to get his mission over as quickly as possible. He -barely gave himself time to shake hands with me and made a rush at the -narrow glass door with the words Hotel Entrance on it. It swung to -behind his back with no more noise than the snap of a toothless jaw. - -The absurd temptation to remain and see what would come of it got over my -better judgment. I hung about irresolute, wondering how long an embassy -of that sort would take, and whether Fyne on coming out would consent to -be communicative. I feared he would be shocked at finding me there, -would consider my conduct incorrect, conceivably treat me with contempt. -I walked off a few paces. Perhaps it would be possible to read something -on Fyne's face as he came out; and, if necessary, I could always eclipse -myself discreetly through the door of one of the bars. The ground floor -of the Eastern Hotel was an unabashed pub, with plate-glass fronts, a -display of brass rails, and divided into many compartments each having -its own entrance. - -But of course all this was silly. The marriage, the love, the affairs of -Captain Anthony were none of my business. I was on the point of moving -down the street for good when my attention was attracted by a girl -approaching the hotel entrance from the west. She was dressed very -modestly in black. It was the white straw hat of a good form and trimmed -with a bunch of pale roses which had caught my eye. The whole figure -seemed familiar. Of course! Flora de Barral. She was making for the -hotel, she was going in. And Fyne was with Captain Anthony! To meet him -could not be pleasant for her. I wished to save her from the -awkwardness, and as I hesitated what to do she looked up and our eyes -happened to meet just as she was turning off the pavement into the hotel -doorway. Instinctively I extended my arm. It was enough to make her -stop. I suppose she had some faint notion that she had seen me before -somewhere. She walked slowly forward, prudent and attentive, watching my -faint smile. - -"Excuse me," I said directly she had approached me near enough. "Perhaps -you would like to know that Mr. Fyne is upstairs with Captain Anthony at -this moment." - -She uttered a faint "Ah! Mr. Fyne!" I could read in her eyes that she -had recognized me now. Her serious expression extinguished the imbecile -grin of which I was conscious. I raised my hat. She responded with a -slow inclination of the head while her luminous, mistrustful, maiden's -glance seemed to whisper, "What is this one doing here?" - -"I came up to town with Fyne this morning," I said in a businesslike -tone. "I have to see a friend in East India Dock. Fyne and I parted -this moment at the door here . . . " The girl regarded me with -darkening eyes . . . "Mrs. Fyne did not come with her husband," I went -on, then hesitated before that white face so still in the pearly shadow -thrown down by the hat-brim. "But she sent him," I murmured by way of -warning. - -Her eyelids fluttered slowly over the fixed stare. I imagine she was not -much disconcerted by this development. "I live a long way from here," -she whispered. - -I said perfunctorily, "Do you?" And we remained gazing at each other. -The uniform paleness of her complexion was not that of an anaemic girl. -It had a transparent vitality and at that particular moment the faintest -possible rosy tinge, the merest suspicion of colour; an equivalent, I -suppose, in any other girl to blushing like a peony while she told me -that Captain Anthony had arranged to show her the ship that morning. - -It was easy to understand that she did not want to meet Fyne. And when I -mentioned in a discreet murmur that he had come because of her letter she -glanced at the hotel door quickly, and moved off a few steps to a -position where she could watch the entrance without being seen. I -followed her. At the junction of the two thoroughfares she stopped in -the thin traffic of the broad pavement and turned to me with an air of -challenge. "And so you know." - -I told her that I had not seen the letter. I had only heard of it. She -was a little impatient. "I mean all about me." - -Yes. I knew all about her. The distress of Mr. and Mrs. Fyne--especially -of Mrs. Fyne--was so great that they would have shared it with anybody -almost--not belonging to their circle of friends. I happened to be at -hand--that was all. - -"You understand that I am not their friend. I am only a holiday -acquaintance." - -"She was not very much upset?" queried Flora de Barral, meaning, of -course, Mrs. Fyne. And I admitted that she was less so than her -husband--and even less than myself. Mrs. Fyne was a very self-possessed -person which nothing could startle out of her extreme theoretical -position. She did not seem startled when Fyne and I proposed going to -the quarry. - -"You put that notion into their heads," the girl said. - -I advanced that the notion was in their heads already. But it was much -more vividly in my head since I had seen her up there with my own eyes, -tempting Providence. - -She was looking at me with extreme attention, and murmured: - -"Is that what you called it to them? Tempting . . . " - -"No. I told them that you were making up your mind and I came along just -then. I told them that you were saved by me. My shout checked you . . . -" She moved her head gently from right to left in negation . . . "No? -Well, have it your own way." - -I thought to myself: She has found another issue. She wants to forget -now. And no wonder. She wants to persuade herself that she had never -known such an ugly and poignant minute in her life. "After all," I -conceded aloud, "things are not always what they seem." - -Her little head with its deep blue eyes, eyes of tenderness and anger -under the black arch of fine eyebrows was very still. The mouth looked -very red in the white face peeping from under the veil, the little -pointed chin had in its form something aggressive. Slight and even -angular in her modest black dress she was an appealing and--yes--she was -a desirable little figure. - -Her lips moved very fast asking me: - -"And they believed you at once?" - -"Yes, they believed me at once. Mrs. Fyne's word to us was "Go!" - -A white gleam between the red lips was so short that I remained uncertain -whether it was a smile or a ferocious baring of little even teeth. The -rest of the face preserved its innocent, tense and enigmatical -expression. She spoke rapidly. - -"No, it wasn't your shout. I had been there some time before you saw me. -And I was not there to tempt Providence, as you call it. I went up there -for--for what you thought I was going to do. Yes. I climbed two fences. -I did not mean to leave anything to Providence. There seem to be people -for whom Providence can do nothing. I suppose you are shocked to hear me -talk like that?" - -I shook my head. I was not shocked. What had kept her back all that -time, till I appeared on the scene below, she went on, was neither fear -nor any other kind of hesitation. One reaches a point, she said with -appalling youthful simplicity, where nothing that concerns one matters -any longer. But something did keep her back. I should have never -guessed what it was. She herself confessed that it seemed absurd to say. -It was the Fyne dog. - -Flora de Barral paused, looking at me, with a peculiar expression and -then went on. You see, she imagined the dog had become extremely -attached to her. She took it into her head that he might fall over or -jump down after her. She tried to drive him away. She spoke sternly to -him. It only made him more frisky. He barked and jumped about her skirt -in his usual, idiotic, high spirits. He scampered away in circles -between the pines charging upon her and leaping as high as her waist. She -commanded, "Go away. Go home." She even picked up from the ground a bit -of a broken branch and threw it at him. At this his delight knew no -bounds; his rushes became faster, his yapping louder; he seemed to be -having the time of his life. She was convinced that the moment she threw -herself down he would spring over after her as if it were part of the -game. She was vexed almost to tears. She was touched too. And when he -stood still at some distance as if suddenly rooted to the ground wagging -his tail slowly and watching her intensely with his shining eyes another -fear came to her. She imagined herself gone and the creature sitting on -the brink, its head thrown up to the sky and howling for hours. This -thought was not to be borne. Then my shout reached her ears. - -She told me all this with simplicity. My voice had destroyed her -poise--the suicide poise of her mind. Every act of ours, the most -criminal, the most mad presupposes a balance of thought, feeling and -will, like a correct attitude for an effective stroke in a game. And I -had destroyed it. She was no longer in proper form for the act. She was -not very much annoyed. Next day would do. She would have to slip away -without attracting the notice of the dog. She thought of the necessity -almost tenderly. She came down the path carrying her despair with lucid -calmness. But when she saw herself deserted by the dog, she had an -impulse to turn round, go up again and be done with it. Not even that -animal cared for her--in the end. - -"I really did think that he was attached to me. What did he want to -pretend for, like this? I thought nothing could hurt me any more. Oh -yes. I would have gone up, but I felt suddenly so tired. So tired. And -then you were there. I didn't know what you would do. You might have -tried to follow me and I didn't think I could run--not up hill--not -then." - -She had raised her white face a little, and it was queer to hear her say -these things. At that time of the morning there are comparatively few -people out in that part of the town. The broad interminable perspective -of the East India Dock Road, the great perspective of drab brick walls, -of grey pavement, of muddy roadway rumbling dismally with loaded carts -and vans lost itself in the distance, imposing and shabby in its spacious -meanness of aspect, in its immeasurable poverty of forms, of colouring, -of life--under a harsh, unconcerned sky dried by the wind to a clear -blue. It had been raining during the night. The sunshine itself seemed -poor. From time to time a few bits of paper, a little dust and straw -whirled past us on the broad flat promontory of the pavement before the -rounded front of the hotel. - -Flora de Barral was silent for a while. I said: - -"And next day you thought better of it." - -Again she raised her eyes to mine with that peculiar expression of -informed innocence; and again her white cheeks took on the faintest tinge -of pink--the merest shadow of a blush. - -"Next day," she uttered distinctly, "I didn't think. I remembered. That -was enough. I remembered what I should never have forgotten. Never. And -Captain Anthony arrived at the cottage in the evening." - -"Ah yes. Captain Anthony," I murmured. And she repeated also in a -murmur, "Yes! Captain Anthony." The faint flush of warm life left her -face. I subdued my voice still more and not looking at her: "You found -him sympathetic?" I ventured. - -Her long dark lashes went down a little with an air of calculated -discretion. At least so it seemed to me. And yet no one could say that -I was inimical to that girl. But there you are! Explain it as you may, -in this world the friendless, like the poor, are always a little suspect, -as if honesty and delicacy were only possible to the privileged few. - -"Why do you ask?" she said after a time, raising her eyes suddenly to -mine in an effect of candour which on the same principle (of the -disinherited not being to be trusted) might have been judged equivocal. - -"If you mean what right I have . . . " She move slightly a hand in a -worn brown glove as much as to say she could not question anyone's right -against such an outcast as herself. - -I ought to have been moved perhaps; but I only noted the total absence of -humility . . . "No right at all," I continued, "but just interest. Mrs. -Fyne--it's too difficult to explain how it came about--has talked to me -of you--well--extensively." - -No doubt Mrs. Fyne had told me the truth, Flora said brusquely with an -unexpected hoarseness of tone. This very dress she was wearing had been -given her by Mrs. Fyne. Of course I looked at it. It could not have -been a recent gift. Close-fitting and black, with heliotrope silk -facings under a figured net, it looked far from new, just on this side of -shabbiness; in fact, it accentuated the slightness of her figure, it went -well in its suggestion of half mourning with the white face in which the -unsmiling red lips alone seemed warm with the rich blood of life and -passion. - -Little Fyne was staying up there an unconscionable time. Was he arguing, -preaching, remonstrating? Had he discovered in himself a capacity and a -taste for that sort of thing? Or was he perhaps, in an intense dislike -for the job, beating about the bush and only puzzling Captain Anthony, -the providential man, who, if he expected the girl to appear at any -moment, must have been on tenterhooks all the time, and beside himself -with impatience to see the back of his brother-in-law. How was it that -he had not got rid of Fyne long before in any case? I don't mean by -actually throwing him out of the window, but in some other resolute -manner. - -Surely Fyne had not impressed him. That he was an impressionable man I -could not doubt. The presence of the girl there on the pavement before -me proved this up to the hilt--and, well, yes, touchingly enough. - -It so happened that in their wanderings to and fro our glances met. They -met and remained in contact more familiar than a hand-clasp, more -communicative, more expressive. There was something comic too in the -whole situation, in the poor girl and myself waiting together on the -broad pavement at a corner public-house for the issue of Fyne's -ridiculous mission. But the comic when it is human becomes quickly -painful. Yes, she was infinitely anxious. And I was asking myself -whether this poignant tension of her suspense depended--to put it -plainly--on hunger or love. - -The answer would have been of some interest to Captain Anthony. For my -part, in the presence of a young girl I always become convinced that the -dreams of sentiment--like the consoling mysteries of Faith--are -invincible; that it is never never reason which governs men and women. - -Yet what sentiment could there have been on her part? I remembered her -tone only a moment since when she said: "That evening Captain Anthony -arrived at the cottage." And considering, too, what the arrival of -Captain Anthony meant in this connection, I wondered at the calmness with -which she could mention that fact. He arrived at the cottage. In the -evening. I knew that late train. He probably walked from the station. -The evening would be well advanced. I could almost see a dark indistinct -figure opening the wicket gate of the garden. Where was she? Did she -see him enter? Was she somewhere near by and did she hear without the -slightest premonition his chance and fateful footsteps on the flagged -path leading to the cottage door? In the shadow of the night made more -cruelly sombre for her by the very shadow of death he must have appeared -too strange, too remote, too unknown to impress himself on her thought as -a living force--such a force as a man can bring to bear on a woman's -destiny. - -She glanced towards the hotel door again; I followed suit and then our -eyes met once more, this time intentionally. A tentative, uncertain -intimacy was springing up between us two. She said simply: "You are -waiting for Mr. Fyne to come out; are you?" - -I admitted to her that I was waiting to see Mr. Fyne come out. That was -all. I had nothing to say to him. - -"I have said yesterday all I had to say to him," I added meaningly. "I -have said it to them both, in fact. I have also heard all they had to -say." - -"About me?" she murmured. - -"Yes. The conversation was about you." - -"I wonder if they told you everything." - -If she wondered I could do nothing else but wonder too. But I did not -tell her that. I only smiled. The material point was that Captain -Anthony should be told everything. But as to that I was very certain -that the good sister would see to it. Was there anything more to -disclose--some other misery, some other deception of which that girl had -been a victim? It seemed hardly probable. It was not even easy to -imagine. What struck me most was her--I suppose I must call -it--composure. One could not tell whether she understood what she had -done. One wondered. She was not so much unreadable as blank; and I did -not know whether to admire her for it or dismiss her from my thoughts as -a passive butt of ferocious misfortune. - -Looking back at the occasion when we first got on speaking terms on the -road by the quarry, I had to admit that she presented some points of a -problematic appearance. I don't know why I imagined Captain Anthony as -the sort of man who would not be likely to take the initiative; not -perhaps from indifference but from that peculiar timidity before women -which often enough is found in conjunction with chivalrous instincts, -with a great need for affection and great stability of feelings. Such -men are easily moved. At the least encouragement they go forward with -the eagerness, with the recklessness of starvation. This accounted for -the suddenness of the affair. No! With all her inexperience this girl -could not have found any great difficulty in her conquering enterprise. -She must have begun it. And yet there she was, patient, almost unmoved, -almost pitiful, waiting outside like a beggar, without a right to -anything but compassion, for a promised dole. - -Every moment people were passing close by us, singly, in two and threes; -the inhabitants of that end of the town where life goes on unadorned by -grace or splendour; they passed us in their shabby garments, with sallow -faces, haggard, anxious or weary, or simply without expression, in an -unsmiling sombre stream not made up of lives but of mere unconsidered -existences whose joys, struggles, thoughts, sorrows and their very hopes -were miserable, glamourless, and of no account in the world. And when -one thought of their reality to themselves one's heart became oppressed. -But of all the individuals who passed by none appeared to me for the -moment so pathetic in unconscious patience as the girl standing before -me; none more difficult to understand. It is perhaps because I was -thinking of things which I could not ask her about. - -In fact we had nothing to say to each other; but we two, strangers as we -really were to each other, had dealt with the most intimate and final of -subjects, the subject of death. It had created a sort of bond between -us. It made our silence weighty and uneasy. I ought to have left her -there and then; but, as I think I've told you before, the fact of having -shouted her away from the edge of a precipice seemed somehow to have -engaged my responsibility as to this other leap. And so we had still an -intimate subject between us to lend more weight and more uneasiness to -our silence. The subject of marriage. I use the word not so much in -reference to the ceremony itself (I had no doubt of this, Captain Anthony -being a decent fellow) or in view of the social institution in general, -as to which I have no opinion, but in regard to the human relation. The -first two views are not particularly interesting. The ceremony, I -suppose, is adequate; the institution, I dare say, is useful or it would -not have endured. But the human relation thus recognized is a mysterious -thing in its origins, character and consequences. Unfortunately you -can't buttonhole familiarly a young girl as you would a young fellow. I -don't think that even another woman could really do it. She would not be -trusted. There is not between women that fund of at least conditional -loyalty which men may depend on in their dealings with each other. I -believe that any woman would rather trust a man. The difficulty in such -a delicate case was how to get on terms. - -So we held our peace in the odious uproar of that wide roadway thronged -with heavy carts. Great vans carrying enormous piled-up loads advanced -swaying like mountains. It was as if the whole world existed only for -selling and buying and those who had nothing to do with the movement of -merchandise were of no account. - -"You must be tired," I said. One had to say something if only to assert -oneself against that wearisome, passionless and crushing uproar. She -raised her eyes for a moment. No, she was not. Not very. She had not -walked all the way. She came by train as far as Whitechapel Station and -had only walked from there. - -She had had an ugly pilgrimage; but whether of love or of necessity who -could tell? And that precisely was what I should have liked to get at. -This was not however a question to be asked point-blank, and I could not -think of any effective circumlocution. It occurred to me too that she -might conceivably know nothing of it herself--I mean by reflection. That -young woman had been obviously considering death. She had gone the -length of forming some conception of it. But as to its companion -fatality--love, she, I was certain, had never reflected upon its meaning. - -With that man in the hotel, whom I did not know, and this girl standing -before me in the street I felt that it was an exceptional case. He had -broken away from his surroundings; she stood outside the pale. One -aspect of conventions which people who declaim against them lose sight of -is that conventions make both joy and suffering easier to bear in a -becoming manner. But those two were outside all conventions. They would -be as untrammelled in a sense as the first man and the first woman. The -trouble was that I could not imagine anything about Flora de Barral and -the brother of Mrs. Fyne. Or, if you like, I could imagine _anything_ -which comes practically to the same thing. Darkness and chaos are first -cousins. I should have liked to ask the girl for a word which would give -my imagination its line. But how was one to venture so far? I can be -rough sometimes but I am not naturally impertinent. I would have liked -to ask her for instance: "Do you know what you have done with yourself?" -A question like that. Anyhow it was time for one of us to say something. -A question it must be. And the question I asked was: "So he's going to -show you the ship?" - -She seemed glad I had spoken at last and glad of the opportunity to speak -herself. - -"Yes. He said he would--this morning. Did you say you did not know -Captain Anthony?" - -"No. I don't know him. Is he anything like his sister?" - -She looked startled and murmured "Sister!" in a puzzled tone which -astonished me. "Oh! Mrs. Fyne," she exclaimed, recollecting herself, -and avoiding my eyes while I looked at her curiously. - -What an extraordinary detachment! And all the time the stream of shabby -people was hastening by us, with the continuous dreary shuffling of weary -footsteps on the flagstones. The sunshine falling on the grime of -surfaces, on the poverty of tones and forms seemed of an inferior -quality, its joy faded, its brilliance tarnished and dusty. I had to -raise my voice in the dull vibrating noise of the roadway. - -"You don't mean to say you have forgotten the connection?" - -She cried readily enough: "I wasn't thinking." And then, while I -wondered what could have been the images occupying her brain at this -time, she asked me: "You didn't see my letter to Mrs. Fyne--did you?" - -"No. I didn't," I shouted. Just then the racket was distracting, a pair- -horse trolly lightly loaded with loose rods of iron passing slowly very -near us. "I wasn't trusted so far." And remembering Mrs. Fyne's hints -that the girl was unbalanced, I added: "Was it an unreserved confession -you wrote?" - -She did not answer me for a time, and as I waited I thought that there's -nothing like a confession to make one look mad; and that of all -confessions a written one is the most detrimental all round. Never -confess! Never, never! An untimely joke is a source of bitter regret -always. Sometimes it may ruin a man; not because it is a joke, but -because it is untimely. And a confession of whatever sort is always -untimely. The only thing which makes it supportable for a while is -curiosity. You smile? Ah, but it is so, or else people would be sent to -the rightabout at the second sentence. How many sympathetic souls can -you reckon on in the world? One in ten, one in a hundred--in a -thousand--in ten thousand? Ah! What a sell these confessions are! What -a horrible sell! You seek sympathy, and all you get is the most -evanescent sense of relief--if you get that much. For a confession, -whatever it may be, stirs the secret depths of the hearer's character. -Often depths that he himself is but dimly aware of. And so the righteous -triumph secretly, the lucky are amused, the strong are disgusted, the -weak either upset or irritated with you according to the measure of their -sincerity with themselves. And all of them in their hearts brand you for -either mad or impudent . . . " - -I had seldom seen Marlow so vehement, so pessimistic, so earnestly -cynical before. I cut his declamation short by asking what answer Flora -de Barral had given to his question. "Did the poor girl admit firing off -her confidences at Mrs. Fyne--eight pages of close writing--that sort of -thing?" - -Marlow shook his head. - -"She did not tell me. I accepted her silence, as a kind of answer and -remarked that it would have been better if she had simply announced the -fact to Mrs. Fyne at the cottage. "Why didn't you do it?" I asked point- -blank. - -She said: "I am not a very plucky girl." She looked up at me and added -meaningly: "And _you_ know it. And you know why." - -I must remark that she seemed to have become very subdued since our first -meeting at the quarry. Almost a different person from the defiant, angry -and despairing girl with quivering lips and resentful glances. - -"I thought it was very sensible of you to get away from that sheer drop," -I said. - -She looked up with something of that old expression. - -"That's not what I mean. I see you will have it that you saved my life. -Nothing of the kind. I was concerned for that vile little beast of a -dog. No! It was the idea of--of doing away with myself which was -cowardly. That's what I meant by saying I am not a very plucky girl." - -"Oh!" I retorted airily. "That little dog. He isn't really a bad little -dog." But she lowered her eyelids and went on: - -"I was so miserable that I could think only of myself. This was mean. It -was cruel too. And besides I had _not_ given it up--not then." - -* * * * * - -Marlow changed his tone. - -"I don't know much of the psychology of self-destruction. It's a sort of -subject one has few opportunities to study closely. I knew a man once -who came to my rooms one evening, and while smoking a cigar confessed to -me moodily that he was trying to discover some graceful way of retiring -out of existence. I didn't study his case, but I had a glimpse of him -the other day at a cricket match, with some women, having a good time. -That seems a fairly reasonable attitude. Considered as a sin, it is a -case for repentance before the throne of a merciful God. But I imagine -that Flora de Barral's religion under the care of the distinguished -governess could have been nothing but outward formality. Remorse in the -sense of gnawing shame and unavailing regret is only understandable to me -when some wrong had been done to a fellow-creature. But why she, that -girl who existed on sufferance, so to speak--why she should writhe -inwardly with remorse because she had once thought of getting rid of a -life which was nothing in every respect but a curse--that I could not -understand. I thought it was very likely some obscure influence of -common forms of speech, some traditional or inherited feeling--a vague -notion that suicide is a legal crime; words of old moralists and -preachers which remain in the air and help to form all the authorized -moral conventions. Yes, I was surprised at her remorse. But lowering -her glance unexpectedly till her dark eye-lashes seemed to rest against -her white cheeks she presented a perfectly demure aspect. It was so -attractive that I could not help a faint smile. That Flora de Barral -should ever, in any aspect, have the power to evoke a smile was the very -last thing I should have believed. She went on after a slight -hesitation: - -"One day I started for there, for that place." - -Look at the influence of a mere play of physiognomy! If you remember -what we were talking about you will hardly believe that I caught myself -grinning down at that demure little girl. I must say too that I felt -more friendly to her at the moment than ever before. - -"Oh, you did? To take that jump? You are a determined young person. -Well, what happened that time?" - -An almost imperceptible alteration in her bearing; a slight droop of her -head perhaps--a mere nothing--made her look more demure than ever. - -"I had left the cottage," she began a little hurriedly. "I was walking -along the road--you know, _the_ road. I had made up my mind I was not -coming back this time." - -I won't deny that these words spoken from under the brim of her hat (oh -yes, certainly, her head was down--she had put it down) gave me a thrill; -for indeed I had never doubted her sincerity. It could never have been a -make-believe despair. - -"Yes," I whispered. "You were going along the road." - -"When . . . " Again she hesitated with an effect of innocent shyness -worlds asunder from tragic issues; then glided on . . . "When suddenly -Captain Anthony came through a gate out of a field." - -I coughed down the beginning of a most improper fit of laughter, and felt -ashamed of myself. Her eyes raised for a moment seemed full of innocent -suffering and unexpressed menace in the depths of the dilated pupils -within the rings of sombre blue. It was--how shall I say it?--a night -effect when you seem to see vague shapes and don't know what reality you -may come upon at any time. Then she lowered her eyelids again, shutting -all mysteriousness out of the situation except for the sobering memory of -that glance, nightlike in the sunshine, expressively still in the brutal -unrest of the street. - -"So Captain Anthony joined you--did he?" - -"He opened a field-gate and walked out on the road. He crossed to my -side and went on with me. He had his pipe in his hand. He said: 'Are -you going far this morning?'" - -These words (I was watching her white face as she spoke) gave me a slight -shudder. She remained demure, almost prim. And I remarked: - -"You have been talking together before, of course." - -"Not more than twenty words altogether since he arrived," she declared -without emphasis. "That day he had said 'Good morning' to me when we met -at breakfast two hours before. And I said good morning to him. I did -not see him afterwards till he came out on the road." - -I thought to myself that this was not accidental. He had been observing -her. I felt certain also that he had not been asking any questions of -Mrs. Fyne. - -"I wouldn't look at him," said Flora de Barral. "I had done with looking -at people. He said to me: 'My sister does not put herself out much for -us. We had better keep each other company. I have read every book there -is in that cottage.' I walked on. He did not leave me. I thought he -ought to. But he didn't. He didn't seem to notice that I would not talk -to him." - -She was now perfectly still. The wretched little parasol hung down -against her dress from her joined hands. I was rigid with attention. It -isn't every day that one culls such a volunteered tale on a girl's lips. -The ugly street-noises swelling up for a moment covered the next few -words she said. It was vexing. The next word I heard was "worried." - -"It worried you to have him there, walking by your side." - -"Yes. Just that," she went on with downcast eyes. There was something -prettily comical in her attitude and her tone, while I pictured to myself -a poor white-faced girl walking to her death with an unconscious man -striding by her side. Unconscious? I don't know. First of all, I felt -certain that this was no chance meeting. Something had happened before. -Was he a man for a _coup-de-foudre_, the lightning stroke of love? I -don't think so. That sort of susceptibility is luckily rare. A world of -inflammable lovers of the Romeo and Juliet type would very soon end in -barbarism and misery. But it is a fact that in every man (not in every -woman) there lives a lover; a lover who is called out in all his -potentialities often by the most insignificant little things--as long as -they come at the psychological moment: the glimpse of a face at an -unusual angle, an evanescent attitude, the curve of a cheek often looked -at before, perhaps, but then, at the moment, charged with astonishing -significance. These are great mysteries, of course. Magic signs. - -I don't know in what the sign consisted in this case. It might have been -her pallor (it wasn't pasty nor yet papery) that white face with eyes -like blue gleams of fire and lips like red coals. In certain lights, in -certain poises of head it suggested tragic sorrow. Or it might have been -her wavy hair. Or even just that pointed chin stuck out a little, -resentful and not particularly distinguished, doing away with the -mysterious aloofness of her fragile presence. But any way at a given -moment Anthony must have suddenly _seen_ the girl. And then, that -something had happened to him. Perhaps nothing more than the thought -coming into his head that this was "a possible woman." - -Followed this waylaying! Its resolute character makes me think it was -the chin's doing; that "common mortal" touch which stands in such good -stead to some women. Because men, I mean really masculine men, those -whose generations have evolved an ideal woman, are often very timid. Who -wouldn't be before the ideal? It's your sentimental trifler, who has -just missed being nothing at all, who is enterprising, simply because it -is easy to appear enterprising when one does not mean to put one's belief -to the test. - -Well, whatever it was that encouraged him, Captain Anthony stuck to Flora -de Barral in a manner which in a timid man might have been called heroic -if it had not been so simple. Whether policy, diplomacy, simplicity, or -just inspiration, he kept up his talk, rather deliberate, with very few -pauses. Then suddenly as if recollecting himself: - -"It's funny. I don't think you are annoyed with me for giving you my -company unasked. But why don't you say something?" - -I asked Miss de Barral what answer she made to this query. - -"I made no answer," she said in that even, unemotional low voice which -seemed to be her voice for delicate confidences. "I walked on. He did -not seem to mind. We came to the foot of the quarry where the road winds -up hill, past the place where you were sitting by the roadside that day. -I began to wonder what I should do. After we reached the top Captain -Anthony said that he had not been for a walk with a lady for years and -years--almost since he was a boy. We had then come to where I ought to -have turned off and struck across a field. I thought of making a run of -it. But he would have caught me up. I knew he would; and, of course, he -would not have allowed me. I couldn't give him the slip." - -"Why didn't you ask him to leave you?" I inquired curiously. - -"He would not have taken any notice," she went on steadily. "And what -could I have done then? I could not have started quarrelling with -him--could I? I hadn't enough energy to get angry. I felt very tired -suddenly. I just stumbled on straight along the road. Captain Anthony -told me that the family--some relations of his mother--he used to know in -Liverpool was broken up now, and he had never made any friends since. All -gone their different ways. All the girls married. Nice girls they were -and very friendly to him when he was but little more than a boy. He -repeated: 'Very nice, cheery, clever girls.' I sat down on a bank -against a hedge and began to cry." - -"You must have astonished him not a little," I observed. - -Anthony, it seems, remained on the road looking down at her. He did not -offer to approach her, neither did he make any other movement or gesture. -Flora de Barral told me all this. She could see him through her tears, -blurred to a mere shadow on the white road, and then again becoming more -distinct, but always absolutely still and as if lost in thought before a -strange phenomenon which demanded the closest possible attention. - -Flora learned later that he had never seen a woman cry; not in that way, -at least. He was impressed and interested by the mysteriousness of the -effect. She was very conscious of being looked at, but was not able to -stop herself crying. In fact, she was not capable of any effort. -Suddenly he advanced two steps, stooped, caught hold of her hands lying -on her lap and pulled her up to her feet; she found herself standing -close to him almost before she realized what he had done. Some people -were coming briskly along the road and Captain Anthony muttered: "You -don't want to be stared at. What about that stile over there? Can we go -back across the fields?" - -She snatched her hands out of his grasp (it seems he had omitted to let -them go), marched away from him and got over the stile. It was a big -field sprinkled profusely with white sheep. A trodden path crossed it -diagonally. After she had gone more than half way she turned her head -for the first time. Keeping five feet or so behind, Captain Anthony was -following her with an air of extreme interest. Interest or eagerness. At -any rate she caught an expression on his face which frightened her. But -not enough to make her run. And indeed it would have had to be something -incredibly awful to scare into a run a girl who had come to the end of -her courage to live. - -As if encouraged by this glance over the shoulder Captain Anthony came up -boldly, and now that he was by her side, she felt his nearness -intimately, like a touch. She tried to disregard this sensation. But -she was not angry with him now. It wasn't worth while. She was thankful -that he had the sense not to ask questions as to this crying. Of course -he didn't ask because he didn't care. No one in the world cared for her, -neither those who pretended nor yet those who did not pretend. She -preferred the latter. - -Captain Anthony opened for her a gate into another field; when they got -through he kept walking abreast, elbow to elbow almost. His voice -growled pleasantly in her very ear. Staying in this dull place was -enough to give anyone the blues. His sister scribbled all day. It was -positively unkind. He alluded to his nieces as rude, selfish monkeys, -without either feelings or manners. And he went on to talk about his -ship being laid up for a month and dismantled for repairs. The worst was -that on arriving in London he found he couldn't get the rooms he was used -to, where they made him as comfortable as such a confirmed sea-dog as -himself could be anywhere on shore. - -In the effort to subdue by dint of talking and to keep in check the -mysterious, the profound attraction he felt already for that delicate -being of flesh and blood, with pale cheeks, with darkened eyelids and -eyes scalded with hot tears, he went on speaking of himself as a -confirmed enemy of life on shore--a perfect terror to a simple man, what -with the fads and proprieties and the ceremonies and affectations. He -hated all that. He wasn't fit for it. There was no rest and peace and -security but on the sea. - -This gave one a view of Captain Anthony as a hermit withdrawn from a -wicked world. It was amusingly unexpected to me and nothing more. But -it must have appealed straight to that bruised and battered young soul. -Still shrinking from his nearness she had ended by listening to him with -avidity. His deep murmuring voice soothed her. And she thought suddenly -that there was peace and rest in the grave too. - -She heard him say: "Look at my sister. She isn't a bad woman by any -means. She asks me here because it's right and proper, I suppose, but -she has no use for me. There you have your shore people. I quite -understand anybody crying. I would have been gone already, only, truth -to say, I haven't any friends to go to." He added brusquely: "And you?" - -She made a slight negative sign. He must have been observing her, -putting two and two together. After a pause he said simply: "When I -first came here I thought you were governess to these girls. My sister -didn't say a word about you to me." - -Then Flora spoke for the first time. - -"Mrs. Fyne is my best friend." - -"So she is mine," he said without the slightest irony or bitterness, but -added with conviction: "That shows you what life ashore is. Much better -be out of it." - -As they were approaching the cottage he was heard again as though a long -silent walk had not intervened: "But anyhow I shan't ask her anything -about you." - -He stopped short and she went on alone. His last words had impressed -her. Everything he had said seemed somehow to have a special meaning -under its obvious conversational sense. Till she went in at the door of -the cottage she felt his eyes resting on her. - -That is it. He had made himself felt. That girl was, one may say, -washing about with slack limbs in the ugly surf of life with no -opportunity to strike out for herself, when suddenly she had been made to -feel that there was somebody beside her in the bitter water. A most -considerable moral event for her; whether she was aware of it or not. -They met again at the one o'clock dinner. I am inclined to think that, -being a healthy girl under her frail appearance, and fast walking and -what I may call relief-crying (there are many kinds of crying) making one -hungry, she made a good meal. It was Captain Anthony who had no -appetite. His sister commented on it in a curt, businesslike manner, and -the eldest of his delightful nieces said mockingly: "You have been taking -too much exercise this morning, Uncle Roderick." The mild Uncle Roderick -turned upon her with a "What do you know about it, young lady?" so -charged with suppressed savagery that the whole round table gave one gasp -and went dumb for the rest of the meal. He took no notice whatever of -Flora de Barral. I don't think it was from prudence or any calculated -motive. I believe he was so full of her aspects that he did not want to -look in her direction when there were other people to hamper his -imagination. - -You understand I am piecing here bits of disconnected statements. Next -day Flora saw him leaning over the field-gate. When she told me this, I -didn't of course ask her how it was she was there. Probably she could -not have told me how it was she was there. The difficulty here is to -keep steadily in view the then conditions of her existence, a combination -of dreariness and horror. - -That hermit-like but not exactly misanthropic sailor was leaning over the -gate moodily. When he saw the white-faced restless Flora drifting like a -lost thing along the road he put his pipe in his pocket and called out -"Good morning, Miss Smith" in a tone of amazing happiness. She, with one -foot in life and the other in a nightmare, was at the same time inert and -unstable, and very much at the mercy of sudden impulses. She swerved, -came distractedly right up to the gate and looking straight into his -eyes: "I am not Miss Smith. That's not my name. Don't call me by it." - -She was shaking as if in a passion. His eyes expressed nothing; he only -unlatched the gate in silence, grasped her arm and drew her in. Then -closing it with a kick-- - -"Not your name? That's all one to me. Your name's the least thing about -you I care for." He was leading her firmly away from the gate though she -resisted slightly. There was a sort of joy in his eyes which frightened -her. "You are not a princess in disguise," he said with an unexpected -laugh she found blood-curdling. "And that's all I care for. You had -better understand that I am not blind and not a fool. And then it's -plain for even a fool to see that things have been going hard with you. -You are on a lee shore and eating your heart out with worry." - -What seemed most awful to her was the elated light in his eyes, the -rapacious smile that would come and go on his lips as if he were gloating -over her misery. But her misery was his opportunity and he rejoiced -while the tenderest pity seemed to flood his whole being. He pointed out -to her that she knew who he was. He was Mrs. Fyne's brother. And, well, -if his sister was the best friend she had in the world, then, by Jove, it -was about time somebody came along to look after her a little. - -Flora had tried more than once to free herself, but he tightened his -grasp of her arm each time and even shook it a little without ceasing to -speak. The nearness of his face intimidated her. He seemed striving to -look her through. It was obvious the world had been using her ill. And -even as he spoke with indignation the very marks and stamp of this ill- -usage of which he was so certain seemed to add to the inexplicable -attraction he felt for her person. It was not pity alone, I take it. It -was something more spontaneous, perverse and exciting. It gave him the -feeling that if only he could get hold of her, no woman would belong to -him so completely as this woman. - -"Whatever your troubles," he said, "I am the man to take you away from -them; that is, if you are not afraid. You told me you had no friends. -Neither have I. Nobody ever cared for me as far as I can remember. -Perhaps you could. Yes, I live on the sea. But who would you be parting -from? No one. You have no one belonging to you." - -At this point she broke away from him and ran. He did not pursue her. -The tall hedges tossing in the wind, the wide fields, the clouds driving -over the sky and the sky itself wheeled about her in masses of green and -white and blue as if the world were breaking up silently in a whirl, and -her foot at the next step were bound to find the void. She reached the -gate all right, got out, and, once on the road, discovered that she had -not the courage to look back. The rest of that day she spent with the -Fyne girls who gave her to understand that she was a slow and -unprofitable person. Long after tea, nearly at dusk, Captain Anthony -(the son of the poet) appeared suddenly before her in the little garden -in front of the cottage. They were alone for the moment. The wind had -dropped. In the calm evening air the voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls -strolling aimlessly on the road could be heard. He said to her severely: - -"You have understood?" - -She looked at him in silence. - -"That I love you," he finished. - -She shook her head the least bit. - -"Don't you believe me?" he asked in a low, infuriated voice. - -"Nobody would love me," she answered in a very quiet tone. "Nobody -could." - -He was dumb for a time, astonished beyond measure, as he well might have -been. He doubted his ears. He was outraged. - -"Eh? What? Can't love you? What do you know about it? It's my affair, -isn't it? You dare say _that_ to a man who has just told you! You must -be mad!" - -"Very nearly," she said with the accent of pent-up sincerity, and even -relieved because she was able to say something which she felt was true. -For the last few days she had felt herself several times near that -madness which is but an intolerable lucidity of apprehension. - -The clear voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls were coming nearer, sounding -affected in the peace of the passion-laden earth. He began storming at -her hastily. - -"Nonsense! Nobody can . . . Indeed! Pah! You'll have to be shown that -somebody can. I can. Nobody . . . " He made a contemptuous hissing -noise. "More likely _you_ can't. They have done something to you. -Something's crushed your pluck. You can't face a man--that's what it is. -What made you like this? Where do you come from? You have been put -upon. The scoundrels--whoever they are, men or women, seem to have -robbed you of your very name. You say you are not Miss Smith. Who are -you, then?" - -She did not answer. He muttered, "Not that I care," and fell silent, -because the fatuous self-confident chatter of the Fyne girls could be -heard at the very gate. But they were not going to bed yet. They passed -on. He waited a little in silence and immobility, then stamped his foot -and lost control of himself. He growled at her in a savage passion. She -felt certain that he was threatening her and calling her names. She was -no stranger to abuse, as we know, but there seemed to be a particular -kind of ferocity in this which was new to her. She began to tremble. The -especially terrifying thing was that she could not make out the nature of -these awful menaces and names. Not a word. Yet it was not the shrinking -anguish of her other experiences of angry scenes. She made a mighty -effort, though her knees were knocking together, and in an expiring voice -demanded that he should let her go indoors. "Don't stop me. It's no -use. It's no use," she repeated faintly, feeling an invincible obstinacy -rising within her, yet without anger against that raging man. - -He became articulate suddenly, and, without raising his voice, perfectly -audible. - -"No use! No use! You dare stand here and tell me that--you white-faced -wisp, you wreath of mist, you little ghost of all the sorrow in the -world. You dare! Haven't I been looking at you? You are all eyes. What -makes your cheeks always so white as if you had seen something . . . -Don't speak. I love it . . . No use! And you really think that I can -now go to sea for a year or more, to the other side of the world -somewhere, leaving you behind. Why! You would vanish . . . what little -there is of you. Some rough wind will blow you away altogether. You -have no holding ground on earth. Well, then trust yourself to me--to the -sea--which is deep like your eyes." - -She said: "Impossible." He kept quiet for a while, then asked in a -totally changed tone, a tone of gloomy curiosity: - -"You can't stand me then? Is that it?" - -"No," she said, more steady herself. "I am not thinking of you at all." - -The inane voices of the Fyne girls were heard over the sombre fields -calling to each other, thin and clear. He muttered: "You could try to. -Unless you are thinking of somebody else." - -"Yes. I am thinking of somebody else, of someone who has nobody to think -of him but me." - -His shadowy form stepped out of her way, and suddenly leaned sideways -against the wooden support of the porch. And as she stood still, -surprised by this staggering movement, his voice spoke up in a tone quite -strange to her. - -"Go in then. Go out of my sight--I thought you said nobody could love -you." - -She was passing him when suddenly he struck her as so forlorn that she -was inspired to say: "No one has ever loved me--not in that way--if -that's what you mean. Nobody would." - -He detached himself brusquely from the post, and she did not shrink; but -Mrs. Fyne and the girls were already at the gate. - -All he understood was that everything was not over yet. There was no -time to lose; Mrs. Fyne and the girls had come in at the gate. He -whispered "Wait" with such authority (he was the son of Carleon Anthony, -the domestic autocrat) that it did arrest her for a moment, long enough -to hear him say that he could not be left like this to puzzle over her -nonsense all night. She was to slip down again into the garden later on, -as soon as she could do so without being heard. He would be there -waiting for her till--till daylight. She didn't think he could go to -sleep, did she? And she had better come, or--he broke off on an -unfinished threat. - -She vanished into the unlighted cottage just as Mrs. Fyne came up to the -porch. Nervous, holding her breath in the darkness of the living-room, -she heard her best friend say: "You ought to have joined us, Roderick." -And then: "Have you seen Miss Smith anywhere?" - -Flora shuddered, expecting Anthony to break out into betraying -imprecations on Miss Smith's head, and cause a painful and humiliating -explanation. She imagined him full of his mysterious ferocity. To her -great surprise, Anthony's voice sounded very much as usual, with perhaps -a slight tinge of grimness. "Miss Smith! No. I've seen no Miss Smith." - -Mrs. Fyne seemed satisfied--and not much concerned really. - -Flora, relieved, got clear away to her room upstairs, and shutting her -door quietly, dropped into a chair. She was used to reproaches, abuse, -to all sorts of wicked ill usage--short of actual beating on her body. -Otherwise inexplicable angers had cut and slashed and trampled down her -youth without mercy--and mainly, it appeared, because she was the -financier de Barral's daughter and also condemned to a degrading sort of -poverty through the action of treacherous men who had turned upon her -father in his hour of need. And she thought with the tenderest possible -affection of that upright figure buttoned up in a long frock-coat, soft- -voiced and having but little to say to his girl. She seemed to feel his -hand closed round hers. On his flying visits to Brighton he would always -walk hand in hand with her. People stared covertly at them; the band was -playing; and there was the sea--the blue gaiety of the sea. They were -quietly happy together . . . It was all over! - -An immense anguish of the present wrung her heart, and she nearly cried -aloud. That dread of what was before her which had been eating up her -courage slowly in the course of odious years, flamed up into an access of -panic, that sort of headlong panic which had already driven her out twice -to the top of the cliff-like quarry. She jumped up saying to herself: -"Why not now? At once! Yes. I'll do it now--in the dark!" The very -horror of it seemed to give her additional resolution. - -She came down the staircase quietly, and only on the point of opening the -door and because of the discovery that it was unfastened, she remembered -Captain Anthony's threat to stay in the garden all night. She hesitated. -She did not understand the mood of that man clearly. He was violent. But -she had gone beyond the point where things matter. What would he think -of her coming down to him--as he would naturally suppose. And even that -didn't matter. He could not despise her more than she despised herself. -She must have been light-headed because the thought came into her mind -that should he get into ungovernable fury from disappointment, and -perchance strangle her, it would be as good a way to be done with it as -any. - -"You had that thought," I exclaimed in wonder. - -With downcast eyes and speaking with an almost painstaking precision (her -very lips, her red lips, seemed to move just enough to be heard and no -more), she said that, yes, the thought came into her head. This makes -one shudder at the mysterious ways girls acquire knowledge. For this was -a thought, wild enough, I admit, but which could only have come from the -depths of that sort of experience which she had not had, and went far -beyond a young girl's possible conception of the strongest and most -veiled of human emotions. - -"He was there, of course?" I said. - -"Yes, he was there." She saw him on the path directly she stepped -outside the porch. He was very still. It was as though he had been -standing there with his face to the door for hours. - -Shaken up by the changing moods of passion and tenderness, he must have -been ready for any extravagance of conduct. Knowing the profound silence -each night brought to that nook of the country, I could imagine them -having the feeling of being the only two people on the wide earth. A row -of six or seven lofty elms just across the road opposite the cottage made -the night more obscure in that little garden. If these two could just -make out each other that was all. - -"Well! And were you very much terrified?" I asked. - -She made me wait a little before she said, raising her eyes: "He was -gentleness itself." - -I noticed three abominable, drink-sodden loafers, sallow and dirty, who -had come to range themselves in a row within ten feet of us against the -front of the public-house. They stared at Flora de Barral's back with -unseeing, mournful fixity. - -"Let's move this way a little," I proposed. - -She turned at once and we made a few paces; not too far to take us out of -sight of the hotel door, but very nearly. I could just keep my eyes on -it. After all, I had not been so very long with the girl. If you were -to disentangle the words we actually exchanged from my comments you would -see that they were not so very many, including everything she had so -unexpectedly told me of her story. No, not so very many. And now it -seemed as though there would be no more. No! I could expect no more. -The confidence was wonderful enough in its nature as far as it went, and -perhaps not to have been expected from any other girl under the sun. And -I felt a little ashamed. The origin of our intimacy was too gruesome. It -was as if listening to her I had taken advantage of having seen her poor -bewildered, scared soul without its veils. But I was curious, too; or, -to render myself justice without false modesty--I was anxious; anxious to -know a little more. - -I felt like a blackmailer all the same when I made my attempt with a -light-hearted remark. - -"And so you gave up that walk you proposed to take?" - -"Yes, I gave up the walk," she said slowly before raising her downcast -eyes. When she did so it was with an extraordinary effect. It was like -catching sight of a piece of blue sky, of a stretch of open water. And -for a moment I understood the desire of that man to whom the sea and sky -of his solitary life had appeared suddenly incomplete without that glance -which seemed to belong to them both. He was not for nothing the son of a -poet. I looked into those unabashed eyes while the girl went on, her -demure appearance and precise tone changed to a very earnest expression. -Woman is various indeed. - -"But I want you to understand, Mr. . . . " she had actually to think of -my name . . . "Mr. Marlow, that I have written to Mrs. Fyne that I -haven't been--that I have done nothing to make Captain Anthony behave to -me as he had behaved. I haven't. I haven't. It isn't my doing. It -isn't my fault--if she likes to put it in that way. But she, with her -ideas, ought to understand that I couldn't, that I couldn't . . . I know -she hates me now. I think she never liked me. I think nobody ever cared -for me. I was told once nobody could care for me; and I think it is -true. At any rate I can't forget it." - -Her abominable experience with the governess had implanted in her unlucky -breast a lasting doubt, an ineradicable suspicion of herself and of -others. I said: - -"Remember, Miss de Barral, that to be fair you must trust a man -altogether--or not at all." - -She dropped her eyes suddenly. I thought I heard a faint sigh. I tried -to take a light tone again, and yet it seemed impossible to get off the -ground which gave me my standing with her. - -"Mrs. Fyne is absurd. She's an excellent woman, but really you could not -be expected to throw away your chance of life simply that she might -cherish a good opinion of your memory. That would be excessive." - -"It was not of my life that I was thinking while Captain Anthony was--was -speaking to me," said Flora de Barral with an effort. - -I told her that she was wrong then. She ought to have been thinking of -her life, and not only of her life but of the life of the man who was -speaking to her too. She let me finish, then shook her head impatiently. - -"I mean--death." - -"Well," I said, "when he stood before you there, outside the cottage, he -really stood between you and that. I have it out of your own mouth. You -can't deny it." - -"If you will have it that he saved my life, then he has got it. It was -not for me. Oh no! It was not for me that I--It was not fear! There!" -She finished petulantly: "And you may just as well know it." - -She hung her head and swung the parasol slightly to and fro. I thought a -little. - -"Do you know French, Miss de Barral?" I asked. - -She made a sign with her head that she did, but without showing any -surprise at the question and without ceasing to swing her parasol. - -"Well then, somehow or other I have the notion that Captain Anthony is -what the French call _un galant homme_. I should like to think he is -being treated as he deserves." - -The form of her lips (I could see them under the brim of her hat) was -suddenly altered into a line of seriousness. The parasol stopped -swinging. - -"I have given him what he wanted--that's myself," she said without a -tremor and with a striking dignity of tone. - -Impressed by the manner and the directness of the words, I hesitated for -a moment what to say. Then made up my mind to clear up the point. - -"And you have got what you wanted? Is that it?" - -The daughter of the egregious financier de Barral did not answer at once -this question going to the heart of things. Then raising her head and -gazing wistfully across the street noisy with the endless transit of -innumerable bargains, she said with intense gravity: - -"He has been most generous." - -I was pleased to hear these words. Not that I doubted the infatuation of -Roderick Anthony, but I was pleased to hear something which proved that -she was sensible and open to the sentiment of gratitude which in this -case was significant. In the face of man's desire a girl is excusable if -she thinks herself priceless. I mean a girl of our civilization which -has established a dithyrambic phraseology for the expression of love. A -man in love will accept any convention exalting the object of his passion -and in this indirect way his passion itself. In what way the captain of -the ship _Ferndale_ gave proofs of lover-like lavishness I could not -guess very well. But I was glad she was appreciative. It is lucky that -small things please women. And it is not silly of them to be thus -pleased. It is in small things that the deepest loyalty, that which they -need most, the loyalty of the passing moment, is best expressed. - -She had remained thoughtful, letting her deep motionless eyes rest on the -streaming jumble of traffic. Suddenly she said: - -"And I wanted to ask you . . . I was really glad when I saw you actually -here. Who would have expected you here, at this spot, before this hotel! -I certainly never . . . You see it meant a lot to me. You are the only -person who knows . . . who knows for certain . . . " - -"Knows what?" I said, not discovering at first what she had in her mind. -Then I saw it. "Why can't you leave that alone?" I remonstrated, rather -annoyed at the invidious position she was forcing on me in a sense. "It's -true that I was the only person to see," I added. "But, as it happens, -after your mysterious disappearance I told the Fynes the story of our -meeting." - -Her eyes raised to mine had an expression of dreamy, unfathomable -candour, if I dare say so. And if you wonder what I mean I can only say -that I have seen the sea wear such an expression on one or two occasions -shortly before sunrise on a calm, fresh day. She said as if meditating -aloud that she supposed the Fynes were not likely to talk about that. She -couldn't imagine any connection in which . . . Why should they? - -As her tone had become interrogatory I assented. "To be sure. There's -no reason whatever--" thinking to myself that they would be more likely -indeed to keep quiet about it. They had other things to talk of. And -then remembering little Fyne stuck upstairs for an unconscionable time, -enough to blurt out everything he ever knew in his life, I reflected that -he would assume naturally that Captain Anthony had nothing to learn from -him about Flora de Barral. It had been up to now my assumption too. I -saw my mistake. The sincerest of women will make no unnecessary -confidences to a man. And this is as it should be. - -"No--no!" I said reassuringly. "It's most unlikely. Are you much -concerned?" - -"Well, you see, when I came down," she said again in that precise demure -tone, "when I came down--into the garden Captain Anthony misunderstood--" - -"Of course he would. Men are so conceited," I said. - -I saw it well enough that he must have thought she had come down to him. -What else could he have thought? And then he had been "gentleness -itself." A new experience for that poor, delicate, and yet so resisting -creature. Gentleness in passion! What could have been more seductive to -the scared, starved heart of that girl? Perhaps had he been violent, she -might have told him that what she came down to keep was the tryst of -death--not of love. It occurred to me as I looked at her, young, fragile -in aspect, and intensely alive in her quietness, that perhaps she did not -know herself then what sort of tryst she was coming down to keep. - -She smiled faintly, almost awkwardly as if she were totally unused to -smiling, at my cheap jocularity. Then she said with that forced -precision, a sort of conscious primness: - -"I didn't want him to know." - -I approved heartily. Quite right. Much better. Let him ever remain -under his misapprehension which was so much more flattering for him. - -I tried to keep it in the tone of comedy; but she was, I believe, too -simple to understand my intention. She went on, looking down. - -"Oh! You think so? When I saw you I didn't know why you were here. I -was glad when you spoke to me because this is exactly what I wanted to -ask you for. I wanted to ask you if you ever meet Captain Anthony--by -any chance--anywhere--you are a sailor too, are you not?--that you would -never mention--never--that--that you had seen me over there." - -"My dear young lady," I cried, horror-struck at the supposition. "Why -should I? What makes you think I should dream of . . . " - -She had raised her head at my vehemence. She did not understand it. The -world had treated her so dishonourably that she had no notion even of -what mere decency of feeling is like. It was not her fault. Indeed, I -don't know why she should have put her trust in anybody's promises. - -But I thought it would be better to promise. So I assured her that she -could depend on my absolute silence. - -"I am not likely to ever set eyes on Captain Anthony," I added with -conviction--as a further guarantee. - -She accepted my assurance in silence, without a sign. Her gravity had in -it something acute, perhaps because of that chin. While we were still -looking at each other she declared: - -"There's no deception in it really. I want you to believe that if I am -here, like this, to-day, it is not from fear. It is not!" - -"I quite understand," I said. But her firm yet self-conscious gaze -became doubtful. "I do," I insisted. "I understand perfectly that it -was not of death that you were afraid." - -She lowered her eyes slowly, and I went on: - -"As to life, that's another thing. And I don't know that one ought to -blame you very much--though it seemed rather an excessive step. I wonder -now if it isn't the ugliness rather than the pain of the struggle which -. . . " - -She shuddered visibly: "But I do blame myself," she exclaimed with -feeling. "I am ashamed." And, dropping her head, she looked in a moment -the very picture of remorse and shame. - -"Well, you will be going away from all its horrors," I said. "And surely -you are not afraid of the sea. You are a sailor's granddaughter, I -understand." - -She sighed deeply. She remembered her grandfather only a little. He was -a clean-shaven man with a ruddy complexion and long, perfectly white -hair. He used to take her on his knee, and putting his face near hers, -talk to her in loving whispers. If only he were alive now . . . ! - -She remained silent for a while. - -"Aren't you anxious to see the ship?" I asked. - -She lowered her head still more so that I could not see anything of her -face. - -"I don't know," she murmured. - -I had already the suspicion that she did not know her own feelings. All -this work of the merest chance had been so unexpected, so sudden. And -she had nothing to fall back upon, no experience but such as to shake her -belief in every human being. She was dreadfully and pitifully forlorn. -It was almost in order to comfort my own depression that I remarked -cheerfully: - -"Well, I know of somebody who must be growing extremely anxious to see -you." - -"I am before my time," she confessed simply, rousing herself. "I had -nothing to do. So I came out." - -I had the sudden vision of a shabby, lonely little room at the other end -of the town. It had grown intolerable to her restlessness. The mere -thought of it oppressed her. Flora de Barral was looking frankly at her -chance confidant, - -"And I came this way," she went on. "I appointed the time myself -yesterday, but Captain Anthony would not have minded. He told me he was -going to look over some business papers till I came." - -The idea of the son of the poet, the rescuer of the most forlorn damsel -of modern times, the man of violence, gentleness and generosity, sitting -up to his neck in ship's accounts amused me. "I am sure he would not -have minded," I said, smiling. But the girl's stare was sombre, her thin -white face seemed pathetically careworn. - -"I can hardly believe yet," she murmured anxiously. - -"It's quite real. Never fear," I said encouragingly, but had to change -my tone at once. "You had better go down that way a little," I directed -her abruptly. - -* * * * * - -I had seen Fyne come striding out of the hotel door. The intelligent -girl, without staying to ask questions, walked away from me quietly down -one street while I hurried on to meet Fyne coming up the other at his -efficient pedestrian gait. My object was to stop him getting as far as -the corner. He must have been thinking too hard to be aware of his -surroundings. I put myself in his way, and he nearly walked into me. - -"Hallo!" I said. - -His surprise was extreme. "You here! You don't mean to say you have -been waiting for me?" - -I said negligently that I had been detained by unexpected business in the -neighbourhood, and thus happened to catch sight of him coming out. - -He stared at me with solemn distraction, obviously thinking of something -else. I suggested that he had better take the next city-ward tramcar. He -was inattentive, and I perceived that he was profoundly perturbed. As -Miss de Barral (she had moved out of sight) could not possibly approach -the hotel door as long as we remained where we were I proposed that we -should wait for the car on the other side of the street. He obeyed -rather the slight touch on his arm than my words, and while we were -crossing the wide roadway in the midst of the lumbering wheeled traffic, -he exclaimed in his deep tone, "I don't know which of these two is more -mad than the other!" - -"Really!" I said, pulling him forward from under the noses of two -enormous sleepy-headed cart-horses. He skipped wildly out of the way and -up on the curbstone with a purely instinctive precision; his mind had -nothing to do with his movements. In the middle of his leap, and while -in the act of sailing gravely through the air, he continued to relieve -his outraged feelings. - -"You would never believe! They _are_ mad!" - -I took care to place myself in such a position that to face me he had to -turn his back on the hotel across the road. I believe he was glad I was -there to talk to. But I thought there was some misapprehension in the -first statement he shot out at me without loss of time, that Captain -Anthony had been glad to see him. It was indeed difficult to believe -that, directly he opened the door, his wife's "sailor-brother" had -positively shouted: "Oh, it's you! The very man I wanted to see." - -"I found him sitting there," went on Fyne impressively in his effortless, -grave chest voice, "drafting his will." - -This was unexpected, but I preserved a noncommittal attitude, knowing -full well that our actions in themselves are neither mad nor sane. But I -did not see what there was to be excited about. And Fyne was distinctly -excited. I understood it better when I learned that the captain of the -_Ferndale_ wanted little Fyne to be one of the trustees. He was leaving -everything to his wife. Naturally, a request which involved him into -sanctioning in a way a proceeding which he had been sent by his wife to -oppose, must have appeared sufficiently mad to Fyne. - -"Me! Me, of all people in the world!" he repeated portentously. But I -could see that he was frightened. Such want of tact! - -"He knew I came from his sister. You don't put a man into such an -awkward position," complained Fyne. "It made me speak much more strongly -against all this very painful business than I would have had the heart to -do otherwise." - -I pointed out to him concisely, and keeping my eyes on the door of the -hotel, that he and his wife were the only bond with the land Captain -Anthony had. Who else could he have asked? - -"I explained to him that he was breaking this bond," declared Fyne -solemnly. "Breaking it once for all. And for what--for what?" - -He glared at me. I could perhaps have given him an inkling for what, but -I said nothing. He started again: - -"My wife assures me that the girl does not love him a bit. She goes by -that letter she received from her. There is a passage in it where she -practically admits that she was quite unscrupulous in accepting this -offer of marriage, but says to my wife that she supposes she, my wife, -will not blame her--as it was in self-defence. My wife has her own -ideas, but this is an outrageous misapprehension of her views. -Outrageous." - -The good little man paused and then added weightily: - -"I didn't tell that to my brother-in-law--I mean, my wife's views." - -"No," I said. "What would have been the good?" - -"It's positive infatuation," agreed little Fyne, in the tone as though he -had made an awful discovery. "I have never seen anything so hopeless and -inexplicable in my life. I--I felt quite frightened and sorry," he -added, while I looked at him curiously asking myself whether this -excellent civil servant and notable pedestrian had felt the breath of a -great and fatal love-spell passing him by in the room of that East-end -hotel. He did look for a moment as though he had seen a ghost, an other- -world thing. But that look vanished instantaneously, and he nodded at me -with mere exasperation at something quite of this world--whatever it was. -"It's a bad business. My brother-in-law knows nothing of women," he -cried with an air of profound, experienced wisdom. - -What he imagined he knew of women himself I can't tell. I did not know -anything of the opportunities he might have had. But this is a subject -which, if approached with undue solemnity, is apt to elude one's grasp -entirely. No doubt Fyne knew something of a woman who was Captain -Anthony's sister. But that, admittedly, had been a very solemn study. I -smiled at him gently, and as if encouraged or provoked, he completed his -thought rather explosively. - -"And that girl understands nothing . . . It's sheer lunacy." - -"I don't know," I said, "whether the circumstances of isolation at sea -would be any alleviation to the danger. But it's certain that they shall -have the opportunity to learn everything about each other in a lonely -_tete-a-tete_." - -"But dash it all," he cried in hollow accents which at the same time had -the tone of bitter irony--I had never before heard a sound so quaintly -ugly and almost horrible--"You forget Mr. Smith." - -"What Mr. Smith?" I asked innocently. - -Fyne made an extraordinary simiesque grimace. I believe it was quite -involuntary, but you know that a grave, much-lined, shaven countenance -when distorted in an unusual way is extremely apelike. It was a -surprising sight, and rendered me not only speechless but stopped the -progress of my thought completely. I must have presented a remarkably -imbecile appearance. - -"My brother-in-law considered it amusing to chaff me about us introducing -the girl as Miss Smith," said Fyne, going surly in a moment. "He said -that perhaps if he had heard her real name from the first it might have -restrained him. As it was, he made the discovery too late. Asked me to -tell Zoe this together with a lot more nonsense." - -Fyne gave me the impression of having escaped from a man inspired by a -grimly playful ebullition of high spirits. It must have been most -distasteful to him; and his solemnity got damaged somehow in the process, -I perceived. There were holes in it through which I could see a new, an -unknown Fyne. - -"You wouldn't believe it," he went on, "but she looks upon her father -exclusively as a victim. I don't know," he burst out suddenly through an -enormous rent in his solemnity, "if she thinks him absolutely a saint, -but she certainly imagines him to be a martyr." - -It is one of the advantages of that magnificent invention, the prison, -that you may forget people which are put there as though they were dead. -One needn't worry about them. Nothing can happen to them that you can -help. They can do nothing which might possibly matter to anybody. They -come out of it, though, but that seems hardly an advantage to themselves -or anyone else. I had completely forgotten the financier de Barral. The -girl for me was an orphan, but now I perceived suddenly the force of -Fyne's qualifying statement, "to a certain extent." It would have been -infinitely more kind all round for the law to have shot, beheaded, -strangled, or otherwise destroyed this absurd de Barral, who was a danger -to a moral world inhabited by a credulous multitude not fit to take care -of itself. But I observed to Fyne that, however insane was the view she -held, one could not declare the girl mad on that account. - -"So she thinks of her father--does she? I suppose she would appear to us -saner if she thought only of herself." - -"I am positive," Fyne said earnestly, "that she went and made desperate -eyes at Anthony . . . " - -"Oh come!" I interrupted. "You haven't seen her make eyes. You don't -know the colour of her eyes." - -"Very well! It don't matter. But it could hardly have come to that if -she hadn't . . . It's all one, though. I tell you she has led him on, or -accepted him, if you like, simply because she was thinking of her father. -She doesn't care a bit about Anthony, I believe. She cares for no one. -Never cared for anyone. Ask Zoe. For myself I don't blame her," added -Fyne, giving me another view of unsuspected things through the rags and -tatters of his damaged solemnity. "No! by heavens, I don't blame her--the -poor devil." - -I agreed with him silently. I suppose affections are, in a sense, to be -learned. If there exists a native spark of love in all of us, it must be -fanned while we are young. Hers, if she ever had it, had been drenched -in as ugly a lot of corrosive liquid as could be imagined. But I was -surprised at Fyne obscurely feeling this. - -"She loves no one except that preposterous advertising shark," he pursued -venomously, but in a more deliberate manner. "And Anthony knows it." - -"Does he?" I said doubtfully. - -"She's quite capable of having told him herself," affirmed Fyne, with -amazing insight. "But whether or no, _I've_ told him." - -"You did? From Mrs. Fyne, of course." - -Fyne only blinked owlishly at this piece of my insight. - -"And how did Captain Anthony receive this interesting information?" I -asked further. - -"Most improperly," said Fyne, who really was in a state in which he -didn't mind what he blurted out. "He isn't himself. He begged me to -tell his sister that he offered no remarks on her conduct. Very improper -and inconsequent. He said . . . I was tired of this wrangling. I told -him I made allowances for the state of excitement he was in." - -"You know, Fyne," I said, "a man in jail seems to me such an incredible, -cruel, nightmarish sort of thing that I can hardly believe in his -existence. Certainly not in relation to any other existences." - -"But dash it all," cried Fyne, "he isn't shut up for life. They are -going to let him out. He's coming out! That's the whole trouble. What -is he coming out to, I want to know? It seems a more cruel business than -the shutting him up was. This has been the worry for weeks. Do you see -now?" - -I saw, all sorts of things! Immediately before me I saw the excitement -of little Fyne--mere food for wonder. Further off, in a sort of gloom -and beyond the light of day and the movement of the street, I saw the -figure of a man, stiff like a ramrod, moving with small steps, a slight -girlish figure by his side. And the gloom was like the gloom of -villainous slums, of misery, of wretchedness, of a starved and degraded -existence. It was a relief that I could see only their shabby hopeless -backs. He was an awful ghost. But indeed to call him a ghost was only a -refinement of polite speech, and a manner of concealing one's terror of -such things. Prisons are wonderful contrivances. Shut--open. Very -neat. Shut--open. And out comes some sort of corpse, to wander awfully -in a world in which it has no possible connections and carrying with it -the appalling tainted atmosphere of its silent abode. Marvellous -arrangement. It works automatically, and, when you look at it, the -perfection makes you sick; which for a mere mechanism is no mean triumph. -Sick and scared. It had nearly scared that poor girl to her death. Fancy -having to take such a thing by the hand! Now I understood the remorseful -strain I had detected in her speeches. - -"By Jove!" I said. "They are about to let him out! I never thought of -that." - -Fyne was contemptuous either of me or of things at large. - -"You didn't suppose he was to be kept in jail for life?" - -At that moment I caught sight of Flora de Barral at the junction of the -two streets. Then some vehicles following each other in quick succession -hid from my sight the black slight figure with just a touch of colour in -her hat. She was walking slowly; and it might have been caution or -reluctance. While listening to Fyne I stared hard past his shoulder -trying to catch sight of her again. He was going on with positive heat, -the rags of his solemnity dropping off him at every second sentence. - -That was just it. His wife and he had been perfectly aware of it. Of -course the girl never talked of her father with Mrs. Fyne. I suppose -with her theory of innocence she found it difficult. But she must have -been thinking of it day and night. What to do with him? Where to go? -How to keep body and soul together? He had never made any friends. The -only relations were the atrocious East-end cousins. We know what they -were. Nothing but wretchedness, whichever way she turned in an unjust -and prejudiced world. And to look at him helplessly she felt would be -too much for her. - -I won't say I was thinking these thoughts. It was not necessary. This -complete knowledge was in my head while I stared hard across the wide -road, so hard that I failed to hear little Fyne till he raised his deep -voice indignantly. - -"I don't blame the girl," he was saying. "He is infatuated with her. -Anybody can see that. Why she should have got such a hold on him I can't -understand. She said "Yes" to him only for the sake of that fatuous, -swindling father of hers. It's perfectly plain if one thinks it over a -moment. One needn't even think of it. We have it under her own hand. In -that letter to my wife she says she has acted unscrupulously. She has -owned up, then, for what else can it mean, I should like to know. And so -they are to be married before that old idiot comes out . . . He will be -surprised," commented Fyne suddenly in a strangely malignant tone. "He -shall be met at the jail door by a Mrs. Anthony, a Mrs. Captain Anthony. -Very pleasant for Zoe. And for all I know, my brother-in-law means to -turn up dutifully too. A little family event. It's extremely pleasant -to think of. Delightful. A charming family party. We three against the -world--and all that sort of thing. And what for. For a girl that -doesn't care twopence for him." - -The demon of bitterness had entered into little Fyne. He amazed me as -though he had changed his skin from white to black. It was quite as -wonderful. And he kept it up, too. - -"Luckily there are some advantages in the--the profession of a sailor. As -long as they defy the world away at sea somewhere eighteen thousand miles -from here, I don't mind so much. I wonder what that interesting old -party will say. He will have another surprise. They mean to drag him -along with them on board the ship straight away. Rescue work. Just -think of Roderick Anthony, the son of a gentleman, after all . . . " - -He gave me a little shock. I thought he was going to say the "son of the -poet" as usual; but his mind was not running on such vanities now. His -unspoken thought must have gone on "and uncle of my girls." I suspect -that he had been roughly handled by Captain Anthony up there, and the -resentment gave a tremendous fillip to the slow play of his wits. Those -men of sober fancy, when anything rouses their imaginative faculty, are -very thorough. "Just think!" he cried. "The three of them crowded into -a four-wheeler, and Anthony sitting deferentially opposite that -astonished old jail-bird!" - -The good little man laughed. An improper sound it was to come from his -manly chest; and what made it worse was the thought that for the least -thing, by a mere hair's breadth, he might have taken this affair -sentimentally. But clearly Anthony was no diplomatist. His brother-in- -law must have appeared to him, to use the language of shore people, a -perfect philistine with a heart like a flint. What Fyne precisely meant -by "wrangling" I don't know, but I had no doubt that these two had -"wrangled" to a profoundly disturbing extent. How much the other was -affected I could not even imagine; but the man before me was quite -amazingly upset. - -"In a four-wheeler! Take him on board!" I muttered, startled by the -change in Fyne. - -"That's the plan--nothing less. If I am to believe what I have been -told, his feet will scarcely touch the ground between the prison-gates -and the deck of that ship." - -The transformed Fyne spoke in a forcibly lowered tone which I heard -without difficulty. The rumbling, composite noises of the street were -hushed for a moment, during one of these sudden breaks in the traffic as -if the stream of commerce had dried up at its source. Having an -unobstructed view past Fyne's shoulder, I was astonished to see that the -girl was still there. I thought she had gone up long before. But there -was her black slender figure, her white face under the roses of her hat. -She stood on the edge of the pavement as people stand on the bank of a -stream, very still, as if waiting--or as if unconscious of where she was. -The three dismal, sodden loafers (I could see them too; they hadn't -budged an inch) seemed to me to be watching her. Which was horrible. - -Meantime Fyne was telling me rather remarkable things--for him. He -declared first it was a mercy in a sense. Then he asked me if it were -not real madness, to saddle one's existence with such a perpetual -reminder. The daily existence. The isolated sea-bound existence. To -bring such an additional strain into the solitude already trying enough -for two people was the craziest thing. Undesirable relations were bad -enough on shore. One could cut them or at least forget their existence -now and then. He himself was preparing to forget his brother-in-law's -existence as much as possible. - -That was the general sense of his remarks, not his exact words. I -thought that his wife's brother's existence had never been very -embarrassing to him but that now of course he would have to abstain from -his allusions to the "son of the poet--you know." I said "yes, yes" in -the pauses because I did not want him to turn round; and all the time I -was watching the girl intently. I thought I knew now what she meant with -her--"He was most generous." Yes. Generosity of character may carry a -man through any situation. But why didn't she go then to her generous -man? Why stand there as if clinging to this solid earth which she surely -hated as one must hate the place where one has been tormented, hopeless, -unhappy? Suddenly she stirred. Was she going to cross over? No. She -turned and began to walk slowly close to the curbstone, reminding me of -the time when I discovered her walking near the edge of a ninety-foot -sheer drop. It was the same impression, the same carriage, straight, -slim, with rigid head and the two hands hanging lightly clasped in -front--only now a small sunshade was dangling from them. I saw something -fateful in that deliberate pacing towards the inconspicuous door with the -words _Hotel Entrance_ on the glass panels. - -She was abreast of it now and I thought that she would stop again; but -no! She swerved rigidly--at the moment there was no one near her; she -had that bit of pavement to herself--with inanimate slowness as if moved -by something outside herself. - -"A confounded convict," Fyne burst out. - -With the sound of that word offending my ears I saw the girl extend her -arm, push the door open a little way and glide in. I saw plainly that -movement, the hand put out in advance with the gesture of a sleep-walker. - -She had vanished, her black figure had melted in the darkness of the open -door. For some time Fyne said nothing; and I thought of the girl going -upstairs, appearing before the man. Were they looking at each other in -silence and feeling they were alone in the world as lovers should at the -moment of meeting? But that fine forgetfulness was surely impossible to -Anthony the seaman directly after the wrangling interview with Fyne the -emissary of an order of things which stops at the edge of the sea. How -much he was disturbed I couldn't tell because I did not know what that -impetuous lover had had to listen to. - -"Going to take the old fellow to sea with them," I said. "Well I really -don't see what else they could have done with him. You told your brother- -in-law what you thought of it? I wonder how he took it." - -"Very improperly," repeated Fyne. "His manner was offensive, derisive, -from the first. I don't mean he was actually rude in words. Hang it -all, I am not a contemptible ass. But he was exulting at having got hold -of a miserable girl." - -"It is pretty certain that she will be much less poor and miserable," I -murmured. - -It looked as if the exultation of Captain Anthony had got on Fyne's -nerves. "I told the fellow very plainly that he was abominably selfish -in this," he affirmed unexpectedly. - -"You did! Selfish!" I said rather taken aback. "But what if the girl -thought that, on the contrary, he was most generous." - -"What do you know about it," growled Fyne. The rents and slashes of his -solemnity were closing up gradually but it was going to be a surly -solemnity. "Generosity! I am disposed to give it another name. No. Not -folly," he shot out at me as though I had meant to interrupt him. "Still -another. Something worse. I need not tell you what it is," he added -with grim meaning. - -"Certainly. You needn't--unless you like," I said blankly. Little Fyne -had never interested me so much since the beginning of the de -Barral-Anthony affair when I first perceived possibilities in him. The -possibilities of dull men are exciting because when they happen they -suggest legendary cases of "possession," not exactly by the devil but, -anyhow, by a strange spirit. - -"I told him it was a shame," said Fyne. "Even if the girl did make eyes -at him--but I think with you that she did not. Yes! A shame to take -advantage of a girl's--a distresses girl that does not love him in the -least." - -"You think it's so bad as that?" I said. "Because you know I don't." - -"What can you think about it," he retorted on me with a solemn stare. "I -go by her letter to my wife." - -"Ah! that famous letter. But you haven't actually read it," I said. - -"No, but my wife told me. Of course it was a most improper sort of -letter to write considering the circumstances. It pained Mrs. Fyne to -discover how thoroughly she had been misunderstood. But what is written -is not all. It's what my wife could read between the lines. She says -that the girl is really terrified at heart." - -"She had not much in life to give her any very special courage for it, or -any great confidence in mankind. That's very true. But this seems an -exaggeration." - -"I should like to know what reasons you have to say that," asked Fyne -with offended solemnity. "I really don't see any. But I had sufficient -authority to tell my brother-in-law that if he thought he was going to do -something chivalrous and fine he was mistaken. I can see very well that -he will do everything she asks him to do--but, all the same, it is rather -a pitiless transaction." - -For a moment I felt it might be so. Fyne caught sight of an approaching -tram-car and stepped out on the road to meet it. "Have you a more -compassionate scheme ready?" I called after him. He made no answer, -clambered on to the rear platform, and only then looked back. We -exchanged a perfunctory wave of the hand. We also looked at each other, -he rather angrily, I fancy, and I with wonder. I may also mention that -it was for the last time. From that day I never set eyes on the Fynes. -As usual the unexpected happened to me. It had nothing to do with Flora -de Barral. The fact is that I went away. My call was not like her call. -Mine was not urged on me with passionate vehemence or tender gentleness -made all the finer and more compelling by the allurements of generosity -which is a virtue as mysterious as any other but having a glamour of its -own. No, it was just a prosaic offer of employment on rather good terms -which, with a sudden sense of having wasted my time on shore long enough, -I accepted without misgivings. And once started out of my indolence I -went, as my habit was, very, very far away and for a long, long time. -Which is another proof of my indolence. How far Flora went I can't say. -But I will tell you my idea: my idea is that she went as far as she was -able--as far as she could bear it--as far as she had to . . . " - - - - -PART II--THE KNIGHT - - -CHAPTER ONE--THE FERNDALE - - -I have said that the story of Flora de Barral was imparted to me in -stages. At this stage I did not see Marlow for some time. At last, one -evening rather early, very soon after dinner, he turned up in my rooms. - -I had been waiting for his call primed with a remark which had not -occurred to me till after he had gone away. - -"I say," I tackled him at once, "how can you be certain that Flora de -Barral ever went to sea? After all, the wife of the captain of the -_Ferndale_--" the lady that mustn't be disturbed "of the old -ship-keeper--may not have been Flora." - -"Well, I do know," he said, "if only because I have been keeping in touch -with Mr. Powell." - -"You have!" I cried. "This is the first I hear of it. And since when?" - -"Why, since the first day. You went up to town leaving me in the inn. I -slept ashore. In the morning Mr. Powell came in for breakfast; and after -the first awkwardness of meeting a man you have been yarning with over- -night had worn off, we discovered a liking for each other." - -As I had discovered the fact of their mutual liking before either of -them, I was not surprised. - -"And so you kept in touch," I said. - -"It was not so very difficult. As he was always knocking about the river -I hired Dingle's sloop-rigged three-tonner to be more on an equality. -Powell was friendly but elusive. I don't think he ever wanted to avoid -me. But it is a fact that he used to disappear out of the river in a -very mysterious manner sometimes. A man may land anywhere and bolt -inland--but what about his five-ton cutter? You can't carry that in your -hand like a suit-case. - -"Then as suddenly he would reappear in the river, after one had given him -up. I did not like to be beaten. That's why I hired Dingle's decked -boat. There was just the accommodation in her to sleep a man and a dog. -But I had no dog-friend to invite. Fyne's dog who saved Flora de -Barral's life is the last dog-friend I had. I was rather lonely cruising -about; but that, too, on the river has its charm, sometimes. I chased -the mystery of the vanishing Powell dreamily, looking about me at the -ships, thinking of the girl Flora, of life's chances--and, do you know, -it was very simple." - -"What was very simple?" I asked innocently. - -"The mystery." - -"They generally are that," I said. - -Marlow eyed me for a moment in a peculiar manner. - -"Well, I have discovered the mystery of Powell's disappearances. The -fellow used to run into one of these narrow tidal creeks on the Essex -shore. These creeks are so inconspicuous that till I had studied the -chart pretty carefully I did not know of their existence. One afternoon, -I made Powell's boat out, heading into the shore. By the time I got -close to the mud-flat his craft had disappeared inland. But I could see -the mouth of the creek by then. The tide being on the turn I took the -risk of getting stuck in the mud suddenly and headed in. All I had to -guide me was the top of the roof of some sort of small building. I got -in more by good luck than by good management. The sun had set some time -before; my boat glided in a sort of winding ditch between two low grassy -banks; on both sides of me was the flatness of the Essex marsh, perfectly -still. All I saw moving was a heron; he was flying low, and disappeared -in the murk. Before I had gone half a mile, I was up with the building -the roof of which I had seen from the river. It looked like a small -barn. A row of piles driven into the soft bank in front of it and -supporting a few planks made a sort of wharf. All this was black in the -falling dusk, and I could just distinguish the whitish ruts of a cart- -track stretching over the marsh towards the higher land, far away. Not a -sound was to be heard. Against the low streak of light in the sky I -could see the mast of Powell's cutter moored to the bank some twenty -yards, no more, beyond that black barn or whatever it was. I hailed him -with a loud shout. Got no answer. After making fast my boat just -astern, I walked along the bank to have a look at Powell's. Being so -much bigger than mine she was aground already. Her sails were furled; -the slide of her scuttle hatch was closed and padlocked. Powell was -gone. He had walked off into that dark, still marsh somewhere. I had -not seen a single house anywhere near; there did not seem to be any human -habitation for miles; and now as darkness fell denser over the land I -couldn't see the glimmer of a single light. However, I supposed that -there must be some village or hamlet not very far away; or only one of -these mysterious little inns one comes upon sometimes in most unexpected -and lonely places. - -"The stillness was oppressive. I went back to my boat, made some coffee -over a spirit-lamp, devoured a few biscuits, and stretched myself aft, to -smoke and gaze at the stars. The earth was a mere shadow, formless and -silent, and empty, till a bullock turned up from somewhere, quite shadowy -too. He came smartly to the very edge of the bank as though he meant to -step on board, stretched his muzzle right over my boat, blew heavily -once, and walked off contemptuously into the darkness from which he had -come. I had not expected a call from a bullock, though a moment's -thought would have shown me that there must be lots of cattle and sheep -on that marsh. Then everything became still as before. I might have -imagined myself arrived on a desert island. In fact, as I reclined -smoking a sense of absolute loneliness grew on me. And just as it had -become intense, very abruptly and without any preliminary sound I heard -firm, quick footsteps on the little wharf. Somebody coming along the -cart-track had just stepped at a swinging gait on to the planks. That -somebody could only have been Mr. Powell. Suddenly he stopped short, -having made out that there were two masts alongside the bank where he had -left only one. Then he came on silent on the grass. When I spoke to him -he was astonished. - -"Who would have thought of seeing you here!" he exclaimed, after -returning my good evening. - -"I told him I had run in for company. It was rigorously true." - -"You knew I was here?" he exclaimed. - -"Of course," I said. "I tell you I came in for company." - -"He is a really good fellow," went on Marlow. "And his capacity for -astonishment is quickly exhausted, it seems. It was in the most matter- -of-fact manner that he said, 'Come on board of me, then; I have here -enough supper for two.' He was holding a bulky parcel in the crook of -his arm. I did not wait to be asked twice, as you may guess. His cutter -has a very neat little cabin, quite big enough for two men not only to -sleep but to sit and smoke in. We left the scuttle wide open, of course. -As to his provisions for supper, they were not of a luxurious kind. He -complained that the shops in the village were miserable. There was a big -village within a mile and a half. It struck me he had been very long -doing his shopping; but naturally I made no remark. I didn't want to -talk at all except for the purpose of setting him going." - -"And did you set him going?" I asked. - -"I did," said Marlow, composing his features into an impenetrable -expression which somehow assured me of his success better than an air of -triumph could have done. - -* * * * * - -"You made him talk?" I said after a silence. - -"Yes, I made him . . . about himself." - -"And to the point?" - -"If you mean by this," said Marlow, "that it was about the voyage of the -_Ferndale_, then again, yes. I brought him to talk about that voyage, -which, by the by, was not the first voyage of Flora de Barral. The man -himself, as I told you, is simple, and his faculty of wonder not very -great. He's one of those people who form no theories about facts. -Straightforward people seldom do. Neither have they much penetration. -But in this case it did not matter. I--we--have already the inner -knowledge. We know the history of Flora de Barral. We know something of -Captain Anthony. We have the secret of the situation. The man was -intoxicated with the pity and tenderness of his part. Oh yes! -Intoxicated is not too strong a word; for you know that love and desire -take many disguises. I believe that the girl had been frank with him, -with the frankness of women to whom perfect frankness is impossible, -because so much of their safety depends on judicious reticences. I am -not indulging in cheap sneers. There is necessity in these things. And -moreover she could not have spoken with a certain voice in the face of -his impetuosity, because she did not have time to understand either the -state of her feelings, or the precise nature of what she was doing. - -Had she spoken ever so clearly he was, I take it, too elated to hear her -distinctly. I don't mean to imply that he was a fool. Oh dear no! But -he had no training in the usual conventions, and we must remember that he -had no experience whatever of women. He could only have an ideal -conception of his position. An ideal is often but a flaming vision of -reality. - -To him enters Fyne, wound up, if I may express myself so irreverently, -wound up to a high pitch by his wife's interpretation of the girl's -letter. He enters with his talk of meanness and cruelty, like a bucket -of water on the flame. Clearly a shock. But the effects of a bucket of -water are diverse. They depend on the kind of flame. A mere blaze of -dry straw, of course . . . but there can be no question of straw there. -Anthony of the _Ferndale_ was not, could not have been, a straw-stuffed -specimen of a man. There are flames a bucket of water sends leaping sky- -high. - -We may well wonder what happened when, after Fyne had left him, the -hesitating girl went up at last and opened the door of that room where -our man, I am certain, was not extinguished. Oh no! Nor cold; whatever -else he might have been. - -It is conceivable he might have cried at her in the first moment of -humiliation, of exasperation, "Oh, it's you! Why are you here? If I am -so odious to you that you must write to my sister to say so, I give you -back your word." But then, don't you see, it could not have been that. I -have the practical certitude that soon afterwards they went together in a -hansom to see the ship--as agreed. That was my reason for saying that -Flora de Barral did go to sea . . . " - -"Yes. It seems conclusive," I agreed. "But even without that--if, as -you seem to think, the very desolation of that girlish figure had a sort -of perversely seductive charm, making its way through his compassion to -his senses (and everything is possible)--then such words could not have -been spoken." - -"They might have escaped him involuntarily," observed Marlow. "However, -a plain fact settles it. They went off together to see the ship." - -"Do you conclude from this that nothing whatever was said?" I inquired. - -"I should have liked to see the first meeting of their glances upstairs -there," mused Marlow. "And perhaps nothing was said. But no man comes -out of such a 'wrangle' (as Fyne called it) without showing some traces -of it. And you may be sure that a girl so bruised all over would feel -the slightest touch of anything resembling coldness. She was -mistrustful; she could not be otherwise; for the energy of evil is so -much more forcible than the energy of good that she could not help -looking still upon her abominable governess as an authority. How could -one have expected her to throw off the unholy prestige of that long -domination? She could not help believing what she had been told; that -she was in some mysterious way odious and unlovable. It was cruelly -true--_to her_. The oracle of so many years had spoken finally. Only -other people did not find her out at once . . . I would not go so far as -to say she believed it altogether. That would be hardly possible. But -then haven't the most flattered, the most conceited of us their moments -of doubt? Haven't they? Well, I don't know. There may be lucky beings -in this world unable to believe any evil of themselves. For my own part -I'll tell you that once, many years ago now, it came to my knowledge that -a fellow I had been mixed up with in a certain transaction--a clever -fellow whom I really despised--was going around telling people that I was -a consummate hypocrite. He could know nothing of it. It suited his -humour to say so. I had given him no ground for that particular calumny. -Yet to this day there are moments when it comes into my mind, and -involuntarily I ask myself, 'What if it were true?' It's absurd, but it -has on one or two occasions nearly affected my conduct. And yet I was -not an impressionable ignorant young girl. I had taken the exact measure -of the fellow's utter worthlessness long before. He had never been for -me a person of prestige and power, like that awful governess to Flora de -Barral. See the might of suggestion? We live at the mercy of a -malevolent word. A sound, a mere disturbance of the air, sinks into our -very soul sometimes. Flora de Barral had been more astounded than -convinced by the first impetuosity of Roderick Anthony. She let herself -be carried along by a mysterious force which her person had called into -being, as her father had been carried away out of his depth by the -unexpected power of successful advertising. - -They went on board that morning. The _Ferndale_ had just come to her -loading berth. The only living creature on board was the -ship-keeper--whether the same who had been described to us by Mr. Powell, -or another, I don't know. Possibly some other man. He, looking over the -side, saw, in his own words, 'the captain come sailing round the corner -of the nearest cargo-shed, in company with a girl.' He lowered the -accommodation ladder down on to the jetty . . . " - -"How do you know all this?" I interrupted. - -Marlow interjected an impatient: - -"You shall see by and by . . . Flora went up first, got down on deck and -stood stock-still till the captain took her by the arm and led her aft. -The ship-keeper let them into the saloon. He had the keys of all the -cabins, and stumped in after them. The captain ordered him to open all -the doors, every blessed door; state-rooms, passages, pantry, -fore-cabin--and then sent him away. - -"The _Ferndale_ had magnificent accommodation. At the end of a passage -leading from the quarter-deck there was a long saloon, its sumptuosity -slightly tarnished perhaps, but having a grand air of roominess and -comfort. The harbour carpets were down, the swinging lamps hung, and -everything in its place, even to the silver on the sideboard. Two large -stern cabins opened out of it, one on each side of the rudder casing. -These two cabins communicated through a small bathroom between them, and -one was fitted up as the captain's state-room. The other was vacant, and -furnished with arm-chairs and a round table, more like a room on shore, -except for the long curved settee following the shape of the ship's -stern. In a dim inclined mirror, Flora caught sight down to the waist of -a pale-faced girl in a white straw hat trimmed with roses, distant, -shadowy, as if immersed in water, and was surprised to recognize herself -in those surroundings. They seemed to her arbitrary, bizarre, strange. -Captain Anthony moved on, and she followed him. He showed her the other -cabins. He talked all the time loudly in a voice she seemed to have -known extremely well for a long time; and yet, she reflected, she had not -heard it often in her life. What he was saying she did not quite follow. -He was speaking of comparatively indifferent things in a rather moody -tone, but she felt it round her like a caress. And when he stopped she -could hear, alarming in the sudden silence, the precipitated beating of -her heart. - -The ship-keeper dodged about the quarter-deck, out of hearing, and trying -to keep out of sight. At the same time, taking advantage of the open -doors with skill and prudence, he could see the captain and "that girl" -the captain had brought aboard. The captain was showing her round very -thoroughly. Through the whole length of the passage, far away aft in the -perspective of the saloon the ship-keeper had interesting glimpses of -them as they went in and out of the various cabins, crossing from side to -side, remaining invisible for a time in one or another of the -state-rooms, and then reappearing again in the distance. The girl, -always following the captain, had her sunshade in her hands. Mostly she -would hang her head, but now and then she would look up. They had a lot -to say to each other, and seemed to forget they weren't alone in the -ship. He saw the captain put his hand on her shoulder, and was preparing -himself with a certain zest for what might follow, when the "old man" -seemed to recollect himself, and came striding down all the length of the -saloon. At this move the ship-keeper promptly dodged out of sight, as -you may believe, and heard the captain slam the inner door of the -passage. After that disappointment the ship-keeper waited resentfully -for them to clear out of the ship. It happened much sooner than he had -expected. The girl walked out on deck first. As before she did not look -round. She didn't look at anything; and she seemed to be in such a hurry -to get ashore that she made for the gangway and started down the ladder -without waiting for the captain. - -What struck the ship-keeper most was the absent, unseeing expression of -the captain, striding after the girl. He passed him, the ship-keeper, -without notice, without an order, without so much as a look. The captain -had never done so before. Always had a nod and a pleasant word for a -man. From this slight the ship-keeper drew a conclusion unfavourable to -the strange girl. He gave them time to get down on the wharf before -crossing the deck to steal one more look at the pair over the rail. The -captain took hold of the girl's arm just before a couple of railway -trucks drawn by a horse came rolling along and hid them from the ship- -keeper's sight for good. - -Next day, when the chief mate joined the ship, he told him the tale of -the visit, and expressed himself about the girl "who had got hold of the -captain" disparagingly. She didn't look healthy, he explained. "Shabby -clothes, too," he added spitefully. - -The mate was very much interested. He had been with Anthony for several -years, and had won for himself in the course of many long voyages, a -footing of familiarity, which was to be expected with a man of Anthony's -character. But in that slowly-grown intimacy of the sea, which in its -duration and solitude had its unguarded moments, no words had passed, -even of the most casual, to prepare him for the vision of his captain -associated with any kind of girl. His impression had been that women did -not exist for Captain Anthony. Exhibiting himself with a girl! A girl! -What did he want with a girl? Bringing her on board and showing her -round the cabin! That was really a little bit too much. Captain Anthony -ought to have known better. - -Franklin (the chief mate's name was Franklin) felt disappointed; almost -disillusioned. Silly thing to do! Here was a confounded old ship-keeper -set talking. He snubbed the ship-keeper, and tried to think of that -insignificant bit of foolishness no more; for it diminished Captain -Anthony in his eyes of a jealously devoted subordinate. - -Franklin was over forty; his mother was still alive. She stood in the -forefront of all women for him, just as Captain Anthony stood in the -forefront of all men. We may suppose that these groups were not very -large. He had gone to sea at a very early age. The feeling which caused -these two people to partly eclipse the rest of mankind were of course not -similar; though in time he had acquired the conviction that he was -"taking care" of them both. The "old lady" of course had to be looked -after as long as she lived. In regard to Captain Anthony, he used to say -that: why should he leave him? It wasn't likely that he would come -across a better sailor or a better man or a more comfortable ship. As to -trying to better himself in the way of promotion, commands were not the -sort of thing one picked up in the streets, and when it came to that, -Captain Anthony was as likely to give him a lift on occasion as anyone in -the world. - -From Mr. Powell's description Franklin was a short, thick black-haired -man, bald on the top. His head sunk between the shoulders, his staring -prominent eyes and a florid colour, gave him a rather apoplectic -appearance. In repose, his congested face had a humorously melancholy -expression. - -The ship-keeper having given him up all the keys and having been chased -forward with the admonition to mind his own business and not to chatter -about what did not concern him, Mr. Franklin went under the poop. He -opened one door after another; and, in the saloon, in the captain's state- -room and everywhere, he stared anxiously as if expecting to see on the -bulkheads, on the deck, in the air, something unusual--sign, mark, -emanation, shadow--he hardly knew what--some subtle change wrought by the -passage of a girl. But there was nothing. He entered the unoccupied -stern cabin and spent some time there unscrewing the two stern ports. In -the absence of all material evidences his uneasiness was passing away. -With a last glance round he came out and found himself in the presence of -his captain advancing from the other end of the saloon. - -Franklin, at once, looked for the girl. She wasn't to be seen. The -captain came up quickly. 'Oh! you are here, Mr. Franklin.' And the mate -said, 'I was giving a little air to the place, sir.' Then the captain, -his hat pulled down over his eyes, laid his stick on the table and asked -in his kind way: 'How did you find your mother, Franklin?'--'The old -lady's first-rate, sir, thank you.' And then they had nothing to say to -each other. It was a strange and disturbing feeling for Franklin. He, -just back from leave, the ship just come to her loading berth, the -captain just come on board, and apparently nothing to say! The several -questions he had been anxious to ask as to various things which had to be -done had slipped out of his mind. He, too, felt as though he had nothing -to say. - -The captain, picking up his stick off the table, marched into his state- -room and shut the door after him. Franklin remained still for a moment -and then started slowly to go on deck. But before he had time to reach -the other end of the saloon he heard himself called by name. He turned -round. The captain was staring from the doorway of his state-room. -Franklin said, "Yes, sir." But the captain, silent, leaned a little -forward grasping the door handle. So he, Franklin, walked aft keeping -his eyes on him. When he had come up quite close he said again, "Yes, -sir?" interrogatively. Still silence. The mate didn't like to be stared -at in that manner, a manner quite new in his captain, with a defiant and -self-conscious stare, like a man who feels ill and dares you to notice -it. Franklin gazed at his captain, felt that there was something wrong, -and in his simplicity voiced his feelings by asking point-blank: - -"What's wrong, sir?" - -The captain gave a slight start, and the character of his stare changed -to a sort of sinister surprise. Franklin grew very uncomfortable, but -the captain asked negligently: - -"What makes you think that there's something wrong?" - -"I can't say exactly. You don't look quite yourself, sir," Franklin -owned up. - -"You seem to have a confoundedly piercing eye," said the captain in such -an aggressive tone that Franklin was moved to defend himself. - -"We have been together now over six years, sir, so I suppose I know you a -bit by this time. I could see there was something wrong directly you -came on board." - -"Mr. Franklin," said the captain, "we have been more than six years -together, it is true, but I didn't know you for a reader of faces. You -are not a correct reader though. It's very far from being wrong. You -understand? As far from being wrong as it can very well be. It ought to -teach you not to make rash surmises. You should leave that to the shore -people. They are great hands at spying out something wrong. I dare say -they know what they have made of the world. A dam' poor job of it and -that's plain. It's a confoundedly ugly place, Mr. Franklin. You don't -know anything of it? Well--no, we sailors don't. Only now and then one -of us runs against something cruel or underhand, enough to make your hair -stand on end. And when you do see a piece of their wickedness you find -that to set it right is not so easy as it looks . . . Oh! I called you -back to tell you that there will be a lot of workmen, joiners and all -that sent down on board first thing to-morrow morning to start making -alterations in the cabin. You will see to it that they don't loaf. There -isn't much time." - -Franklin was impressed by this unexpected lecture upon the wickedness of -the solid world surrounded by the salt, uncorruptible waters on which he -and his captain had dwelt all their lives in happy innocence. What he -could not understand was why it should have been delivered, and what -connection it could have with such a matter as the alterations to be -carried out in the cabin. The work did not seem to him to be called for -in such a hurry. What was the use of altering anything? It was a very -good accommodation, spacious, well-distributed, on a rather old-fashioned -plan, and with its decorations somewhat tarnished. But a dab of varnish, -a touch of gilding here and there, was all that was necessary. As to -comfort, it could not be improved by any alterations. He resented the -notion of change; but he said dutifully that he would keep his eye on the -workmen if the captain would only let him know what was the nature of the -work he had ordered to be done. - -"You'll find a note of it on this table. I'll leave it for you as I go -ashore," said Captain Anthony hastily. Franklin thought there was no -more to hear, and made a movement to leave the saloon. But the captain -continued after a slight pause, "You will be surprised, no doubt, when -you look at it. There'll be a good many alterations. It's on account of -a lady coming with us. I am going to get married, Mr. Franklin!" - - - -CHAPTER TWO--YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS - - -"You remember," went on Marlow, "how I feared that Mr. Powell's want of -experience would stand in his way of appreciating the unusual. The -unusual I had in my mind was something of a very subtle sort: the unusual -in marital relations. I may well have doubted the capacity of a young -man too much concerned with the creditable performance of his -professional duties to observe what in the nature of things is not easily -observable in itself, and still less so under the special circumstances. -In the majority of ships a second officer has not many points of contact -with the captain's wife. He sits at the same table with her at meals, -generally speaking; he may now and then be addressed more or less kindly -on insignificant matters, and have the opportunity to show her some small -attentions on deck. And that is all. Under such conditions, signs can -be seen only by a sharp and practised eye. I am alluding now to troubles -which are subtle often to the extent of not being understood by the very -hearts they devastate or uplift. - -Yes, Mr. Powell, whom the chance of his name had thrown upon the floating -stage of that tragicomedy would have been perfectly useless for my -purpose if the unusual of an obvious kind had not aroused his attention -from the first. - -We know how he joined that ship so suddenly offered to his anxious desire -to make a real start in his profession. He had come on board breathless -with the hurried winding up of his shore affairs, accompanied by two -horrible night-birds, escorted by a dock policeman on the make, received -by an asthmatic shadow of a ship-keeper, warned not to make a noise in -the darkness of the passage because the captain and his wife were already -on board. That in itself was already somewhat unusual. Captains and -their wives do not, as a rule, join a moment sooner than is necessary. -They prefer to spend the last moments with their friends and relations. A -ship in one of London's older docks with their restrictions as to lights -and so on is not the place for a happy evening. Still, as the tide -served at six in the morning, one could understand them coming on board -the evening before. - -Just then young Powell felt as if anybody ought to be glad enough to be -quit of the shore. We know he was an orphan from a very early age, -without brothers or sisters--no near relations of any kind, I believe, -except that aunt who had quarrelled with his father. No affection stood -in the way of the quiet satisfaction with which he thought that now all -the worries were over, that there was nothing before him but duties, that -he knew what he would have to do as soon as the dawn broke and for a long -succession of days. A most soothing certitude. He enjoyed it in the -dark, stretched out in his bunk with his new blankets pulled over him. -Some clock ashore beyond the dock-gates struck two. And then he heard -nothing more, because he went off into a light sleep from which he woke -up with a start. He had not taken his clothes off, it was hardly worth -while. He jumped up and went on deck. - -The morning was clear, colourless, grey overhead; the dock like a sheet -of darkling glass crowded with upside-down reflections of warehouses, of -hulls and masts of silent ships. Rare figures moved here and there on -the distant quays. A knot of men stood alongside with clothes-bags and -wooden chests at their feet. Others were coming down the lane between -tall, blind walls, surrounding a hand-cart loaded with more bags and -boxes. It was the crew of the _Ferndale_. They began to come on board. -He scanned their faces as they passed forward filling the roomy deck with -the shuffle of their footsteps and the murmur of voices, like the -awakening to life of a world about to be launched into space. - -Far away down the clear glassy stretch in the middle of the long dock Mr. -Powell watched the tugs coming in quietly through the open gates. A -subdued firm voice behind him interrupted this contemplation. It was -Franklin, the thick chief mate, who was addressing him with a watchful -appraising stare of his prominent black eyes: "You'd better take a couple -of these chaps with you and look out for her aft. We are going to cast -off." - -"Yes, sir," Powell said with proper alacrity; but for a moment they -remained looking at each other fixedly. Something like a faint smile -altered the set of the chief mate's lips just before he moved off forward -with his brisk step. - -Mr. Powell, getting up on the poop, touched his cap to Captain Anthony, -who was there alone. He tells me that it was only then that he saw his -captain for the first time. The day before, in the shipping office, what -with the bad light and his excitement at this berth obtained as if by a -brusque and unscrupulous miracle, did not count. He had then seemed to -him much older and heavier. He was surprised at the lithe figure, broad -of shoulder, narrow at the hips, the fire of the deep-set eyes, the -springiness of the walk. The captain gave him a steady stare, nodded -slightly, and went on pacing the poop with an air of not being aware of -what was going on, his head rigid, his movements rapid. - -Powell stole several glances at him with a curiosity very natural under -the circumstances. He wore a short grey jacket and a grey cap. In the -light of the dawn, growing more limpid rather than brighter, Powell -noticed the slightly sunken cheeks under the trimmed beard, the -perpendicular fold on the forehead, something hard and set about the -mouth. - -It was too early yet for the work to have begun in the dock. The water -gleamed placidly, no movement anywhere on the long straight lines of the -quays, no one about to be seen except the few dock hands busy alongside -the _Ferndale_, knowing their work, mostly silent or exchanging a few -words in low tones as if they, too, had been aware of that lady 'who -mustn't be disturbed.' The _Ferndale_ was the only ship to leave that -tide. The others seemed still asleep, without a sound, and only here and -there a figure, coming up on the forecastle, leaned on the rail to watch -the proceedings idly. Without trouble and fuss and almost without a -sound was the _Ferndale_ leaving the land, as if stealing away. Even the -tugs, now with their engines stopped, were approaching her without a -ripple, the burly-looking paddle-boat sheering forward, while the other, -a screw, smaller and of slender shape, made for her quarter so gently -that she did not divide the smooth water, but seemed to glide on its -surface as if on a sheet of plate-glass, a man in her bow, the master at -the wheel visible only from the waist upwards above the white screen of -the bridge, both of them so still-eyed as to fascinate young Powell into -curious self-forgetfulness and immobility. He was steeped, sunk in the -general quietness, remembering the statement 'she's a lady that mustn't -be disturbed,' and repeating to himself idly: 'No. She won't be -disturbed. She won't be disturbed.' Then the first loud words of that -morning breaking that strange hush of departure with a sharp hail: 'Look -out for that line there,' made him start. The line whizzed past his -head, one of the sailors aft caught it, and there was an end to the -fascination, to the quietness of spirit which had stolen on him at the -very moment of departure. From that moment till two hours afterwards, -when the ship was brought up in one of the lower reaches of the Thames -off an apparently uninhabited shore, near some sort of inlet where -nothing but two anchored barges flying a red flag could be seen, Powell -was too busy to think of the lady 'that mustn't be disturbed,' or of his -captain--or of anything else unconnected with his immediate duties. In -fact, he had no occasion to go on the poop, or even look that way much; -but while the ship was about to anchor, casting his eyes in that -direction, he received an absurd impression that his captain (he was up -there, of course) was sitting on both sides of the aftermost skylight at -once. He was too occupied to reflect on this curious delusion, this -phenomenon of seeing double as though he had had a drop too much. He -only smiled at himself. - -As often happens after a grey daybreak the sun had risen in a warm and -glorious splendour above the smooth immense gleam of the enlarged -estuary. Wisps of mist floated like trails of luminous dust, and in the -dazzling reflections of water and vapour, the shores had the murky semi- -transparent darkness of shadows cast mysteriously from below. Powell, -who had sailed out of London all his young seaman's life, told me that it -was then, in a moment of entranced vision an hour or so after sunrise, -that the river was revealed to him for all time, like a fair face often -seen before, which is suddenly perceived to be the expression of an inner -and unsuspected beauty, of that something unique and only its own which -rouses a passion of wonder and fidelity and an unappeasable memory of its -charm. The hull of the _Ferndale_, swung head to the eastward, caught -the light, her tall spars and rigging steeped in a bath of red-gold, from -the water-line full of glitter to the trucks slight and gleaming against -the delicate expanse of the blue. - -"Time we had a mouthful to eat," said a voice at his side. It was Mr. -Franklin, the chief mate, with his head sunk between his shoulders, and -melancholy eyes. "Let the men have their breakfast, bo'sun," he went on, -"and have the fire out in the galley in half an hour at the latest, so -that we can call these barges of explosives alongside. Come along, young -man. I don't know your name. Haven't seen the captain, to speak to, -since yesterday afternoon when he rushed off to pick up a second mate -somewhere. How did he get you?" - -Young Powell, a little shy notwithstanding the friendly disposition of -the other, answered him smilingly, aware somehow that there was something -marked in this inquisitiveness, natural, after all--something anxious. -His name was Powell, and he was put in the way of this berth by Mr. -Powell, the shipping master. He blushed. - -"Ah, I see. Well, you have been smart in getting ready. The -ship-keeper, before he went away, told me you joined at one o'clock. I -didn't sleep on board last night. Not I. There was a time when I never -cared to leave this ship for more than a couple of hours in the evening, -even while in London, but now, since--" - -He checked himself with a roll of his prominent eyes towards that -youngster, that stranger. Meantime, he was leading the way across the -quarter-deck under the poop into the long passage with the door of the -saloon at the far end. It was shut. But Mr. Franklin did not go so far. -After passing the pantry he opened suddenly a door on the left of the -passage, to Powell's great surprise. - -"Our mess-room," he said, entering a small cabin painted white, bare, -lighted from part of the foremost skylight, and furnished only with a -table and two settees with movable backs. "That surprises you? Well, it -isn't usual. And it wasn't so in this ship either, before. It's only -since--" - -He checked himself again. "Yes. Here we shall feed, you and I, facing -each other for the next twelve months or more--God knows how much more! -The bo'sun keeps the deck at meal-times in fine weather." - -He talked not exactly wheezing, but like a man whose breath is somewhat -short, and the spirit (young Powell could not help thinking) embittered -by some mysterious grievance. - -There was enough of the unusual there to be recognized even by Powell's -inexperience. The officers kept out of the cabin against the custom of -the service, and then this sort of accent in the mate's talk. Franklin -did not seem to expect conversational ease from the new second mate. He -made several remarks about the old, deploring the accident. Awkward. -Very awkward this thing to happen on the very eve of sailing. - -"Collar-bone and arm broken," he sighed. "Sad, very sad. Did you notice -if the captain was at all affected? Eh? Must have been." - -Before this congested face, these globular eyes turned yearningly upon -him, young Powell (one must keep in mind he was but a youngster then) who -could not remember any signs of visible grief, confessed with an -embarrassed laugh that, owing to the suddenness of this lucky chance -coming to him, he was not in a condition to notice the state of other -people. - -"I was so pleased to get a ship at last," he murmured, further -disconcerted by the sort of pent-up gravity in Mr. Franklin's aspect. - -"One man's food another man's poison," the mate remarked. "That holds -true beyond mere victuals. I suppose it didn't occur to you that it was -a dam' poor way for a good man to be knocked out." - -Mr. Powell admitted openly that he had not thought of that. He was ready -to admit that it was very reprehensible of him. But Franklin had no -intention apparently to moralize. He did not fall silent either. His -further remarks were to the effect that there had been a time when -Captain Anthony would have showed more than enough concern for the least -thing happening to one of his officers. Yes, there had been a time! - -"And mind," he went on, laying down suddenly a half-consumed piece of -bread and butter and raising his voice, "poor Mathews was the second man -the longest on board. I was the first. He joined a month later--about -the same time as the steward by a few days. The bo'sun and the carpenter -came the voyage after. Steady men. Still here. No good man need ever -have thought of leaving the _Ferndale_ unless he were a fool. Some good -men are fools. Don't know when they are well off. I mean the best of -good men; men that you would do anything for. They go on for years, then -all of a sudden--" - -Our young friend listened to the mate with a queer sense of discomfort -growing on him. For it was as though Mr. Franklin were thinking aloud, -and putting him into the delicate position of an unwilling eavesdropper. -But there was in the mess-room another listener. It was the steward, who -had come in carrying a tin coffee-pot with a long handle, and stood -quietly by: a man with a middle-aged, sallow face, long features, heavy -eyelids, a soldierly grey moustache. His body encased in a short black -jacket with narrow sleeves, his long legs in very tight trousers, made up -an agile, youthful, slender figure. He moved forward suddenly, and -interrupted the mate's monologue. - -"More coffee, Mr. Franklin? Nice fresh lot. Piping hot. I am going to -give breakfast to the saloon directly, and the cook is raking his fire -out. Now's your chance." - -The mate who, on account of his peculiar build, could not turn his head -freely, twisted his thick trunk slightly, and ran his black eyes in the -corners towards the steward. - -"And is the precious pair of them out?" he growled. - -The steward, pouring out the coffee into the mate's cup, muttered moodily -but distinctly: "The lady wasn't when I was laying the table." - -Powell's ears were fine enough to detect something hostile in this -reference to the captain's wife. For of what other person could they be -speaking? The steward added with a gloomy sort of fairness: "But she -will be before I bring the dishes in. She never gives that sort of -trouble. That she doesn't." - -"No. Not in that way," Mr. Franklin agreed, and then both he and the -steward, after glancing at Powell--the stranger to the ship--said nothing -more. - -But this had been enough to rouse his curiosity. Curiosity is natural to -man. Of course it was not a malevolent curiosity which, if not exactly -natural, is to be met fairly frequently in men and perhaps more -frequently in women--especially if a woman be in question; and that woman -under a cloud, in a manner of speaking. For under a cloud Flora de -Barral was fated to be even at sea. Yes. Even that sort of darkness -which attends a woman for whom there is no clear place in the world hung -over her. Yes. Even at sea! - -* * * * * - -And this is the pathos of being a woman. A man can struggle to get a -place for himself or perish. But a woman's part is passive, say what you -like, and shuffle the facts of the world as you may, hinting at lack of -energy, of wisdom, of courage. As a matter of fact, almost all women -have all that--of their own kind. But they are not made for attack. Wait -they must. I am speaking here of women who are really women. And it's -no use talking of opportunities, either. I know that some of them do -talk of it. But not the genuine women. Those know better. Nothing can -beat a true woman for a clear vision of reality; I would say a cynical -vision if I were not afraid of wounding your chivalrous feelings--for -which, by the by, women are not so grateful as you may think, to fellows -of your kind . . . - -"Upon my word, Marlow," I cried, "what are you flying out at me for like -this? I wouldn't use an ill-sounding word about women, but what right -have you to imagine that I am looking for gratitude?" - -Marlow raised a soothing hand. - -"There! There! I take back the ill-sounding word, with the remark, -though, that cynicism seems to me a word invented by hypocrites. But let -that pass. As to women, they know that the clamour for opportunities for -them to become something which they cannot be is as reasonable as if -mankind at large started asking for opportunities of winning immortality -in this world, in which death is the very condition of life. You must -understand that I am not talking here of material existence. That -naturally is implied; but you won't maintain that a woman who, say, -enlisted, for instance (there have been cases) has conquered her place in -the world. She has only got her living in it--which is quite -meritorious, but not quite the same thing. - -All these reflections which arise from my picking up the thread of Flora -de Barral's existence did not, I am certain, present themselves to Mr. -Powell--not the Mr. Powell we know taking solitary week-end cruises in -the estuary of the Thames (with mysterious dashes into lonely creeks) but -to the young Mr. Powell, the chance second officer of the ship -_Ferndale_, commanded (and for the most part owned) by Roderick Anthony, -the son of the poet--you know. A Mr. Powell, much slenderer than our -robust friend is now, with the bloom of innocence not quite rubbed off -his smooth cheeks, and apt not only to be interested but also to be -surprised by the experience life was holding in store for him. This -would account for his remembering so much of it with considerable -vividness. For instance, the impressions attending his first breakfast -on board the _Ferndale_, both visual and mental, were as fresh to him as -if received yesterday. - -The surprise, it is easy to understand, would arise from the inability to -interpret aright the signs which experience (a thing mysterious in -itself) makes to our understanding and emotions. For it is never more -than that. Our experience never gets into our blood and bones. It -always remains outside of us. That's why we look with wonder at the -past. And this persists even when from practice and through growing -callousness of fibre we come to the point when nothing that we meet in -that rapid blinking stumble across a flick of sunshine--which our life -is--nothing, I say, which we run against surprises us any more. Not at -the time, I mean. If, later on, we recover the faculty with some such -exclamation: 'Well! Well! I'll be hanged if I ever, . . . ' it is -probably because this very thing that there should be a past to look back -upon, other people's, is very astounding in itself when one has the time, -a fleeting and immense instant to think of it . . . " - -I was on the point of interrupting Marlow when he stopped of himself, his -eyes fixed on vacancy, or--perhaps--(I wouldn't be too hard on him) on a -vision. He has the habit, or, say, the fault, of defective mantelpiece -clocks, of suddenly stopping in the very fulness of the tick. If you -have ever lived with a clock afflicted with that perversity, you know how -vexing it is--such a stoppage. I was vexed with Marlow. He was smiling -faintly while I waited. He even laughed a little. And then I said -acidly: - -"Am I to understand that you have ferreted out something comic in the -history of Flora de Barral?" - -"Comic!" he exclaimed. "No! What makes you say? . . . Oh, I -laughed--did I? But don't you know that people laugh at absurdities that -are very far from being comic? Didn't you read the latest books about -laughter written by philosophers, psychologists? There is a lot of them -. . . " - -"I dare say there has been a lot of nonsense written about laughter--and -tears, too, for that matter," I said impatiently. - -"They say," pursued the unabashed Marlow, "that we laugh from a sense of -superiority. Therefore, observe, simplicity, honesty, warmth of feeling, -delicacy of heart and of conduct, self-confidence, magnanimity are -laughed at, because the presence of these traits in a man's character -often puts him into difficult, cruel or absurd situations, and makes us, -the majority who are fairly free as a rule from these peculiarities, feel -pleasantly superior." - -"Speak for yourself," I said. "But have you discovered all these fine -things in the story; or has Mr. Powell discovered them to you in his -artless talk? Have you two been having good healthy laughs together? -Come! Are your sides aching yet, Marlow?" - -Marlow took no offence at my banter. He was quite serious. - -"I should not like to say off-hand how much of that there was," he -pursued with amusing caution. "But there was a situation, tense enough -for the signs of it to give many surprises to Mr. Powell--neither of them -shocking in itself, but with a cumulative effect which made the whole -unforgettable in the detail of its progress. And the first surprise came -very soon, when the explosives (to which he owed his sudden chance of -engagement)--dynamite in cases and blasting powder in barrels--taken on -board, main hatch battened for sea, cook restored to his functions in the -galley, anchor fished and the tug ahead, rounding the South Foreland, and -with the sun sinking clear and red down the purple vista of the channel, -he went on the poop, on duty, it is true, but with time to take the first -freer breath in the busy day of departure. The pilot was still on board, -who gave him first a silent glance, and then passed an insignificant -remark before resuming his lounging to and fro between the steering wheel -and the binnacle. Powell took his station modestly at the break of the -poop. He had noticed across the skylight a head in a grey cap. But -when, after a time, he crossed over to the other side of the deck he -discovered that it was not the captain's head at all. He became aware of -grey hairs curling over the nape of the neck. How could he have made -that mistake? But on board ship away from the land one does not expect -to come upon a stranger. - -Powell walked past the man. A thin, somewhat sunken face, with a tightly -closed mouth, stared at the distant French coast, vague like a suggestion -of solid darkness, lying abeam beyond the evening light reflected from -the level waters, themselves growing more sombre than the sky; a stare, -across which Powell had to pass and did pass with a quick side glance, -noting its immovable stillness. His passage disturbed those eyes no more -than if he had been as immaterial as a ghost. And this failure of his -person in producing an impression affected him strangely. Who could that -old man be? - -He was so curious that he even ventured to ask the pilot in a low voice. -The pilot turned out to be a good-natured specimen of his kind, -condescending, sententious. He had been down to his meals in the main -cabin, and had something to impart. - -"That? Queer fish--eh? Mrs. Anthony's father. I've been introduced to -him in the cabin at breakfast time. Name of Smith. Wonder if he has all -his wits about him. They take him about with them, it seems. Don't look -very happy--eh?" - -Then, changing his tone abruptly, he desired Powell to get all hands on -deck and make sail on the ship. "I shall be leaving you in half an hour. -You'll have plenty of time to find out all about the old gent," he added -with a thick laugh. - -* * * * * - -In the secret emotion of giving his first order as a fully responsible -officer, young Powell forgot the very existence of that old man in a -moment. The following days, in the interest of getting in touch with the -ship, with the men in her, with his duties, in the rather anxious period -of settling down, his curiosity slumbered; for of course the pilot's few -words had not extinguished it. - -This settling down was made easy for him by the friendly character of his -immediate superior--the chief. Powell could not defend himself from some -sympathy for that thick, bald man, comically shaped, with his crimson -complexion and something pathetic in the rolling of his very movable -black eyes in an apparently immovable head, who was so tactfully ready to -take his competency for granted. - -There can be nothing more reassuring to a young man tackling his life's -work for the first time. Mr. Powell, his mind at ease about himself, had -time to observe the people around with friendly interest. Very early in -the beginning of the passage, he had discovered with some amusement that -the marriage of Captain Anthony was resented by those to whom Powell -(conscious of being looked upon as something of an outsider) referred in -his mind as 'the old lot.' - -They had the funny, regretful glances, intonations, nods of men who had -seen other, better times. What difference it could have made to the -bo'sun and the carpenter Powell could not very well understand. Yet -these two pulled long faces and even gave hostile glances to the poop. -The cook and the steward might have been more directly concerned. But -the steward used to remark on occasion, 'Oh, she gives no extra trouble,' -with scrupulous fairness of the most gloomy kind. He was rather a silent -man with a great sense of his personal worth which made his speeches -guarded. The cook, a neat man with fair side whiskers, who had been only -three years in the ship, seemed the least concerned. He was even known -to have inquired once or twice as to the success of some of his dishes -with the captain's wife. This was considered a sort of disloyal falling -away from the ruling feeling. - -The mate's annoyance was yet the easiest to understand. As he let it out -to Powell before the first week of the passage was over: 'You can't -expect me to be pleased at being chucked out of the saloon as if I -weren't good enough to sit down to meat with that woman.' But he -hastened to add: 'Don't you think I'm blaming the captain. He isn't a -man to be found fault with. You, Mr. Powell, are too young yet to -understand such matters.' - -Some considerable time afterwards, at the end of a conversation of that -aggrieved sort, he enlarged a little more by repeating: 'Yes! You are -too young to understand these things. I don't say you haven't plenty of -sense. You are doing very well here. Jolly sight better than I -expected, though I liked your looks from the first.' - -It was in the trade-winds, at night, under a velvety, bespangled sky; a -great multitude of stars watching the shadows of the sea gleaming -mysteriously in the wake of the ship; while the leisurely swishing of the -water to leeward was like a drowsy comment on her progress. Mr. Powell -expressed his satisfaction by a half-bashful laugh. The mate mused on: -'And of course you haven't known the ship as she used to be. She was -more than a home to a man. She was not like any other ship; and Captain -Anthony was not like any other master to sail with. Neither is she now. -But before one never had a care in the world as to her--and as to him, -too. No, indeed, there was never anything to worry about.' - -Young Powell couldn't see what there was to worry about even then. The -serenity of the peaceful night seemed as vast as all space, and as -enduring as eternity itself. It's true the sea is an uncertain element, -but no sailor remembers this in the presence of its bewitching power any -more than a lover ever thinks of the proverbial inconstancy of women. And -Mr. Powell, being young, thought naively that the captain being married, -there could be no occasion for anxiety as to his condition. I suppose -that to him life, perhaps not so much his own as that of others, was -something still in the nature of a fairy-tale with a 'they lived happy -ever after' termination. We are the creatures of our light literature -much more than is generally suspected in a world which prides itself on -being scientific and practical, and in possession of incontrovertible -theories. Powell felt in that way the more because the captain of a ship -at sea is a remote, inaccessible creature, something like a prince of a -fairy-tale, alone of his kind, depending on nobody, not to be called to -account except by powers practically invisible and so distant, that they -might well be looked upon as supernatural for all that the rest of the -crew knows of them, as a rule. - -So he did not understand the aggrieved attitude of the mate--or rather he -understood it obscurely as a result of simple causes which did not seem -to him adequate. He would have dismissed all this out of his mind with a -contemptuous: 'What the devil do I care?' if the captain's wife herself -had not been so young. To see her the first time had been something of a -shock to him. He had some preconceived ideas as to captain's wives -which, while he did not believe the testimony of his eyes, made him open -them very wide. He had stared till the captain's wife noticed it plainly -and turned her face away. Captain's wife! That girl covered with rugs -in a long chair. Captain's . . . ! He gasped mentally. It had never -occurred to him that a captain's wife could be anything but a woman to be -described as stout or thin, as jolly or crabbed, but always mature, and -even, in comparison with his own years, frankly old. But this! It was a -sort of moral upset as though he had discovered a case of abduction or -something as surprising as that. You understand that nothing is more -disturbing than the upsetting of a preconceived idea. Each of us -arranges the world according to his own notion of the fitness of things. -To behold a girl where your average mediocre imagination had placed a -comparatively old woman may easily become one of the strongest shocks -. . . " - -Marlow paused, smiling to himself. - -"Powell remained impressed after all these years by the very -recollection," he continued in a voice, amused perhaps but not mocking. -"He said to me only the other day with something like the first awe of -that discovery lingering in his tone--he said to me: "Why, she seemed so -young, so girlish, that I looked round for some woman which would be the -captain's wife, though of course I knew there was no other woman on board -that voyage." The voyage before, it seems, there had been the steward's -wife to act as maid to Mrs. Anthony; but she was not taken that time for -some reason he didn't know. Mrs. Anthony . . . ! If it hadn't been the -captain's wife he would have referred to her mentally as a kid, he said. -I suppose there must be a sort of divinity hedging in a captain's wife -(however incredible) which prevented him applying to her that -contemptuous definition in the secret of his thoughts. - -I asked him when this had happened; and he told me that it was three days -after parting from the tug, just outside the channel--to be precise. A -head wind had set in with unpleasant damp weather. He had come up to -leeward of the poop, still feeling very much of a stranger, and an -untried officer, at six in the evening to take his watch. To see her was -quite as unexpected as seeing a vision. When she turned away her head he -recollected himself and dropped his eyes. What he could see then was -only, close to the long chair on which she reclined, a pair of long, thin -legs ending in black cloth boots tucked in close to the skylight seat. -Whence he concluded that the 'old gentleman,' who wore a grey cap like -the captain's, was sitting by her--his daughter. In his first -astonishment he had stopped dead short, with the consequence that now he -felt very much abashed at having betrayed his surprise. But he couldn't -very well turn tail and bolt off the poop. He had come there on duty. -So, still with downcast eyes, he made his way past them. Only when he -got as far as the wheel-grating did he look up. She was hidden from him -by the back of her deck-chair; but he had the view of the owner of the -thin, aged legs seated on the skylight, his clean-shaved cheek, his thin -compressed mouth with a hollow in each corner, the sparse grey locks -escaping from under the tweed cap, and curling slightly on the collar of -the coat. He leaned forward a little over Mrs. Anthony, but they were -not talking. Captain Anthony, walking with a springy hurried gait on the -other side of the poop from end to end, gazed straight before him. Young -Powell might have thought that his captain was not aware of his presence -either. However, he knew better, and for that reason spent a most -uncomfortable hour motionless by the compass before his captain stopped -in his swift pacing and with an almost visible effort made some remark to -him about the weather in a low voice. Before Powell, who was startled, -could find a word of answer, the captain swung off again on his endless -tramp with a fixed gaze. And till the supper bell rang silence dwelt -over that poop like an evil spell. The captain walked up and down -looking straight before him, the helmsman steered, looking upwards at the -sails, the old gent on the skylight looked down on his daughter--and Mr. -Powell confessed to me that he didn't know where to look, feeling as -though he had blundered in where he had no business--which was absurd. At -last he fastened his eyes on the compass card, took refuge, in spirit, -inside the binnacle. He felt chilled more than he should have been by -the chilly dusk falling on the muddy green sea of the soundings from a -smoothly clouded sky. A fitful wind swept the cheerless waste, and the -ship, hauled up so close as to check her way, seemed to progress by -languid fits and starts against the short seas which swept along her -sides with a snarling sound. - -Young Powell thought that this was the dreariest evening aspect of the -sea he had ever seen. He was glad when the other occupants of the poop -left it at the sound of the bell. The captain first, with a sudden -swerve in his walk towards the companion, and not even looking once -towards his wife and his wife's father. Those two got up and moved -towards the companion, the old gent very erect, his thin locks stirring -gently about the nape of his neck, and carrying the rugs over his arm. -The girl who was Mrs. Anthony went down first. The murky twilight had -settled in deep shadow on her face. She looked at Mr. Powell in passing. -He thought that she was very pale. Cold perhaps. The old gent stopped a -moment, thin and stiff, before the young man, and in a voice which was -low but distinct enough, and without any particular accent--not even of -inquiry--he said: - -"You are the new second officer, I believe." - -Mr. Powell answered in the affirmative, wondering if this were a friendly -overture. He had noticed that Mr. Smith's eyes had a sort of inward look -as though he had disliked or disdained his surroundings. The captain's -wife had disappeared then down the companion stairs. Mr. Smith said -'Ah!' and waited a little longer to put another question in his incurious -voice. - -"And did you know the man who was here before you?" - -"No," said young Powell, "I didn't know anybody belonging to this ship -before I joined." - -"He was much older than you. Twice your age. Perhaps more. His hair -was iron grey. Yes. Certainly more." - -The low, repressed voice paused, but the old man did not move away. He -added: "Isn't it unusual?" - -Mr. Powell was surprised not only by being engaged in conversation, but -also by its character. It might have been the suggestion of the word -uttered by this old man, but it was distinctly at that moment that he -became aware of something unusual not only in this encounter but -generally around him, about everybody, in the atmosphere. The very sea, -with short flashes of foam bursting out here and there in the gloomy -distances, the unchangeable, safe sea sheltering a man from all passions, -except its own anger, seemed queer to the quick glance he threw to -windward where the already effaced horizon traced no reassuring limit to -the eye. In the expiring, diffused twilight, and before the clouded -night dropped its mysterious veil, it was the immensity of space made -visible--almost palpable. Young Powell felt it. He felt it in the -sudden sense of his isolation; the trustworthy, powerful ship of his -first acquaintance reduced to a speck, to something almost -undistinguishable, the mere support for the soles of his two feet before -that unexpected old man becoming so suddenly articulate in a darkening -universe. - -It took him a moment or so to seize the drift of the question. He -repeated slowly: 'Unusual . . . Oh, you mean for an elderly man to be the -second of a ship. I don't know. There are a good many of us who don't -get on. He didn't get on, I suppose.' - -The other, his head bowed a little, had the air of listening with acute -attention. - -"And now he has been taken to the hospital," he said. - -"I believe so. Yes. I remember Captain Anthony saying so in the -shipping office." - -"Possibly about to die," went on the old man, in his careful deliberate -tone. "And perhaps glad enough to die." - -Mr. Powell was young enough to be startled at the suggestion, which -sounded confidential and blood-curdling in the dusk. He said sharply -that it was not very likely, as if defending the absent victim of the -accident from an unkind aspersion. He felt, in fact, indignant. The -other emitted a short stifled laugh of a conciliatory nature. The second -bell rang under the poop. He made a movement at the sound, but lingered. - -"What I said was not meant seriously," he murmured, with that strange air -of fearing to be overheard. "Not in this case. I know the man." - -The occasion, or rather the want of occasion, for this conversation, had -sharpened the perceptions of the unsophisticated second officer of the -_Ferndale_. He was alive to the slightest shade of tone, and felt as if -this "I know the man" should have been followed by a "he was no friend of -mine." But after the shortest possible break the old gentleman continued -to murmur distinctly and evenly: - -"Whereas you have never seen him. Nevertheless, when you have gone -through as many years as I have, you will understand how an event putting -an end to one's existence may not be altogether unwelcome. Of course -there are stupid accidents. And even then one needn't be very angry. -What is it to be deprived of life? It's soon done. But what would you -think of the feelings of a man who should have had his life stolen from -him? Cheated out of it, I say!" - -He ceased abruptly, and remained still long enough for the astonished -Powell to stammer out an indistinct: "What do you mean? I don't -understand." Then, with a low 'Good-night' glided a few steps, and sank -through the shadow of the companion into the lamplight below which did -not reach higher than the turn of the staircase. - -The strange words, the cautious tone, the whole person left a strong -uneasiness in the mind of Mr. Powell. He started walking the poop in -great mental confusion. He felt all adrift. This was funny talk and no -mistake. And this cautious low tone as though he were watched by someone -was more than funny. The young second officer hesitated to break the -established rule of every ship's discipline; but at last could not resist -the temptation of getting hold of some other human being, and spoke to -the man at the wheel. - -"Did you hear what this gentleman was saying to me?" - -"No, sir," answered the sailor quietly. Then, encouraged by this -evidence of laxity in his officer, made bold to add, "A queer fish, sir." -This was tentative, and Mr. Powell, busy with his own view, not saying -anything, he ventured further. "They are more like passengers. One sees -some queer passengers." - -"Who are like passengers?" asked Powell gruffly. - -"Why, these two, sir." - - - -CHAPTER THREE--DEVOTED SERVANTS--AND THE LIGHT OF A FLARE - - -Young Powell thought to himself: "The men, too, are noticing it." Indeed, -the captain's behaviour to his wife and to his wife's father was -noticeable enough. It was as if they had been a pair of not very -congenial passengers. But perhaps it was not always like that. The -captain might have been put out by something. - -When the aggrieved Franklin came on deck Mr. Powell made a remark to that -effect. For his curiosity was aroused. - -The mate grumbled "Seems to you? . . . Putout? . . . eh?" He buttoned -his thick jacket up to the throat, and only then added a gloomy "Aye, -likely enough," which discouraged further conversation. But no -encouragement would have induced the newly-joined second mate to enter -the way of confidences. His was an instinctive prudence. Powell did not -know why it was he had resolved to keep his own counsel as to his -colloquy with Mr. Smith. But his curiosity did not slumber. Some time -afterwards, again at the relief of watches, in the course of a little -talk, he mentioned Mrs. Anthony's father quite casually, and tried to -find out from the mate who he was. - -"It would take a clever man to find that out, as things are on board -now," Mr. Franklin said, unexpectedly communicative. "The first I saw of -him was when she brought him alongside in a four-wheeler one morning -about half-past eleven. The captain had come on board early, and was -down in the cabin that had been fitted out for him. Did I tell you that -if you want the captain for anything you must stamp on the port side of -the deck? That's so. This ship is not only unlike what she used to be, -but she is like no other ship, anyhow. Did you ever hear of the -captain's room being on the port side? Both of them stern cabins have -been fitted up afresh like a blessed palace. A gang of people from some -tip-top West-End house were fussing here on board with hangings and -furniture for a fortnight, as if the Queen were coming with us. Of -course the starboard cabin is the bedroom one, but the poor captain hangs -out to port on a couch, so that in case we want him on deck at night, -Mrs. Anthony should not be startled. Nervous! Phoo! A woman who -marries a sailor and makes up her mind to come to sea should have no -blamed jumpiness about her, I say. But never mind. Directly the old cab -pointed round the corner of the warehouse I called out to the captain -that his lady was coming aboard. He answered me, but as I didn't see him -coming, I went down the gangway myself to help her alight. She jumps out -excitedly without touching my arm, or as much as saying "thank you" or -"good morning" or anything, turns back to the cab, and then that old -joker comes out slowly. I hadn't noticed him inside. I hadn't expected -to see anybody. It gave me a start. She says: "My father--Mr. -Franklin." He was staring at me like an owl. "How do you do, sir?" says -I. Both of them looked funny. It was as if something had happened to -them on the way. Neither of them moved, and I stood by waiting. The -captain showed himself on the poop; and I saw him at the side looking -over, and then he disappeared; on the way to meet them on shore, I -expected. But he just went down below again. So, not seeing him, I -said: "Let me help you on board, sir." "On board!" says he in a silly -fashion. "On board!" "It's not a very good ladder, but it's quite -firm," says I, as he seemed to be afraid of it. And he didn't look a -broken-down old man, either. You can see yourself what he is. Straight -as a poker, and life enough in him yet. But he made no move, and I began -to feel foolish. Then she comes forward. "Oh! Thank you, Mr. Franklin. -I'll help my father up." Flabbergasted me--to be choked off like this. -Pushed in between him and me without as much as a look my way. So of -course I dropped it. What do you think? I fell back. I would have gone -up on board at once and left them on the quay to come up or stay there -till next week, only they were blocking the way. I couldn't very well -shove them on one side. Devil only knows what was up between them. There -she was, pale as death, talking to him very fast. He got as red as a -turkey-cock--dash me if he didn't. A bad-tempered old bloke, I can tell -you. And a bad lot, too. Never mind. I couldn't hear what she was -saying to him, but she put force enough into it to shake her. It -seemed--it seemed, mind!--that he didn't want to go on board. Of course -it couldn't have been that. I know better. Well, she took him by the -arm, above the elbow, as if to lead him, or push him rather. I was -standing not quite ten feet off. Why should I have gone away? I was -anxious to get back on board as soon as they would let me. I didn't want -to overhear her blamed whispering either. But I couldn't stay there for -ever, so I made a move to get past them if I could. And that's how I -heard a few words. It was the old chap--something nasty about being -"under the heel" of somebody or other. Then he says, "I don't want this -sacrifice." What it meant I can't tell. It was a quarrel--of that I am -certain. She looks over her shoulder, and sees me pretty close to them. -I don't know what she found to say into his ear, but he gave way -suddenly. He looked round at me too, and they went up together so -quickly then that when I got on the quarter-deck I was only in time to -see the inner door of the passage close after them. Queer--eh? But if -it were only queerness one wouldn't mind. Some luggage in new trunks -came on board in the afternoon. We undocked at midnight. And may I be -hanged if I know who or what he was or is. I haven't been able to find -out. No, I don't know. He may have been anything. All I know is that -once, years ago when I went to see the Derby with a friend, I saw a pea- -and-thimble chap who looked just like that old mystery father out of a -cab." - -All this the goggle-eyed mate had said in a resentful and melancholy -voice, with pauses, to the gentle murmur of the sea. It was for him a -bitter sort of pleasure to have a fresh pair of ears, a newcomer, to whom -he could repeat all these matters of grief and suspicion talked over -endlessly by the band of Captain Anthony's faithful subordinates. It was -evidently so refreshing to his worried spirit that it made him forget the -advisability of a little caution with a complete stranger. But really -with Mr. Powell there was no danger. Amused, at first, at these plaints, -he provoked them for fun. Afterwards, turning them over in his mind, he -became impressed, and as the impression grew stronger with the days his -resolution to keep it to himself grew stronger too. - -* * * * * - -What made it all the easier to keep--I mean the resolution--was that -Powell's sentiment of amused surprise at what struck him at first as mere -absurdity was not unmingled with indignation. And his years were too -few, his position too novel, his reliance on his own opinion not yet firm -enough to allow him to express it with any effect. And then--what would -have been the use, anyhow--and where was the necessity? - -But this thing, familiar and mysterious at the same time, occupied his -imagination. The solitude of the sea intensifies the thoughts and the -facts of one's experience which seems to lie at the very centre of the -world, as the ship which carries one always remains the centre figure of -the round horizon. He viewed the apoplectic, goggle-eyed mate and the -saturnine, heavy-eyed steward as the victims of a peculiar and secret -form of lunacy which poisoned their lives. But he did not give them his -sympathy on that account. No. That strange affliction awakened in him a -sort of suspicious wonder. - -Once--and it was at night again; for the officers of the _Ferndale_ -keeping watch and watch as was customary in those days, had but few -occasions for intercourse--once, I say, the thick Mr. Franklin, a -quaintly bulky figure under the stars, the usual witnesses of his -outpourings, asked him with an abruptness which was not callous, but in -his simple way: - -"I believe you have no parents living?" - -Mr. Powell said that he had lost his father and mother at a very early -age. - -"My mother is still alive," declared Mr. Franklin in a tone which -suggested that he was gratified by the fact. "The old lady is lasting -well. Of course she's got to be made comfortable. A woman must be -looked after, and, if it comes to that, I say, give me a mother. I dare -say if she had not lasted it out so well I might have gone and got -married. I don't know, though. We sailors haven't got much time to look -about us to any purpose. Anyhow, as the old lady was there I haven't, I -may say, looked at a girl in all my life. Not that I wasn't partial to -female society in my time," he added with a pathetic intonation, while -the whites of his goggle eyes gleamed amorously under the clear night -sky. "Very partial, I may say." - -Mr. Powell was amused; and as these communications took place only when -the mate was relieved off duty he had no serious objection to them. The -mate's presence made the first half-hour and sometimes even more of his -watch on deck pass away. If his senior did not mind losing some of his -rest it was not Mr. Powell's affair. Franklin was a decent fellow. His -intention was not to boast of his filial piety. - -"Of course I mean respectable female society," he explained. "The other -sort is neither here nor there. I blame no man's conduct, but a well- -brought-up young fellow like you knows that there's precious little fun -to be got out of it." He fetched a deep sigh. "I wish Captain Anthony's -mother had been a lasting sort like my old lady. He would have had to -look after her and he would have done it well. Captain Anthony is a -proper man. And it would have saved him from the most foolish--" - -He did not finish the phrase which certainly was turning bitter in his -mouth. Mr. Powell thought to himself: "There he goes again." He laughed -a little. - -"I don't understand why you are so hard on the captain, Mr. Franklin. I -thought you were a great friend of his." - -Mr. Franklin exclaimed at this. He was not hard on the captain. Nothing -was further from his thoughts. Friend! Of course he was a good friend -and a faithful servant. He begged Powell to understand that if Captain -Anthony chose to strike a bargain with Old Nick to-morrow, and Old Nick -were good to the captain, he (Franklin) would find it in his heart to -love Old Nick for the captain's sake. That was so. On the other hand, -if a saint, an angel with white wings came along and--" - -He broke off short again as if his own vehemence had frightened him. Then -in his strained pathetic voice (which he had never raised) he observed -that it was no use talking. Anybody could see that the man was changed. - -"As to that," said young Powell, "it is impossible for me to judge." - -"Good Lord!" whispered the mate. "An educated, clever young fellow like -you with a pair of eyes on him and some sense too! Is that how a happy -man looks? Eh? Young you may be, but you aren't a kid; and I dare you -to say 'Yes!'" - -Mr. Powell did not take up the challenge. He did not know what to think -of the mate's view. Still, it seemed as if it had opened his -understanding in a measure. He conceded that the captain did not look -very well. - -"Not very well," repeated the mate mournfully. "Do you think a man with -a face like that can hope to live his life out? You haven't knocked -about long in this world yet, but you are a sailor, you have been in -three or four ships, you say. Well, have you ever seen a shipmaster -walking his own deck as if he did not know what he had underfoot? Have -you? Dam'me if I don't think that he forgets where he is. Of course he -can be no other than a prime seaman; but it's lucky, all the same, he has -me on board. I know by this time what he wants done without being told. -Do you know that I have had no order given me since we left port? Do you -know that he has never once opened his lips to me unless I spoke to him -first? I? His chief officer; his shipmate for full six years, with whom -he had no cross word--not once in all that time. Aye. Not a cross look -even. True that when I do make him speak to me, there is his dear old -self, the quick eye, the kind voice. Could hardly be other to his old -Franklin. But what's the good? Eyes, voice, everything's miles away. -And for all that I take good care never to address him when the poop -isn't clear. Yes! Only we two and nothing but the sea with us. You -think it would be all right; the only chief mate he ever had--Mr. -Franklin here and Mr. Franklin there--when anything went wrong the first -word you would hear about the decks was 'Franklin!'--I am thirteen years -older than he is--you would think it would be all right, wouldn't you? -Only we two on this poop on which we saw each other first--he a young -master--told me that he thought I would suit him very well--we two, and -thirty-one days out at sea, and it's no good! It's like talking to a man -standing on shore. I can't get him back. I can't get at him. I feel -sometimes as if I must shake him by the arm: "Wake up! Wake up! You are -wanted, sir . . . !" - -Young Powell recognized the expression of a true sentiment, a thing so -rare in this world where there are so many mutes and so many excellent -reasons even at sea for an articulate man not to give himself away, that -he felt something like respect for this outburst. It was not loud. The -grotesque squat shape, with the knob of the head as if rammed down -between the square shoulders by a blow from a club, moved vaguely in a -circumscribed space limited by the two harness-casks lashed to the front -rail of the poop, without gestures, hands in the pockets of the jacket, -elbows pressed closely to its side; and the voice without resonance, -passed from anger to dismay and back again without a single louder word -in the hurried delivery, interrupted only by slight gasps for air as if -the speaker were being choked by the suppressed passion of his grief. - -Mr. Powell, though moved to a certain extent, was by no means carried -away. And just as he thought that it was all over, the other, fidgeting -in the darkness, was heard again explosive, bewildered but not very loud -in the silence of the ship and the great empty peace of the sea. - -"They have done something to him! What is it? What can it be? Can't -you guess? Don't you know?" - -"Good heavens!" Young Powell was astounded on discovering that this was -an appeal addressed to him. "How on earth can I know?" - -"You do talk to that white-faced, black-eyed . . . I've seen you talking -to her more than a dozen times." - -Young Powell, his sympathy suddenly chilled, remarked in a disdainful -tone that Mrs. Anthony's eyes were not black. - -"I wish to God she had never set them on the captain, whatever colour -they are," retorted Franklin. "She and that old chap with the scraped -jaws who sits over her and stares down at her dead-white face with his -yellow eyes--confound them! Perhaps you will tell us that his eyes are -not yellow?" - -Powell, not interested in the colour of Mr. Smith's eyes, made a vague -gesture. Yellow or not yellow, it was all one to him. - -The mate murmured to himself. "No. He can't know. No! No more than a -baby. It would take an older head." - -"I don't even understand what you mean," observed Mr. Powell coldly. - -"And even the best head would be puzzled by such devil-work," the mate -continued, muttering. "Well, I have heard tell of women doing for a man -in one way or another when they got him fairly ashore. But to bring -their devilry to sea and fasten on such a man! . . . It's something I -can't understand. But I can watch. Let them look out--I say!" - -His short figure, unable to stoop, without flexibility, could not express -dejection. He was very tired suddenly; he dragged his feet going off the -poop. Before he left it with nearly an hour of his watch below -sacrificed, he addressed himself once more to our young man who stood -abreast of the mizzen rigging in an unreceptive mood expressed by silence -and immobility. He did not regret, he said, having spoken openly on this -very serious matter. - -"I don't know about its seriousness, sir," was Mr. Powell's frank answer. -"But if you think you have been telling me something very new you are -mistaken. You can't keep that matter out of your speeches. It's the -sort of thing I've been hearing more or less ever since I came on board." - -Mr. Powell, speaking truthfully, did not mean to speak offensively. He -had instincts of wisdom; he felt that this was a serious affair, for it -had nothing to do with reason. He did not want to raise an enemy for -himself in the mate. And Mr. Franklin did not take offence. To Mr. -Powell's truthful statement he answered with equal truth and simplicity -that it was very likely, very likely. With a thing like that (next door -to witchcraft almost) weighing on his mind, the wonder was that he could -think of anything else. The poor man must have found in the restlessness -of his thoughts the illusion of being engaged in an active contest with -some power of evil; for his last words as he went lingeringly down the -poop ladder expressed the quaint hope that he would get him, Powell, "on -our side yet." - -Mr. Powell--just imagine a straightforward youngster assailed in this -fashion on the high seas--answered merely by an embarrassed and uneasy -laugh which reflected exactly the state of his innocent soul. The -apoplectic mate, already half-way down, went up again three steps of the -poop ladder. Why, yes. A proper young fellow, the mate expected, -wouldn't stand by and see a man, a good sailor and his own skipper, in -trouble without taking his part against a couple of shore people who--Mr. -Powell interrupted him impatiently, asking what was the trouble? - -"What is it you are hinting at?" he cried with an inexplicable -irritation. - -"I don't like to think of him all alone down there with these two," -Franklin whispered impressively. "Upon my word I don't. God only knows -what may be going on there . . . Don't laugh . . . It was bad enough last -voyage when Mrs. Brown had a cabin aft; but now it's worse. It frightens -me. I can't sleep sometimes for thinking of him all alone there, shut -off from us all." - -Mrs. Brown was the steward's wife. You must understand that shortly -after his visit to the Fyne cottage (with all its consequences), Anthony -had got an offer to go to the Western Islands, and bring home the cargo -of some ship which, damaged in a collision or a stranding, took refuge in -St. Michael, and was condemned there. Roderick Anthony had connections -which would put such paying jobs in his way. So Flora de Barral had but -a five months' voyage, a mere excursion, for her first trial of sea-life. -And Anthony, dearly trying to be most attentive, had induced this Mrs. -Brown, the wife of his faithful steward, to come along as maid to his -bride. But for some reason or other this arrangement was not continued. -And the mate, tormented by indefinite alarms and forebodings, regretted -it. He regretted that Jane Brown was no longer on board--as a sort of -representative of Captain Anthony's faithful servants, to watch quietly -what went on in that part of the ship this fatal marriage had closed to -their vigilance. That had been excellent. For she was a dependable -woman. - -Powell did not detect any particular excellence in what seemed a spying -employment. But in his simplicity he said that he should have thought -Mrs. Anthony would have been glad anyhow to have another woman on board. -He was thinking of the white-faced girlish personality which it seemed to -him ought to have been cared for. The innocent young man always looked -upon the girl as immature; something of a child yet. - -"She! glad! Why it was she who had her fired out. She didn't want -anybody around the cabin. Mrs. Brown is certain of it. She told her -husband so. You ask the steward and hear what he has to say about it. -That's why I don't like it. A capable woman who knew her place. But no. -Out she must go. For no fault, mind you. The captain was ashamed to -send her away. But that wife of his--aye the precious pair of them have -got hold of him. I can't speak to him for a minute on the poop without -that thimble-rigging coon coming gliding up. I'll tell you what. I -overheard once--God knows I didn't try to--only he forgot I was on the -other side of the skylight with my sextant--I overheard him--you know how -he sits hanging over her chair and talking away without properly opening -his mouth--yes I caught the word right enough. He was alluding to the -captain as "the jailer." The jail . . . !" - -Franklin broke off with a profane execration. A silence reigned for a -long time and the slight, very gentle rolling of the ship slipping before -the N.E. trade-wind seemed to be a soothing device for lulling to sleep -the suspicions of men who trust themselves to the sea. - -A deep sigh was heard followed by the mate's voice asking dismally if -that was the way one would speak of a man to whom one wished well? No -better proof of something wrong was needed. Therefore he hoped, as he -vanished at last, that Mr. Powell would be on their side. And this time -Mr. Powell did not answer this hope with an embarrassed laugh. - -That young officer was more and more surprised at the nature of the -incongruous revelations coming to him in the surroundings and in the -atmosphere of the open sea. It is difficult for us to understand the -extent, the completeness, the comprehensiveness of his inexperience, for -us who didn't go to sea out of a small private school at the age of -fourteen years and nine months. Leaning on his elbow in the mizzen -rigging and so still that the helmsman over there at the other end of the -poop might have (and he probably did) suspect him of being criminally -asleep on duty, he tried to "get hold of that thing" by some side which -would fit in with his simple notions of psychology. "What the deuce are -they worrying about?" he asked himself in a dazed and contemptuous -impatience. But all the same "jailer" was a funny name to give a man; -unkind, unfriendly, nasty. He was sorry that Mr. Smith was guilty in -that matter because, the truth must be told, he had been to a certain -extent sensible of having been noticed in a quiet manner by the father of -Mrs. Anthony. Youth appreciates that sort of recognition which is the -subtlest form of flattery age can offer. Mr. Smith seized opportunities -to approach him on deck. His remarks were sometimes weird and -enigmatical. - -He was doubtless an eccentric old gent. But from that to calling his son- -in-law (whom he never approached on deck) nasty names behind his back was -a long step. - -And Mr. Powell marvelled . . . " - -"While he was telling me all this,"--Marlow changed his tone--"I -marvelled even more. It was as if misfortune marked its victims on the -forehead for the dislike of the crowd. I am not thinking here of -numbers. Two men may behave like a crowd, three certainly will when -their emotions are engaged. It was as if the forehead of Flora de Barral -were marked. Was the girl born to be a victim; to be always disliked and -crushed as if she were too fine for this world? Or too luckless--since -that also is often counted as sin. - -Yes, I marvelled more since I knew more of the girl than Mr. Powell--if -only her true name; and more of Captain Anthony--if only the fact that he -was the son of a delicate erotic poet of a markedly refined and -autocratic temperament. Yes, I knew their joint stories which Mr. Powell -did not know. The chapter in it he was opening to me, the sea-chapter, -with such new personages as the sentimental and apoplectic chief-mate and -the morose steward, however astounding to him in its detached condition -was much more so to me as a member of a series, following the chapter -outside the Eastern Hotel in which I myself had played my part. In view -of her declarations and my sage remarks it was very unexpected. She had -meant well, and I had certainly meant well too. Captain Anthony--as far -as I could gather from little Fyne--had meant well. As far as such lofty -words may be applied to the obscure personages of this story we were all -filled with the noblest sentiments and intentions. The sea was there to -give them the shelter of its solitude free from the earth's petty -suggestions. I could well marvel in myself, as to what had happened. - -I hope that if he saw it, Mr. Powell forgave me the smile of which I was -guilty at that moment. The light in the cabin of his little cutter was -dim. And the smile was dim too. Dim and fleeting. The girl's life had -presented itself to me as a tragi-comical adventure, the saddest thing on -earth, slipping between frank laughter and unabashed tears. Yes, the -saddest facts and the most common, and, being common perhaps the most -worthy of our unreserved pity. - -The purely human reality is capable of lyrism but not of abstraction. -Nothing will serve for its understanding but the evidence of rational -linking up of characters and facts. And beginning with Flora de Barral, -in the light of my memories I was certain that she at least must have -been passive; for that is of necessity the part of women, this waiting on -fate which some of them, and not the most intelligent, cover up by the -vain appearances of agitation. Flora de Barral was not exceptionally -intelligent but she was thoroughly feminine. She would be passive (and -that does not mean inanimate) in the circumstances, where the mere fact -of being a woman was enough to give her an occult and supreme -significance. And she would be enduring which is the essence of woman's -visible, tangible power. Of that I was certain. Had she not endured -already? Yet it is so true that the germ of destruction lies in wait for -us mortals, even at the very source of our strength, that one may die of -too much endurance as well as of too little of it. - -Such was my train of thought. And I was mindful also of my first view of -her--toying or perhaps communing in earnest with the possibilities of a -precipice. But I did not ask Mr. Powell anxiously what had happened to -Mrs. Anthony in the end. I let him go on in his own way feeling that no -matter what strange facts he would have to disclose, I was certain to -know much more of them than he ever did know or could possibly guess -. . . " - -Marlow paused for quite a long time. He seemed uncertain as though he -had advanced something beyond my grasp. Purposely I made no sign. "You -understand?" he asked. - -"Perfectly," I said. "You are the expert in the psychological -wilderness. This is like one of those Red-skin stories where the noble -savages carry off a girl and the honest backwoodsman with his -incomparable knowledge follows the track and reads the signs of her fate -in a footprint here, a broken twig there, a trinket dropped by the way. I -have always liked such stories. Go on." - -Marlow smiled indulgently at my jesting. "It is not exactly a story for -boys," he said. "I go on then. The sign, as you call it, was not very -plentiful but very much to the purpose, and when Mr. Powell heard (at a -certain moment I felt bound to tell him) when he heard that I had known -Mrs. Anthony before her marriage, that, to a certain extent, I was her -confidant . . . For you can't deny that to a certain extent . . . Well -let us say that I had a look in . . . A young girl, you know, is -something like a temple. You pass by and wonder what mysterious rites -are going on in there, what prayers, what visions? The privileged men, -the lover, the husband, who are given the key of the sanctuary do not -always know how to use it. For myself, without claim, without merit, -simply by chance I had been allowed to look through the half-opened door -and I had seen the saddest possible desecration, the withered brightness -of youth, a spirit neither made cringing nor yet dulled but as if -bewildered in quivering hopelessness by gratuitous cruelty; -self-confidence destroyed and, instead, a resigned recklessness, a -mournful callousness (and all this simple, almost naive)--before the -material and moral difficulties of the situation. The passive anguish of -the luckless! - -I asked myself: wasn't that ill-luck exhausted yet? Ill-luck which is -like the hate of invisible powers interpreted, made sensible and -injurious by the actions of men? - -Mr. Powell as you may well imagine had opened his eyes at my statement. -But he was full of his recalled experiences on board the _Ferndale_, and -the strangeness of being mixed up in what went on aboard, simply because -his name was also the name of a shipping-master, kept him in a state of -wonder which made other coincidences, however unlikely, not so very -surprising after all. - -This astonishing occurrence was so present to his mind that he always -felt as though he were there under false pretences. And this feeling was -so uncomfortable that it nerved him to break through the awe-inspiring -aloofness of his captain. He wanted to make a clean breast of it. I -imagine that his youth stood in good stead to Mr. Powell. Oh, yes. Youth -is a power. Even Captain Anthony had to take some notice of it, as if it -refreshed him to see something untouched, unscarred, unhardened by -suffering. Or perhaps the very novelty of that face, on board a ship -where he had seen the same faces for years, attracted his attention. - -Whether one day he dropped a word to his new second officer or only -looked at him I don't know; but Mr. Powell seized the opportunity -whatever it was. The captain who had started and stopped in his -everlasting rapid walk smoothed his brow very soon, heard him to the end -and then laughed a little. - -"Ah! That's the story. And you felt you must put me right as to this." - -"Yes, sir." - -"It doesn't matter how you came on board," said Anthony. And then -showing that perhaps he was not so utterly absent from his ship as -Franklin supposed: "That's all right. You seem to be getting on very -well with everybody," he said in his curt hurried tone, as if talking -hurt him, and his eyes already straying over the sea as usual. - -"Yes, sir." - -Powell tells me that looking then at the strong face to which that -haggard expression was returning, he had the impulse, from some confused -friendly feeling, to add: "I am very happy on board here, sir." - -The quickly returning glance, its steadiness, abashed Mr. Powell and made -him even step back a little. The captain looked as though he had -forgotten the meaning of the word. - -"You--what? Oh yes . . . You . . . of course . . . Happy. Why not?" - -This was merely muttered; and next moment Anthony was off on his headlong -tramp his eyes turned to the sea away from his ship. - -A sailor indeed looks generally into the great distances, but in Captain -Anthony's case there was--as Powell expressed it--something particular, -something purposeful like the avoidance of pain or temptation. It was -very marked once one had become aware of it. Before, one felt only a -pronounced strangeness. Not that the captain--Powell was careful to -explain--didn't see things as a ship-master should. The proof of it was -that on that very occasion he desired him suddenly after a period of -silent pacing, to have all the staysails sheets eased off, and he was -going on with some other remarks on the subject of these staysails when -Mrs. Anthony followed by her father emerged from the companion. She -established herself in her chair to leeward of the skylight as usual. -Thereupon the captain cut short whatever he was going to say, and in a -little while went down below. - -I asked Mr. Powell whether the captain and his wife never conversed on -deck. He said no--or at any rate they never exchanged more than a couple -of words. There was some constraint between them. For instance, on that -very occasion, when Mrs. Anthony came out they did look at each other; -the captain's eyes indeed followed her till she sat down; but he did not -speak to her; he did not approach her; and afterwards left the deck -without turning his head her way after this first silent exchange of -glances. - -I asked Mr. Powell what did he do then, the captain being out of the way. -"I went over and talked to Mrs. Anthony. I was thinking that it must be -very dull for her. She seemed to be such a stranger to the ship." - -"The father was there of course?" - -"Always," said Powell. "He was always there sitting on the skylight, as -if he were keeping watch over her. And I think," he added, "that he was -worrying her. Not that she showed it in any way. Mrs. Anthony was -always very quiet and always ready to look one straight in the face." - -"You talked together a lot?" I pursued my inquiries. "She mostly let me -talk to her," confessed Mr. Powell. "I don't know that she was very much -interested--but still she let me. She never cut me short." - -All the sympathies of Mr. Powell were for Flora Anthony nee de Barral. -She was the only human being younger than himself on board that ship -since the _Ferndale_ carried no boys and was manned by a full crew of -able seamen. Yes! their youth had created a sort of bond between them. -Mr. Powell's open countenance must have appeared to her distinctly -pleasing amongst the mature, rough, crabbed or even inimical faces she -saw around her. With the warm generosity of his age young Powell was on -her side, as it were, even before he knew that there were sides to be -taken on board that ship, and what this taking sides was about. There -was a girl. A nice girl. He asked himself no questions. Flora de -Barral was not so much younger in years than himself; but for some -reason, perhaps by contrast with the accepted idea of a captain's wife, -he could not regard her otherwise but as an extremely youthful creature. -At the same time, apart from her exalted position, she exercised over him -the supremacy a woman's earlier maturity gives her over a young man of -her own age. As a matter of fact we can see that, without ever having -more than a half an hour's consecutive conversation together, and the -distances duly preserved, these two were becoming friends--under the eye -of the old man, I suppose. - -How he first got in touch with his captain's wife Powell relates in this -way. It was long before his memorable conversation with the mate and -shortly after getting clear of the channel. It was gloomy weather; dead -head wind, blowing quite half a gale; the _Ferndale_ under reduced sail -was stretching close-hauled across the track of the homeward bound ships, -just moving through the water and no more, since there was no object in -pressing her and the weather looked threatening. About ten o'clock at -night he was alone on the poop, in charge, keeping well aft by the -weather rail and staring to windward, when amongst the white, breaking -seas, under the black sky, he made out the lights of a ship. He watched -them for some time. She was running dead before the wind of course. She -will pass jolly close--he said to himself; and then suddenly he felt a -great mistrust of that approaching ship. She's heading straight for -us--he thought. It was not his business to get out of the way. On the -contrary. And his uneasiness grew by the recollection of the forty tons -of dynamite in the body of the _Ferndale_; not the sort of cargo one -thinks of with equanimity in connection with a threatened collision. He -gazed at the two small lights in the dark immensity filled with the angry -noise of the seas. They fascinated him till their plainness to his sight -gave him a conviction that there was danger there. He knew in his mind -what to do in the emergency, but very properly he felt that he must call -the captain out at once. - -He crossed the deck in one bound. By the immemorial custom and usage of -the sea the captain's room is on the starboard side. You would just as -soon expect your captain to have his nose at the back of his head as to -have his state-room on the port side of the ship. Powell forgot all -about the direction on that point given him by the chief. He flew over -as I said, stamped with his foot and then putting his face to the cowl of -the big ventilator shouted down there: "Please come on deck, sir," in a -voice which was not trembling or scared but which we may call fairly -expressive. There could not be a mistake as to the urgence of the call. -But instead of the expected alert "All right!" and the sound of a rush -down there, he heard only a faint exclamation--then silence. - -Think of his astonishment! He remained there, his ear in the cowl of the -ventilator, his eyes fastened on those menacing sidelights dancing on the -gusts of wind which swept the angry darkness of the sea. It was as -though he had waited an hour but it was something much less than a minute -before he fairly bellowed into the wide tube "Captain Anthony!" An -agitated "What is it?" was what he heard down there in Mrs. Anthony's -voice, light rapid footsteps . . . Why didn't she try to wake him up! "I -want the captain," he shouted, then gave it up, making a dash at the -companion where a blue light was kept, resolved to act for himself. - -On the way he glanced at the helmsman whose face lighted up by the -binnacle lamps was calm. He said rapidly to him: "Stand by to spin that -helm up at the first word." The answer "Aye, aye, sir," was delivered in -a steady voice. Then Mr. Powell after a shout for the watch on deck to -"lay aft," ran to the ship's side and struck the blue light on the rail. - -A sort of nasty little spitting of sparks was all that came. The light -(perhaps affected by damp) had failed to ignite. The time of all these -various acts must be counted in seconds. Powell confessed to me that at -this failure he experienced a paralysis of thought, of voice, of limbs. -The unexpectedness of this misfire positively overcame his faculties. It -was the only thing for which his imagination was not prepared. It was -knocked clean over. When it got up it was with the suggestion that he -must do something at once or there would be a broadside smash accompanied -by the explosion of dynamite, in which both ships would be blown up and -every soul on board of them would vanish off the earth in an enormous -flame and uproar. - -He saw the catastrophe happening and at the same moment, before he could -open his mouth or stir a limb to ward off the vision, a voice very near -his ear, the measured voice of Captain Anthony said: "Wouldn't light--eh? -Throw it down! Jump for the flare-up." - -The spring of activity in Mr. Powell was released with great force. He -jumped. The flare-up was kept inside the companion with a box of matches -ready to hand. Almost before he knew he had moved he was diving under -the companion slide. He got hold of the can in the dark and tried to -strike a light. But he had to press the flare-holder to his breast with -one arm, his fingers were damp and stiff, his hands trembled a little. -One match broke. Another went out. In its flame he saw the colourless -face of Mrs. Anthony a little below him, standing on the cabin stairs. -Her eyes which were very close to his (he was in a crouching posture on -the top step) seemed to burn darkly in the vanishing light. On deck the -captain's voice was heard sudden and unexpectedly sardonic: "You had -better look sharp, if you want to be in time." - -"Let me have the box," said Mrs. Anthony in a hurried and familiar -whisper which sounded amused as if they had been a couple of children up -to some lark behind a wall. He was glad of the offer which seemed to him -very natural, and without ceremony-- - -"Here you are. Catch hold." - -Their hands touched in the dark and she took the box while he held the -paraffin soaked torch in its iron holder. He thought of warning her: -"Look out for yourself." But before he had the time to finish the -sentence the flare blazed up violently between them and he saw her throw -herself back with an arm across her face. "Hallo," he exclaimed; only he -could not stop a moment to ask if she was hurt. He bolted out of the -companion straight into his captain who took the flare from him and held -it high above his head. - -The fierce flame fluttered like a silk flag, throwing an angry swaying -glare mingled with moving shadows over the poop, lighting up the concave -surfaces of the sails, gleaming on the wet paint of the white rails. And -young Powell turned his eyes to windward with a catch in his breath. - -The strange ship, a darker shape in the night, did not seem to be moving -onwards but only to grow more distinct right abeam, staring at the -_Ferndale_ with one green and one red eye which swayed and tossed as if -they belonged to the restless head of some invisible monster ambushed in -the night amongst the waves. A moment, long like eternity, elapsed, and, -suddenly, the monster which seemed to take to itself the shape of a -mountain shut its green eye without as much as a preparatory wink. - -Mr. Powell drew a free breath. "All right now," said Captain Anthony in -a quiet undertone. He gave the blazing flare to Powell and walked aft to -watch the passing of that menace of destruction coming blindly with its -parti-coloured stare out of a blind night on the wings of a sweeping -wind. Her very form could be distinguished now black and elongated -amongst the hissing patches of foam bursting along her path. - -As is always the case with a ship running before wind and sea she did not -seem to an onlooker to move very fast; but to be progressing indolently -in long leisurely bounds and pauses in the midst of the overtaking waves. -It was only when actually passing the stern within easy hail of the -_Ferndale_, that her headlong speed became apparent to the eye. With the -red light shut off and soaring like an immense shadow on the crest of a -wave she was lost to view in one great, forward swing, melting into the -lightless space. - -"Close shave," said Captain Anthony in an indifferent voice just raised -enough to be heard in the wind. "A blind lot on board that ship. Put -out the flare now." - -Silently Mr. Powell inverted the holder, smothering the flame in the can, -bringing about by the mere turn of his wrist the fall of darkness upon -the poop. And at the same time vanished out of his mind's eye the vision -of another flame enormous and fierce shooting violently from a white -churned patch of the sea, lighting up the very clouds and carrying -upwards in its volcanic rush flying spars, corpses, the fragments of two -destroyed ships. It vanished and there was an immense relief. He told -me he did not know how scared he had been, not generally but of that very -thing his imagination had conjured, till it was all over. He measured it -(for fear is a great tension) by the feeling of slack weariness which -came over him all at once. - -He walked to the companion and stooping low to put the flare in its usual -place saw in the darkness the motionless pale oval of Mrs. Anthony's -face. She whispered quietly: - -"Is anything going to happen? What is it?" - -"It's all over now," he whispered back. - -He remained bent low, his head inside the cover staring at that white -ghostly oval. He wondered she had not rushed out on deck. She had -remained quietly there. This was pluck. Wonderful self-restraint. And -it was not stupidity on her part. She knew there was imminent danger and -probably had some notion of its nature. - -"You stayed here waiting for what would come," he murmured admiringly. - -"Wasn't that the best thing to do?" she asked. - -He didn't know. Perhaps. He confessed he could not have done it. Not -he. His flesh and blood could not have stood it. He would have felt he -must see what was coming. Then he remembered that the flare might have -scorched her face, and expressed his concern. - -"A bit. Nothing to hurt. Smell the singed hair?" - -There was a sort of gaiety in her tone. She might have been frightened -but she certainly was not overcome and suffered from no reaction. This -confirmed and augmented if possible Mr. Powell's good opinion of her as a -"jolly girl," though it seemed to him positively monstrous to refer in -such terms to one's captain's wife. "But she doesn't look it," he -thought in extenuation and was going to say something more to her about -the lighting of that flare when another voice was heard in the companion, -saying some indistinct words. Its tone was contemptuous; it came from -below, from the bottom of the stairs. It was a voice in the cabin. And -the only other voice which could be heard in the main cabin at this time -of the evening was the voice of Mrs. Anthony's father. The indistinct -white oval sank from Mr. Powell's sight so swiftly as to take him by -surprise. For a moment he hung at the opening of the companion and now -that her slight form was no longer obstructing the narrow and winding -staircase the voices came up louder but the words were still indistinct. -The old gentleman was excited about something and Mrs. Anthony was -"managing him" as Powell expressed it. They moved away from the bottom -of the stairs and Powell went away from the companion. Yet he fancied he -had heard the words "Lost to me" before he withdrew his head. They had -been uttered by Mr. Smith. - -Captain Anthony had not moved away from the taffrail. He remained in the -very position he took up to watch the other ship go by rolling and -swinging all shadowy in the uproar of the following seas. He stirred -not; and Powell keeping near by did not dare speak to him, so enigmatical -in its contemplation of the night did his figure appear to his young -eyes: indistinct--and in its immobility staring into gloom, the prey of -some incomprehensible grief, longing or regret. - -Why is it that the stillness of a human being is often so impressive, so -suggestive of evil--as if our proper fate were a ceaseless agitation? The -stillness of Captain Anthony became almost intolerable to his second -officer. Mr. Powell loitering about the skylight wanted his captain off -the deck now. "Why doesn't he go below?" he asked himself impatiently. -He ventured a cough. - -Whether the effect of the cough or not Captain Anthony spoke. He did not -move the least bit. With his back remaining turned to the whole length -of the ship he asked Mr. Powell with some brusqueness if the chief mate -had neglected to instruct him that the captain was to be found on the -port side. - -"Yes, sir," said Mr. Powell approaching his back. "The mate told me to -stamp on the port side when I wanted you; but I didn't remember at the -moment." - -"You should remember," the captain uttered with an effort. Then added -mumbling "I don't want Mrs. Anthony frightened. Don't you see? . . ." - -"She wasn't this time," Powell said innocently: "She lighted the flare-up -for me, sir." - -"This time," Captain Anthony exclaimed and turned round. "Mrs. Anthony -lighted the flare? Mrs. Anthony! . . . " Powell explained that she was -in the companion all the time. - -"All the time," repeated the captain. It seemed queer to Powell that -instead of going himself to see the captain should ask him: - -"Is she there now?" - -Powell said that she had gone below after the ship had passed clear of -the _Ferndale_. Captain Anthony made a movement towards the companion -himself, when Powell added the information. "Mr. Smith called to Mrs. -Anthony from the saloon, sir. I believe they are talking there now." - -He was surprised to see the captain give up the idea of going below after -all. - -He began to walk the poop instead regardless of the cold, of the damp -wind and of the sprays. And yet he had nothing on but his sleeping suit -and slippers. Powell placing himself on the break of the poop kept a -look-out. When after some time he turned his head to steal a glance at -his eccentric captain he could not see his active and shadowy figure -swinging to and fro. The second mate of the _Ferndale_ walked aft -peering about and addressed the seaman who steered. - -"Captain gone below?" - -"Yes, sir," said the fellow who with a quid of tobacco bulging out his -left cheek kept his eyes on the compass card. "This minute. He -laughed." - -"Laughed," repeated Powell incredulously. "Do you mean the captain did? -You must be mistaken. What would he want to laugh for?" - -"Don't know, sir." - -The elderly sailor displayed a profound indifference towards human -emotions. However, after a longish pause he conceded a few words more to -the second officer's weakness. "Yes. He was walking the deck as usual -when suddenly he laughed a little and made for the companion. Thought of -something funny all at once." - -Something funny! That Mr. Powell could not believe. He did not ask -himself why, at the time. Funny thoughts come to men, though, in all -sorts of situations; they come to all sorts of men. Nevertheless Mr. -Powell was shocked to learn that Captain Anthony had laughed without -visible cause on a certain night. The impression for some reason was -disagreeable. And it was then, while finishing his watch, with the -chilly gusts of wind sweeping at him out of the darkness where the short -sea of the soundings growled spitefully all round the ship, that it -occurred to his unsophisticated mind that perhaps things are not what -they are confidently expected to be; that it was possible that Captain -Anthony was not a happy man . . . In so far you will perceive he was to a -certain extent prepared for the apoplectic and sensitive Franklin's -lamentations about his captain. And though he treated them with a -contempt which was in a great measure sincere, yet he admitted to me that -deep down within him an inexplicable and uneasy suspicion that all was -not well in that cabin, so unusually cut off from the rest of the ship, -came into being and grew against his will. - - - -CHAPTER FOUR--ANTHONY AND FLORA - - -Marlow emerged out of the shadow of the book-case to get himself a cigar -from a box which stood on a little table by my side. In the full light -of the room I saw in his eyes that slightly mocking expression with which -he habitually covers up his sympathetic impulses of mirth and pity before -the unreasonable complications the idealism of mankind puts into the -simple but poignant problem of conduct on this earth. - -He selected and lit the cigar with affected care, then turned upon me, I -had been looking at him silently. - -"I suppose," he said, the mockery of his eyes giving a pellucid quality -to his tone, "that you think it's high time I told you something -definite. I mean something about that psychological cabin mystery of -discomfort (for it's obvious that it must be psychological) which -affected so profoundly Mr. Franklin the chief mate, and had even -disturbed the serene innocence of Mr. Powell, the second of the ship -_Ferndale_, commanded by Roderick Anthony--the son of the poet, you -know." - -"You are going to confess now that you have failed to find it out," I -said in pretended indignation. - -"It would serve you right if I told you that I have. But I won't. I -haven't failed. I own though that for a time, I was puzzled. However, I -have now seen our Powell many times under the most favourable -conditions--and besides I came upon a most unexpected source of -information . . . But never mind that. The means don't concern you -except in so far as they belong to the story. I'll admit that for some -time the old-maiden-lady-like occupation of putting two and two together -failed to procure a coherent theory. I am speaking now as an -investigator--a man of deductions. With what we know of Roderick Anthony -and Flora de Barral I could not deduct an ordinary marital quarrel -beautifully matured in less than a year--could I? If you ask me what is -an ordinary marital quarrel I will tell you, that it is a difference -about nothing; I mean, these nothings which, as Mr. Powell told us when -we first met him, shore people are so prone to start a row about, and -nurse into hatred from an idle sense of wrong, from perverted ambition, -for spectacular reasons too. There are on earth no actors too humble and -obscure not to have a gallery; that gallery which envenoms the play by -stealthy jeers, counsels of anger, amused comments or words of perfidious -compassion. However, the Anthonys were free from all demoralizing -influences. At sea, you know, there is no gallery. You hear no -tormenting echoes of your own littleness there, where either a great -elemental voice roars defiantly under the sky or else an elemental -silence seems to be part of the infinite stillness of the universe. - -Remembering Flora de Barral in the depths of moral misery, and Roderick -Anthony carried away by a gust of tempestuous tenderness, I asked myself, -Is it all forgotten already? What could they have found to estrange them -from each other with this rapidity and this thoroughness so far from all -temptations, in the peace of the sea and in an isolation so complete that -if it had not been the jealous devotion of the sentimental Franklin -stimulating the attention of Powell, there would have been no record, no -evidence of it at all. - -I must confess at once that it was Flora de Barral whom I suspected. In -this world as at present organized women are the suspected half of the -population. There are good reasons for that. These reasons are so -discoverable with a little reflection that it is not worth my while to -set them out for you. I will only mention this: that the part falling to -women's share being all "influence" has an air of occult and mysterious -action, something not altogether trustworthy like all natural forces -which, for us, work in the dark because of our imperfect comprehension. - -If women were not a force of nature, blind in its strength and capricious -in its power, they would not be mistrusted. As it is one can't help it. -You will say that this force having been in the person of Flora de Barral -captured by Anthony . . . Why yes. He had dealt with her masterfully. -But man has captured electricity too. It lights him on his way, it warms -his home, it will even cook his dinner for him--very much like a woman. -But what sort of conquest would you call it? He knows nothing of it. He -has got to be mighty careful what he is about with his captive. And the -greater the demand he makes on it in the exultation of his pride the more -likely it is to turn on him and burn him to a cinder . . . " - -"A far-fetched enough parallel," I observed coldly to Marlow. He had -returned to the arm-chair in the shadow of the bookcase. "But accepting -the meaning you have in your mind it reduces itself to the knowledge of -how to use it. And if you mean that this ravenous Anthony--" - -"Ravenous is good," interrupted Marlow. "He was a-hungering and -a-thirsting for femininity to enter his life in a way no mere feminist -could have the slightest conception of. I reckon that this accounts for -much of Fyne's disgust with him. Good little Fyne. You have no idea -what infernal mischief he had worked during his call at the hotel. But -then who could have suspected Anthony of being a heroic creature. There -are several kinds of heroism and one of them at least is idiotic. It is -the one which wears the aspect of sublime delicacy. It is apparently the -one of which the son of the delicate poet was capable. - -He certainly resembled his father, who, by the way, wore out two women -without any satisfaction to himself, because they did not come up to his -supra-refined standard of the delicacy which is so perceptible in his -verses. That's your poet. He demands too much from others. The -inarticulate son had set up a standard for himself with that need for -embodying in his conduct the dreams, the passion, the impulses the poet -puts into arrangements of verses, which are dearer to him than his own -self--and may make his own self appear sublime in the eyes of other -people, and even in his own eyes. - -Did Anthony wish to appear sublime in his own eyes? I should not like to -make that charge; though indeed there are other, less noble, ambitions at -which the world does not dare to smile. But I don't think so; I do not -even think that there was in what he did a conscious and lofty confidence -in himself, a particularly pronounced sense of power which leads men so -often into impossible or equivocal situations. Looked at abstractedly -(the way in which truth is often seen in its real shape) his life had -been a life of solitude and silence--and desire. - -Chance had thrown that girl in his way; and if we may smile at his -violent conquest of Flora de Barral we must admit also that this eager -appropriation was truly the act of a man of solitude and desire; a man -also, who, unless a complete imbecile, must have been a man of long and -ardent reveries wherein the faculty of sincere passion matures slowly in -the unexplored recesses of the heart. And I know also that a passion, -dominating or tyrannical, invading the whole man and subjugating all his -faculties to its own unique end, may conduct him whom it spurs and -drives, into all sorts of adventures, to the brink of unfathomable -dangers, to the limits of folly, and madness, and death. - -To the man then of a silence made only more impressive by the -inarticulate thunders and mutters of the great seas, an utter stranger to -the clatter of tongues, there comes the muscular little Fyne, the most -marked representative of that mankind whose voice is so strange to him, -the husband of his sister, a personality standing out from the misty and -remote multitude. He comes and throws at him more talk than he had ever -heard boomed out in an hour, and certainly touching the deepest things -Anthony had ever discovered in himself, and flings words like "unfair" -whose very sound is abhorrent to him. Unfair! Undue advantage! He! -Unfair to that girl? Cruel to her! - -No scorn could stand against the impression of such charges advanced with -heat and conviction. They shook him. They were yet vibrating in the air -of that stuffy hotel-room, terrific, disturbing, impossible to get rid -of, when the door opened and Flora de Barral entered. - -He did not even notice that she was late. He was sitting on a sofa -plunged in gloom. Was it true? Having himself always said exactly what -he meant he imagined that people (unless they were liars, which of course -his brother-in-law could not be) never said more than they meant. The -deep chest voice of little Fyne was still in his ear. "He knows," -Anthony said to himself. He thought he had better go away and never see -her again. But she stood there before him accusing and appealing. How -could he abandon her? That was out of the question. She had no one. Or -rather she had someone. That father. Anthony was willing to take him at -her valuation. This father may have been the victim of the most -atrocious injustice. But what could a man coming out of jail do? An old -man too. And then--what sort of man? What would become of them both? -Anthony shuddered slightly and the faint smile with which Flora had -entered the room faded on her lips. She was used to his impetuous -tenderness. She was no longer afraid of it. But she had never seen him -look like this before, and she suspected at once some new cruelty of -life. He got up with his usual ardour but as if sobered by a momentous -resolve and said: - -"No. I can't let you out of my sight. I have seen you. You have told -me your story. You are honest. You have never told me you loved me." - -She waited, saying to herself that he had never given her time, that he -had never asked her! And that, in truth, she did not know! - -I am inclined to believe that she did not. As abundance of experience is -not precisely her lot in life, a woman is seldom an expert in matters of -sentiment. It is the man who can and generally does "see himself" pretty -well inside and out. Women's self-possession is an outward thing; -inwardly they flutter, perhaps because they are, or they feel themselves -to be, engaged. All this speaking generally. In Flora de Barral's -particular case ever since Anthony had suddenly broken his way into her -hopeless and cruel existence she lived like a person liberated from a -condemned cell by a natural cataclysm, a tempest, an earthquake; not -absolutely terrified, because nothing can be worse than the eve of -execution, but stunned, bewildered--abandoning herself passively. She -did not want to make a sound, to move a limb. She hadn't the strength. -What was the good? And deep down, almost unconsciously she was seduced -by the feeling of being supported by this violence. A sensation she had -never experienced before in her life. - -She felt as if this whirlwind were calming down somehow! As if this -feeling of support, which was tempting her to close her eyes deliciously -and let herself be carried on and on into the unknown undefiled by vile -experiences, were less certain, had wavered threateningly. She tried to -read something in his face, in that energetic kindly face to which she -had become accustomed so soon. But she was not yet capable of -understanding its expression. Scared, discouraged on the threshold of -adolescence, plunged in moral misery of the bitterest kind, she had not -learned to read--not that sort of language. - -If Anthony's love had been as egoistic as love generally is, it would -have been greater than the egoism of his vanity--or of his generosity, if -you like--and all this could not have happened. He would not have hit -upon that renunciation at which one does not know whether to grin or -shudder. It is true too that then his love would not have fastened -itself upon the unhappy daughter of de Barral. But it was a love born of -that rare pity which is not akin to contempt because rooted in an -overwhelmingly strong capacity for tenderness--the tenderness of the -fiery kind--the tenderness of silent solitary men, the voluntary, -passionate outcasts of their kind. At the time I am forced to think that -his vanity must have been enormous. - -"What big eyes she has," he said to himself amazed. No wonder. She was -staring at him with all the might of her soul awakening slowly from a -poisoned sleep, in which it could only quiver with pain but could neither -expand nor move. He plunged into them breathless and tense, deep, deep, -like a mad sailor taking a desperate dive from the masthead into the blue -unfathomable sea so many men have execrated and loved at the same time. -And his vanity was immense. It had been touched to the quick by that -muscular little feminist, Fyne. "I! I! Take advantage of her -helplessness. I! Unfair to that creature--that wisp of mist, that white -shadow homeless in an ugly dirty world. I could blow her away with a -breath," he was saying to himself with horror. "Never!" All the -supremely refined delicacy of tenderness, expressed in so many fine lines -of verse by Carleon Anthony, grew to the size of a passion filling with -inward sobs the big frame of the man who had never in his life read a -single one of those famous sonnets singing of the most highly civilized, -chivalrous love, of those sonnets which . . . You know there's a volume -of them. My edition has the portrait of the author at thirty, and when I -showed it to Mr. Powell the other day he exclaimed: "Wonderful! One -would think this the portrait of Captain Anthony himself if . . ." I -wanted to know what that if was. But Powell could not say. There was -something--a difference. No doubt there was--in fineness perhaps. The -father, fastidious, cerebral, morbidly shrinking from all contacts, could -only sing in harmonious numbers of what the son felt with a dumb and -reckless sincerity. - -* * * * * - -Possessed by most strong men's touching illusion as to the frailness of -women and their spiritual fragility, it seemed to Anthony that he would -be destroying, breaking something very precious inside that being. In -fact nothing less than partly murdering her. This seems a very extreme -effect to flow from Fyne's words. But Anthony, unaccustomed to the -chatter of the firm earth, never stayed to ask himself what value these -words could have in Fyne's mouth. And indeed the mere dark sound of them -was utterly abhorrent to his native rectitude, sea-salted, hardened in -the winds of wide horizons, open as the day. - -He wished to blurt out his indignation but she regarded him with an -expectant air which checked him. His visible discomfort made her uneasy. -He could only repeat "Oh yes. You are perfectly honest. You might have, -but I dare say you are right. At any rate you have never said anything -to me which you didn't mean." - -"Never," she whispered after a pause. - -He seemed distracted, choking with an emotion she could not understand -because it resembled embarrassment, a state of mind inconceivable in that -man. - -She wondered what it was she had said; remembering that in very truth she -had hardly spoken to him except when giving him the bare outline of her -story which he seemed to have hardly had the patience to hear, waving it -perpetually aside with exclamations of horror and anger, with fiercely -sombre mutters "Enough! Enough!" and with alarming starts from a forced -stillness, as though he meant to rush out at once and take vengeance on -somebody. She was saying to herself that he caught her words in the air, -never letting her finish her thought. Honest. Honest. Yes certainly -she had been that. Her letter to Mrs. Fyne had been prompted by honesty. -But she reflected sadly that she had never known what to say to him. That -perhaps she had nothing to say. - -"But you'll find out that I can be honest too," he burst out in a -menacing tone, she had learned to appreciate with an amused thrill. - -She waited for what was coming. But he hung in the wind. He looked -round the room with disgust as if he could see traces on the walls of all -the casual tenants that had ever passed through it. People had -quarrelled in that room; they had been ill in it, there had been misery -in that room, wickedness, crime perhaps--death most likely. This was not -a fit place. He snatched up his hat. He had made up his mind. The -ship--the ship he had known ever since she came off the stocks, his -home--her shelter--the uncontaminated, honest ship, was the place. - -"Let us go on board. We'll talk there," he said. "And you will have to -listen to me. For whatever happens, no matter what they say, I cannot -let you go." - -You can't say that (misgivings or no misgivings) she could have done -anything else but go on board. It was the appointed business of that -morning. During the drive he was silent. Anthony was the last man to -condemn conventionally any human being, to scorn and despise even -deserved misfortune. He was ready to take old de Barral--the convict--on -his daughter's valuation without the slightest reserve. But love like -his, though it may drive one into risky folly by the proud consciousness -of its own strength, has a sagacity of its own. And now, as if lifted up -into a higher and serene region by its purpose of renunciation, it gave -him leisure to reflect for the first time in these last few days. He -said to himself: "I don't know that man. She does not know him either. -She was barely sixteen when they locked him up. She was a child. What -will he say? What will he do? No, he concluded, I cannot leave her -behind with that man who would come into the world as if out of a grave. - -They went on board in silence, and it was after showing her round and -when they had returned to the saloon that he assailed her in his fiery, -masterful fashion. At first she did not understand. Then when she -understood that he was giving her her liberty she went stiff all over, -her hand resting on the edge of the table, her face set like a carving of -white marble. It was all over. It was as that abominable governess had -said. She was insignificant, contemptible. Nobody could love her. -Humiliation clung to her like a cold shroud--never to be shaken off, -unwarmed by this madness of generosity. - -"Yes. Here. Your home. I can't give it to you and go away, but it is -big enough for us two. You need not be afraid. If you say so I shall -not even look at you. Remember that grey head of which you have been -thinking night and day. Where is it going to rest? Where else if not -here, where nothing evil can touch it. Don't you understand that I won't -let you buy shelter from me at the cost of your very soul. I won't. You -are too much part of me. I have found myself since I came upon you and I -would rather sell my own soul to the devil than let you go out of my -keeping. But I must have the right." - -He went away brusquely to shut the door leading on deck and came back the -whole length of the cabin repeating: - -"I must have the legal right. Are you ashamed of letting people think -you are my wife?" - -He opened his arms as if to clasp her to his breast but mastered the -impulse and shook his clenched hands at her, repeating: "I must have the -right if only for your father's sake. I must have the right. Where -would you take him? To that infernal cardboard box-maker. I don't know -what keeps me from hunting him up in his virtuous home and bashing his -head in. I can't bear the thought. Listen to me, Flora! Do you hear -what I am saying to you? You are not so proud that you can't understand -that I as a man have my pride too?" - -He saw a tear glide down her white cheek from under each lowered eyelid. -Then, abruptly, she walked out of the cabin. He stood for a moment, -concentrated, reckoning his own strength, interrogating his heart, before -he followed her hastily. Already she had reached the wharf. - -At the sound of his pursuing footsteps her strength failed her. Where -could she escape from this? From this new perfidy of life taking upon -itself the form of magnanimity. His very voice was changed. The -sustaining whirlwind had let her down, to stumble on again, weakened by -the fresh stab, bereft of moral support which is wanted in life more than -all the charities of material help. She had never had it. Never. Not -from the Fynes. But where to go? Oh yes, this dock--a placid sheet of -water close at hand. But there was that old man with whom she had walked -hand in hand on the parade by the sea. She seemed to see him coming to -meet her, pitiful, a little greyer, with an appealing look and an -extended, tremulous arm. It was for her now to take the hand of that -wronged man more helpless than a child. But where could she lead him? -Where? And what was she to say to him? What words of cheer, of courage -and of hope? There were none. Heaven and earth were mute, unconcerned -at their meeting. But this other man was coming up behind her. He was -very close now. His fiery person seemed to radiate heat, a tingling -vibration into the atmosphere. She was exhausted, careless, afraid to -stumble, ready to fall. She fancied she could hear his breathing. A -wave of languid warmth overtook her, she seemed to lose touch with the -ground under her feet; and when she felt him slip his hand under her arm -she made no attempt to disengage herself from that grasp which closed -upon her limb, insinuating and firm. - -He conducted her through the dangers of the quayside. Her sight was dim. -A moving truck was like a mountain gliding by. Men passed by as if in a -mist; and the buildings, the sheds, the unexpected open spaces, the -ships, had strange, distorted, dangerous shapes. She said to herself -that it was good not to be bothered with what all these things meant in -the scheme of creation (if indeed anything had a meaning), or were just -piled-up matter without any sense. She felt how she had always been -unrelated to this world. She was hanging on to it merely by that one arm -grasped firmly just above the elbow. It was a captivity. So be it. Till -they got out into the street and saw the hansom waiting outside the gates -Anthony spoke only once, beginning brusquely but in a much gentler tone -than she had ever heard from his lips. - -"Of course I ought to have known that you could not care for a man like -me, a stranger. Silence gives consent. Yes? Eh? I don't want any of -that sort of consent. And unless some day you find you can speak . . . -No! No! I shall never ask you. For all the sign I will give you you -may go to your grave with sealed lips. But what I have said you must -do!" - -He bent his head over her with tender care. At the same time she felt -her arm pressed and shaken inconspicuously, but in an undeniable manner. -"You must do it." A little shake that no passer-by could notice; and -this was going on in a deserted part of the dock. "It must be done. You -are listening to me--eh? or would you go again to my sister?" - -His ironic tone, perhaps from want of use, had an awful grating ferocity. - -"Would you go to her?" he pursued in the same strange voice. "Your best -friend! And say nicely--I am sorry. Would you? No! You couldn't. -There are things that even you, poor dear lost girl, couldn't stand. Eh? -Die rather. That's it. Of course. Or can you be thinking of taking -your father to that infernal cousin's house. No! Don't speak. I can't -bear to think of it. I would follow you there and smash the door!" - -The catch in his voice astonished her by its resemblance to a sob. It -frightened her too. The thought that came to her head was: "He mustn't." -He was putting her into the hansom. "Oh! He mustn't, he mustn't." She -was still more frightened by the discovery that he was shaking all over. -Bewildered, shrinking into the far off corner, avoiding his eyes, she yet -saw the quivering of his mouth and made a wild attempt at a smile, which -broke the rigidity of her lips and set her teeth chattering suddenly. - -"I am not coming with you," he was saying. "I'll tell the man . . . I -can't. Better not. What is it? Are you cold? Come! What is it? Only -to go to a confounded stuffy room, a hole of an office. Not a quarter of -an hour. I'll come for you--in ten days. Don't think of it too much. -Think of no man, woman or child of all that silly crowd cumbering the -ground. Don't think of me either. Think of yourself. Ha! Nothing will -be able to touch you then--at last. Say nothing. Don't move. I'll have -everything arranged; and as long as you don't hate the sight of me--and -you don't--there's nothing to be frightened about. One of their silly -offices with a couple of ink-slingers of no consequence; poor, scribbling -devils." - -The hansom drove away with Flora de Barral inside, without movement, -without thought, only too glad to rest, to be alone and still moving away -without effort, in solitude and silence. - -Anthony roamed the streets for hours without being able to remember in -the evening where he had been--in the manner of a happy and exulting -lover. But nobody could have thought so from his face, which bore no -signs of blissful anticipation. Exulting indeed he was but it was a -special sort of exultation which seemed to take him by the throat like an -enemy. - -Anthony's last words to Flora referred to the registry office where they -were married ten days later. During that time Anthony saw no one or -anything, though he went about restlessly, here and there, amongst men -and things. This special state is peculiar to common lovers, who are -known to have no eyes for anything except for the contemplation, actual -or inward, of one human form which for them contains the soul of the -whole world in all its beauty, perfection, variety and infinity. It must -be extremely pleasant. But felicity was denied to Roderick Anthony's -contemplation. He was not a common sort of lover; and he was punished -for it as if Nature (which it is said abhors a vacuum) were so very -conventional as to abhor every sort of exceptional conduct. Roderick -Anthony had begun already to suffer. That is why perhaps he was so -industrious in going about amongst his fellowmen who would have been -surprised and humiliated, had they known how little solidity and even -existence they had in his eyes. But they could not suspect anything so -queer. They saw nothing extraordinary in him during that fortnight. The -proof of this is that they were willing to transact business with him. -Obviously they were; since it is then that the offer of chartering his -ship for the special purpose of proceeding to the Western Islands was put -in his way by a firm of shipbrokers who had no doubt of his sanity. - -He probably looked sane enough for all the practical purposes of -commercial life. But I am not so certain that he really was quite sane -at that time. - -However, he jumped at the offer. Providence itself was offering him this -opportunity to accustom the girl to sea-life by a comparatively short -trip. This was the time when everything that happened, everything he -heard, casual words, unrelated phrases, seemed a provocation or an -encouragement, confirmed him in his resolution. And indeed to be busy -with material affairs is the best preservative against reflection, fears, -doubts--all these things which stand in the way of achievement. I -suppose a fellow proposing to cut his throat would experience a sort of -relief while occupied in stropping his razor carefully. - -And Anthony was extremely careful in preparing for himself and for the -luckless Flora, an impossible existence. He went about it with no more -tremors than if he had been stuffed with rags or made of iron instead of -flesh and blood. An existence, mind you, which, on shore, in the thick -of mankind, of varied interests, of distractions, of infinite -opportunities to preserve your distance from each other, is hardly -conceivable; but on board ship, at sea, _en tete-a-tete_ for days and -weeks and months together, could mean nothing but mental torture, an -exquisite absurdity of torment. He was a simple soul. His hopelessly -masculine ingenuousness is displayed in a touching way by his care to -procure some woman to attend on Flora. The condition of guaranteed -perfect respectability gave him moments of anxious thought. When he -remembered suddenly his steward's wife he must have exclaimed _eureka_ -with particular exultation. One does not like to call Anthony an ass. -But really to put any woman within scenting distance of such a secret and -suppose that she would not track it out! - -No woman, however simple, could be as ingenuous as that. I don't know -how Flora de Barral qualified him in her thoughts when he told her of -having done this amongst other things intended to make her comfortable. I -should think that, for all _her_ simplicity, she must have been appalled. -He stood before her on the appointed day outwardly calmer than she had -ever seen him before. And this very calmness, that scrupulous attitude -which he felt bound in honour to assume then and for ever, unless she -would condescend to make a sign at some future time, added to the -heaviness of her heart innocent of the most pardonable guile. - -The night before she had slept better than she had done for the past ten -nights. Both youth and weariness will assert themselves in the end -against the tyranny of nerve-racking stress. She had slept but she woke -up with her eyes full of tears. There were no traces of them when she -met him in the shabby little parlour downstairs. She had swallowed them -up. She was not going to let him see. She felt bound in honour to -accept the situation for ever and ever unless . . . Ah, unless . . . She -dissembled all her sentiments but it was not duplicity on her part. All -she wanted was to get at the truth; to see what would come of it. - -She beat him at his own honourable game and the thoroughness of her -serenity disconcerted Anthony a bit. It was he who stammered when it -came to talking. The suppressed fierceness of his character carried him -on after the first word or two masterfully enough. But it was as if they -both had taken a bite of the same bitter fruit. He was thinking with -mournful regret not unmixed with surprise: "That fellow Fyne has been -telling me the truth. She does not care for me a bit." It humiliated -him and also increased his compassion for the girl who in this darkness -of life, buffeted and despairing, had fallen into the grip of his -stronger will, abandoning herself to his arms as on a night of shipwreck. -Flora on her side with partial insight (for women are never blind with -the complete masculine blindness) looked on him with some pity; and she -felt pity for herself too. It was a rejection, a casting out; nothing -new to her. But she who supposed all her sensibility dead by this time, -discovered in herself a resentment of this ultimate betrayal. She had no -resignation for this one. With a sort of mental sullenness she said to -herself: "Well, I am here. I am here without any nonsense. It is not my -fault that I am a mere worthless object of pity." - -And these things which she could tell herself with a clear conscience -served her better than the passionate obstinacy of purpose could serve -Roderick Anthony. She was much more sure of herself than he was. Such -are the advantages of mere rectitude over the most exalted generosity. - -And so they went out to get married, the people of the house where she -lodged having no suspicion of anything of the sort. They were only -excited at a "gentleman friend" (a very fine man too) calling on Miss -Smith for the first time since she had come to live in the house. When -she returned, for she did come back alone, there were allusions made to -that outing. She had to take her meals with these rather vulgar people. -The woman of the house, a scraggy, genteel person, tried even to provoke -confidences. Flora's white face with the deep blue eyes did not strike -their hearts as it did the heart of Captain Anthony, as the very face of -the suffering world. Her pained reserve had no power to awe them into -decency. - -Well, she returned alone--as in fact might have been expected. After -leaving the Registry Office Flora de Barral and Roderick Anthony had gone -for a walk in a park. It must have been an East-End park but I am not -sure. Anyway that's what they did. It was a sunny day. He said to her: -"Everything I have in the world belongs to you. I have seen to that -without troubling my brother-in-law. They have no call to interfere." - -She walked with her hand resting lightly on his arm. He had offered it -to her on coming out of the Registry Office, and she had accepted it -silently. Her head drooped, she seemed to be turning matters over in her -mind. She said, alluding to the Fynes: "They have been very good to me." -At that he exclaimed: - -"They have never understood you. Well, not properly. My sister is not a -bad woman, but . . . " - -Flora didn't protest; asking herself whether he imagined that he himself -understood her so much better. Anthony dismissing his family out of his -thoughts went on: "Yes. Everything is yours. I have kept nothing back. -As to the piece of paper we have just got from that miserable -quill-driver if it wasn't for the law, I wouldn't mind if you tore it up -here, now, on this spot. But don't you do it. Unless you should some -day feel that--" - -He choked, unexpectedly. She, reflective, hesitated a moment then making -up her mind bravely. - -"Neither am I keeping anything back from you." - -She had said it! But he in his blind generosity assumed that she was -alluding to her deplorable history and hastened to mutter: - -"Of course! Of course! Say no more. I have been lying awake thinking -of it all no end of times." - -He made a movement with his other arm as if restraining himself from -shaking an indignant fist at the universe; and she never even attempted -to look at him. His voice sounded strangely, incredibly lifeless in -comparison with these tempestuous accents that in the broad fields, in -the dark garden had seemed to shake the very earth under her weary and -hopeless feet. - -She regretted them. Hearing the sigh which escaped her Anthony instead -of shaking his fist at the universe began to pat her hand resting on his -arm and then desisted, suddenly, as though he had burnt himself. Then -after a silence: - -"You will have to go by yourself to-morrow. I . . . No, I think I -mustn't come. Better not. What you two will have to say to each other--" - -She interrupted him quickly: - -"Father is an innocent man. He was cruelly wronged." - -"Yes. That's why," Anthony insisted earnestly. "And you are the only -human being that can make it up to him. You alone must reconcile him -with the world if anything can. But of course you shall. You'll have to -find words. Oh you'll know. And then the sight of you, alone, would -soothe--" - -"He's the gentlest of men," she interrupted again. - -Anthony shook his head. "It would take no end of generosity, no end of -gentleness to forgive such a dead set. For my part I would have liked -better to have been killed and done with at once. It could not have been -worse for you--and I suppose it was of you that he was thinking most -while those infernal lawyers were badgering him in court. Of you. And -now I think of it perhaps the sight of you may bring it all back to him. -All these years, all these years--and you his child left alone in the -world. I would have gone crazy. For even if he had done wrong--" - -"But he hasn't," insisted Flora de Barral with a quite unexpected -fierceness. "You mustn't even suppose it. Haven't you read the accounts -of the trial?" - -"I am not supposing anything," Anthony defended himself. He just -remembered hearing of the trial. He assured her that he was away from -England, the second voyage of the _Ferndale_. He was crossing the -Pacific from Australia at the time and didn't see any papers for weeks -and weeks. He interrupted himself to suggest: - -"You had better tell him at once that you are happy." - -He had stammered a little, and Flora de Barral uttered a deliberate and -concise "Yes." - -A short silence ensued. She withdrew her hand from his arm. They -stopped. Anthony looked as if a totally unexpected catastrophe had -happened. - -"Ah," he said. "You mind . . . " - -"No! I think I had better," she murmured. - -"I dare say. I dare say. Bring him along straight on board to-morrow. -Stop nowhere." - -She had a movement of vague gratitude, a momentary feeling of peace which -she referred to the man before her. She looked up at Anthony. His face -was sombre. He was miles away and muttered as if to himself: - -"Where could he want to stop though?" - -"There's not a single being on earth that I would want to look at his -dear face now, to whom I would willingly take him," she said extending -her hand frankly and with a slight break in her voice, "but -you--Roderick." - -He took that hand, felt it very small and delicate in his broad palm. - -"That's right. That's right," he said with a conscious and hasty -heartiness and, as if suddenly ashamed of the sound of his voice, turned -half round and absolutely walked away from the motionless girl. He even -resisted the temptation to look back till it was too late. The gravel -path lay empty to the very gate of the park. She was gone--vanished. He -had an impression that he had missed some sort of chance. He felt sad. -That excited sense of his own conduct which had kept him up for the last -ten days buoyed him no more. He had succeeded! - -He strolled on aimlessly a prey to gentle melancholy. He walked and -walked. There were but few people about in this breathing space of a -poor neighbourhood. Under certain conditions of life there is precious -little time left for mere breathing. But still a few here and there were -indulging in that luxury; yet few as they were Captain Anthony, though -the least exclusive of men, resented their presence. Solitude had been -his best friend. He wanted some place where he could sit down and be -alone. And in his need his thoughts turned to the sea which had given -him so much of that congenial solitude. There, if always with his ship -(but that was an integral part of him) he could always be as solitary as -he chose. Yes. Get out to sea! - -The night of the town with its strings of lights, rigid, and crossed like -a net of flames, thrown over the sombre immensity of walls, closed round -him, with its artificial brilliance overhung by an emphatic blackness, -its unnatural animation of a restless, overdriven humanity. His thoughts -which somehow were inclined to pity every passing figure, every single -person glimpsed under a street lamp, fixed themselves at last upon a -figure which certainly could not have been seen under the lamps on that -particular night. A figure unknown to him. A figure shut up within high -unscaleable walls of stone or bricks till next morning . . . The figure -of Flora de Barral's father. De Barral the financier--the convict. - -There is something in that word with its suggestions of guilt and -retribution which arrests the thought. We feel ourselves in the presence -of the power of organized society--a thing mysterious in itself and still -more mysterious in its effect. Whether guilty or innocent, it was as if -old de Barral had been down to the Nether Regions. Impossible to imagine -what he would bring out from there to the light of this world of -uncondemned men. What would he think? What would he have to say? And -what was one to say to him? - -Anthony, a little awed, as one is by a range of feelings stretching -beyond one's grasp, comforted himself by the thought that probably the -old fellow would have little to say. He wouldn't want to talk about it. -No man would. It must have been a real hell to him. - -And then Anthony, at the end of the day in which he had gone through a -marriage ceremony with Flora de Barral, ceased to think of Flora's father -except, as in some sort, the captive of his triumph. He turned to the -mental contemplation of the white, delicate and appealing face with great -blue eyes which he had seen weep and wonder and look profoundly at him, -sometimes with incredulity, sometimes with doubt and pain, but always -irresistible in the power to find their way right into his breast, to -stir there a deep response which was something more than love--he said to -himself,--as men understand it. More? Or was it only something other? -Yes. It was something other. More or less. Something as incredible as -the fulfilment of an amazing and startling dream in which he could take -the world in his arms--all the suffering world--not to possess its -pathetic fairness but to console and cherish its sorrow. - -Anthony walked slowly to the ship and that night slept without dreams. - - - -CHAPTER FIVE--THE GREAT DE BARRAL - - -Renovated certainly the saloon of the _Ferndale_ was to receive the -"strange woman." The mellowness of its old-fashioned, tarnished -decoration was gone. And Anthony looking round saw the glitter, the -gleams, the colour of new things, untried, unused, very bright--too -bright. The workmen had gone only last night; and the last piece of work -they did was the hanging of the heavy curtains which looped midway the -length of the saloon--divided it in two if released, cutting off the -after end with its companion-way leading direct on the poop, from the -forepart with its outlet on the deck; making a privacy within a privacy, -as though Captain Anthony could not place obstacles enough between his -new happiness and the men who shared his life at sea. He inspected that -arrangement with an approving eye then made a particular visitation of -the whole, ending by opening a door which led into a large state-room -made of two knocked into one. It was very well furnished and had, -instead of the usual bedplace of such cabins, an elaborate swinging cot -of the latest pattern. Anthony tilted it a little by way of trial. "The -old man will be very comfortable in here," he said to himself, and -stepped back into the saloon closing the door gently. Then another -thought occurred to him obvious under the circumstances but strangely -enough presenting itself for the first time. "Jove! Won't he get a -shock," thought Roderick Anthony. - -He went hastily on deck. "Mr. Franklin, Mr. Franklin." The mate was not -very far. "Oh! Here you are. Miss . . . Mrs. Anthony'll be coming on -board presently. Just give me a call when you see the cab." - -Then, without noticing the gloominess of the mate's countenance he went -in again. Not a friendly word, not a professional remark, or a small -joke, not as much as a simple and inane "fine day." Nothing. Just -turned about and went in. - -We know that, when the moment came, he thought better of it and decided -to meet Flora's father in that privacy of the main cabin which he had -been so careful to arrange. Why Anthony appeared to shrink from the -contact, he who was sufficiently self-confident not only to face but to -absolutely create a situation almost insane in its audacious generosity, -is difficult to explain. Perhaps when he came on the poop for a glance -he found that man so different outwardly from what he expected that he -decided to meet him for the first time out of everybody's sight. Possibly -the general secrecy of his relation to the girl might have influenced -him. Truly he may well have been dismayed. That man's coming brought -him face to face with the necessity to speak and act a lie; to appear -what he was not and what he could never be, unless, unless-- - -In short, we'll say if you like that for various reasons, all having to -do with the delicate rectitude of his nature, Roderick Anthony (a man of -whom his chief mate used to say: he doesn't know what fear is) was -frightened. There is a Nemesis which overtakes generosity too, like all -the other imprudences of men who dare to be lawless and proud . . . " - -"Why do you say this?" I inquired, for Marlow had stopped abruptly and -kept silent in the shadow of the bookcase. - -"I say this because that man whom chance had thrown in Flora's way was -both: lawless and proud. Whether he knew anything about it or not it -does not matter. Very likely not. One may fling a glove in the face of -nature and in the face of one's own moral endurance quite innocently, -with a simplicity which wears the aspect of perfectly Satanic conceit. -However, as I have said it does not matter. It's a transgression all the -same and has got to be paid for in the usual way. But never mind that. I -paused because, like Anthony, I find a difficulty, a sort of dread in -coming to grips with old de Barral. - -You remember I had a glimpse of him once. He was not an imposing -personality: tall, thin, straight, stiff, faded, moving with short steps -and with a gliding motion, speaking in an even low voice. When the sea -was rough he wasn't much seen on deck--at least not walking. He caught -hold of things then and dragged himself along as far as the after -skylight where he would sit for hours. Our, then young, friend offered -once to assist him and this service was the first beginning of a sort of -friendship. He clung hard to one--Powell says, with no figurative -intention. Powell was always on the lookout to assist, and to assist -mainly Mrs. Anthony, because he clung so jolly hard to her that Powell -was afraid of her being dragged down notwithstanding that she very soon -became very sure-footed in all sorts of weather. And Powell was the only -one ready to assist at hand because Anthony (by that time) seemed to be -afraid to come near them; the unforgiving Franklin always looked -wrathfully the other way; the boatswain, if up there, acted likewise but -sheepishly; and any hands that happened to be on the poop (a feeling -spreads mysteriously all over a ship) shunned him as though he had been -the devil. - -We know how he arrived on board. For my part I know so little of prisons -that I haven't the faintest notion how one leaves them. It seems as -abominable an operation as the other, the shutting up with its mental -suggestions of bang, snap, crash and the empty silence outside--where an -instant before you were--you _were_--and now no longer are. Perfectly -devilish. And the release! I don't know which is worse. How do they do -it? Pull the string, door flies open, man flies through: Out you go! -_Adios_! And in the space where a second before you were not, in the -silent space there is a figure going away, limping. Why limping? I -don't know. That's how I see it. One has a notion of a maiming, -crippling process; of the individual coming back damaged in some subtle -way. I admit it is a fantastic hallucination, but I can't help it. Of -course I know that the proceedings of the best machine-made humanity are -employed with judicious care and so on. I am absurd, no doubt, but still -. . . Oh yes it's idiotic. When I pass one of these places . . . did you -notice that there is something infernal about the aspect of every -individual stone or brick of them, something malicious as if matter were -enjoying its revenge of the contemptuous spirit of man. Did you notice? -You didn't? Eh? Well I am perhaps a little mad on that point. When I -pass one of these places I must avert my eyes. I couldn't have gone to -meet de Barral. I should have shrunk from the ordeal. You'll notice -that it looks as if Anthony (a brave man indubitably) had shirked it too. -Little Fyne's flight of fancy picturing three people in the fatal four -wheeler--you remember?--went wide of the truth. There were only two -people in the four wheeler. Flora did not shrink. Women can stand -anything. The dear creatures have no imagination when it comes to solid -facts of life. In sentimental regions--I won't say. It's another thing -altogether. There they shrink from or rush to embrace ghosts of their -own creation just the same as any fool-man would. - -No. I suppose the girl Flora went on that errand reasonably. And then, -why! This was the moment for which she had lived. It was her only point -of contact with existence. Oh yes. She had been assisted by the Fynes. -And kindly. Certainly. Kindly. But that's not enough. There is a kind -way of assisting our fellow-creatures which is enough to break their -hearts while it saves their outer envelope. How cold, how infernally -cold she must have felt--unless when she was made to burn with -indignation or shame. Man, we know, cannot live by bread alone but hang -me if I don't believe that some women could live by love alone. If there -be a flame in human beings fed by varied ingredients earthly and -spiritual which tinge it in different hues, then I seem to see the colour -of theirs. It is azure . . . What the devil are you laughing at . . . " - -Marlow jumped up and strode out of the shadow as if lifted by indignation -but there was the flicker of a smile on his lips. "You say I don't know -women. Maybe. It's just as well not to come too close to the shrine. -But I have a clear notion of _woman_. In all of them, termagant, flirt, -crank, washerwoman, blue-stocking, outcast and even in the ordinary fool -of the ordinary commerce there is something left, if only a spark. And -when there is a spark there can always be a flame . . . " - -He went back into the shadow and sat down again. - -"I don't mean to say that Flora de Barral was one of the sort that could -live by love alone. In fact she had managed to live without. But still, -in the distrust of herself and of others she looked for love, any kind of -love, as women will. And that confounded jail was the only spot where -she could see it--for she had no reason to distrust her father. - -She was there in good time. I see her gazing across the road at these -walls which are, properly speaking, awful. You do indeed seem to feel -along the very lines and angles of the unholy bulk, the fall of time, -drop by drop, hour by hour, leaf by leaf, with a gentle and implacable -slowness. And a voiceless melancholy comes over one, invading, -overpowering like a dream, penetrating and mortal like poison. - -When de Barral came out she experienced a sort of shock to see that he -was exactly as she remembered him. Perhaps a little smaller. Otherwise -unchanged. You come out in the same clothes, you know. I can't tell -whether he was looking for her. No doubt he was. Whether he recognized -her? Very likely. She crossed the road and at once there was reproduced -at a distance of years, as if by some mocking witchcraft, the sight so -familiar on the Parade at Brighton of the financier de Barral walking -with his only daughter. One comes out of prison in the same clothes one -wore on the day of condemnation, no matter how long one has been put away -there. Oh, they last! They last! But there is something which is -preserved by prison life even better than one's discarded clothing. It -is the force, the vividness of one's sentiments. A monastery will do -that too; but in the unholy claustration of a jail you are thrown back -wholly upon yourself--for God and Faith are not there. The people -outside disperse their affections, you hoard yours, you nurse them into -intensity. What they let slip, what they forget in the movement and -changes of free life, you hold on to, amplify, exaggerate into a rank -growth of memories. They can look with a smile at the troubles and pains -of the past; but you can't. Old pains keep on gnawing at your heart, old -desires, old deceptions, old dreams, assailing you in the dead stillness -of your present where nothing moves except the irrecoverable minutes of -your life. - -De Barral was out and, for a time speechless, being led away almost -before he had taken possession of the free world, by his daughter. Flora -controlled herself well. They walked along quickly for some distance. -The cab had been left round the corner--round several corners for all I -know. He was flustered, out of breath, when she helped him in and -followed herself. Inside that rolling box, turning towards that -recovered presence with her heart too full for words she felt the desire -of tears she had managed to keep down abandon her suddenly, her -half-mournful, half-triumphant exultation subside, every fibre of her -body, relaxed in tenderness, go stiff in the close look she took at his -face. He _was_ different. There was something. Yes, there was -something between them, something hard and impalpable, the ghost of these -high walls. - -How old he was, how unlike! - -She shook off this impression, amazed and frightened by it of course. And -remorseful too. Naturally. She threw her arms round his neck. He -returned that hug awkwardly, as if not in perfect control of his arms, -with a fumbling and uncertain pressure. She hid her face on his breast. -It was as though she were pressing it against a stone. They released -each other and presently the cab was rolling along at a jog-trot to the -docks with those two people as far apart as they could get from each -other, in opposite corners. - -After a silence given up to mutual examination he uttered his first -coherent sentence outside the walls of the prison. - -"What has done for me was envy. Envy. There was a lot of them just -bursting with it every time they looked my way. I was doing too well. So -they went to the Public Prosecutor--" - -She said hastily "Yes! Yes! I know," and he glared as if resentful that -the child had turned into a young woman without waiting for him to come -out. "What do you know about it?" he asked. "You were too young." His -speech was soft. The old voice, the old voice! It gave her a thrill. -She recognized its pointless gentleness always the same no matter what he -had to say. And she remembered that he never had much to say when he -came down to see her. It was she who chattered, chattered, on their -walks, while stiff and with a rigidly-carried head, he dropped a gentle -word now and then. - -Moved by these recollections waking up within her, she explained to him -that within the last year she had read and studied the report of the -trial. - -"I went through the files of several papers, papa." - -He looked at her suspiciously. The reports were probably very -incomplete. No doubt the reporters had garbled his evidence. They were -determined to give him no chance either in court or before the public -opinion. It was a conspiracy . . . "My counsel was a fool too," he -added. "Did you notice? A perfect fool." - -She laid her hand on his arm soothingly. "Is it worth while talking -about that awful time? It is so far away now." She shuddered slightly -at the thought of all the horrible years which had passed over her young -head; never guessing that for him the time was but yesterday. He folded -his arms on his breast, leaned back in his corner and bowed his head. But -in a little while he made her jump by asking suddenly: - -"Who has got hold of the Lone Valley Railway? That's what they were -after mainly. Somebody has got it. Parfitts and Co. grabbed it--eh? Or -was it that fellow Warner . . . " - -"I--I don't know," she said quite scared by the twitching of his lips. - -"Don't know!" he exclaimed softly. Hadn't her cousin told her? Oh yes. -She had left them--of course. Why did she? It was his first question -about herself but she did not answer it. She did not want to talk of -these horrors. They were impossible to describe. She perceived though -that he had not expected an answer, because she heard him muttering to -himself that: "There was half a million's worth of work done and material -accumulated there." - -"You mustn't think of these things, papa," she said firmly. And he asked -her with that invariable gentleness, in which she seemed now to detect -some rather ugly shades, what else had he to think about? Another year -or two, if they had only left him alone, he and everybody else would have -been all right, rolling in money; and she, his daughter, could have -married anybody--anybody. A lord. - -All this was to him like yesterday, a long yesterday, a yesterday gone -over innumerable times, analysed, meditated upon for years. It had a -vividness and force for that old man of which his daughter who had not -been shut out of the world could have no idea. She was to him the only -living figure out of that past, and it was perhaps in perfect good faith -that he added, coldly, inexpressive and thin-lipped: "I lived only for -you, I may say. I suppose you understand that. There were only you and -me." - -Moved by this declaration, wondering that it did not warm her heart more, -she murmured a few endearing words while the uppermost thought in her -mind was that she must tell him now of the situation. She had expected -to be questioned anxiously about herself--and while she desired it she -shrank from the answers she would have to make. But her father seemed -strangely, unnaturally incurious. It looked as if there would be no -questions. Still this was an opening. This seemed to be the time for -her to begin. And she began. She began by saying that she had always -felt like that. There were two of them, to live for each other. And if -he only knew what she had gone through! - -Ensconced in his corner, with his arms folded, he stared out of the cab -window at the street. How little he was changed after all. It was the -unmovable expression, the faded stare she used to see on the esplanade -whenever walking by his side hand in hand she raised her eyes to his -face--while she chattered, chattered. It was the same stiff, silent -figure which at a word from her would turn rigidly into a shop and buy -her anything it occurred to her that she would like to have. Flora de -Barral's voice faltered. He bent on her that well-remembered glance in -which she had never read anything as a child, except the consciousness of -her existence. And that was enough for a child who had never known -demonstrative affection. But she had lived a life so starved of all -feeling that this was no longer enough for her. What was the good of -telling him the story of all these miseries now past and gone, of all -those bewildering difficulties and humiliations? What she must tell him -was difficult enough to say. She approached it by remarking cheerfully: - -"You haven't even asked me where I am taking you." He started like a -somnambulist awakened suddenly, and there was now some meaning in his -stare; a sort of alarmed speculation. He opened his mouth slowly. Flora -struck in with forced gaiety. "You would never, guess." - -He waited, still more startled and suspicious. "Guess! Why don't you -tell me?" - -He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward towards her. She got hold of -one of his hands. "You must know first . . . " She paused, made an -effort: "I am married, papa." - -For a moment they kept perfectly still in that cab rolling on at a steady -jog-trot through a narrow city street full of bustle. Whatever she -expected she did not expect to feel his hand snatched away from her grasp -as if from a burn or a contamination. De Barral fresh from the stagnant -torment of the prison (where nothing happens) had not expected that sort -of news. It seemed to stick in his throat. In strangled low tones he -cried out, "You--married? You, Flora! When? Married! What for? Who -to? Married!" - -His eyes which were blue like hers, only faded, without depth, seemed to -start out of their orbits. He did really look as if he were choking. He -even put his hand to his collar . . . " - -* * * * * - -"You know," continued Marlow out of the shadow of the bookcase and nearly -invisible in the depths of the arm-chair, "the only time I saw him he had -given me the impression of absolute rigidity, as though he had swallowed -a poker. But it seems that he could collapse. I can hardly picture this -to myself. I understand that he did collapse to a certain extent in his -corner of the cab. The unexpected had crumpled him up. She regarded him -perplexed, pitying, a little disillusioned, and nodded at him gravely: -Yes. Married. What she did not like was to see him smile in a manner -far from encouraging to the devotion of a daughter. There was something -unintentionally savage in it. Old de Barral could not quite command his -muscles, as yet. But he had recovered command of his gentle voice. - -"You were just saying that in this wide world there we were, only you and -I, to stick to each other." - -She was dimly aware of the scathing intention lurking in these soft low -tones, in these words which appealed to her poignantly. She defended -herself. Never, never for a single moment had she ceased to think of -him. Neither did he cease to think of her, he said, with as much -sinister emphasis as he was capable of. - -"But, papa," she cried, "I haven't been shut up like you." She didn't -mind speaking of it because he was innocent. He hadn't been understood. -It was a misfortune of the most cruel kind but no more disgraceful than -an illness, a maiming accident or some other visitation of blind fate. "I -wish I had been too. But I was alone out in the world, the horrid world, -that very world which had used you so badly." - -"And you couldn't go about in it without finding somebody to fall in love -with?" he said. A jealous rage affected his brain like the fumes of -wine, rising from some secret depths of his being so long deprived of all -emotions. The hollows at the corners of his lips became more pronounced -in the puffy roundness of his cheeks. Images, visions, obsess with -particular force, men withdrawn from the sights and sounds of active -life. "And I did nothing but think of you!" he exclaimed under his -breath, contemptuously. "Think of you! You haunted me, I tell you." - -Flora said to herself that there was a being who loved her. "Then we -have been haunting each other," she declared with a pang of remorse. For -indeed he had haunted her nearly out of the world, into a final and -irremediable desertion. "Some day I shall tell you . . . No. I don't -think I can ever tell you. There was a time when I was mad. But what's -the good? It's all over now. We shall forget all this. There shall be -nothing to remind us." - -De Barral moved his shoulders. - -"I should think you were mad to tie yourself to . . . How long is it -since you are married?" - -She answered "Not long" that being the only answer she dared to make. -Everything was so different from what she imagined it would be. He -wanted to know why she had said nothing of it in any of her letters; in -her last letter. She said: - -"It was after." - -"So recently!" he wondered. "Couldn't you wait at least till I came out? -You could have told me; asked me; consulted me! Let me see--" - -She shook her head negatively. And he was appalled. He thought to -himself: Who can he be? Some miserable, silly youth without a penny. Or -perhaps some scoundrel? Without making any expressive movement he wrung -his loosely-clasped hands till the joints cracked. He looked at her. She -was pretty. Some low scoundrel who will cast her off. Some plausible -vagabond . . . "You couldn't wait--eh?" - -Again she made a slight negative sign. - -"Why not? What was the hurry?" She cast down her eyes. "It had to be. -Yes. It was sudden, but it had to be." - -He leaned towards her, his mouth open, his eyes wild with virtuous anger, -but meeting the absolute candour of her raised glance threw himself back -into his corner again. - -"So tremendously in love with each other--was that it? Couldn't let a -father have his daughter all to himself even for a day after--after such -a separation. And you know I never had anyone, I had no friends. What -did I want with those people one meets in the City. The best of them are -ready to cut your throat. Yes! Business men, gentlemen, any sort of men -and women--out of spite, or to get something. Oh yes, they can talk fair -enough if they think there's something to be got out of you . . . " His -voice was a mere breath yet every word came to Flora as distinctly as if -charged with all the moving power of passion . . . "My girl, I looked at -them making up to me and I would say to myself: What do I care for all -that! I am a business man. I am the great Mr. de Barral (yes, yes, some -of them twisted their mouths at it, but I _was_ the great Mr. de Barral) -and I have my little girl. I wanted nobody and I have never had -anybody." - -A true emotion had unsealed his lips but the words that came out of them -were no louder than the murmur of a light wind. It died away. - -"That's just it," said Flora de Barral under her breath. Without -removing his eyes from her he took off his hat. It was a tall hat. The -hat of the trial. The hat of the thumb-nail sketches in the illustrated -papers. One comes out in the same clothes, but seclusion counts! It is -well known that lurid visions haunt secluded men, monks, hermits--then -why not prisoners? De Barral the convict took off the silk hat of the -financier de Barral and deposited it on the front seat of the cab. Then -he blew out his cheeks. He was red in the face. - -"And then what happens?" he began again in his contained voice. "Here I -am, overthrown, broken by envy, malice and all uncharitableness. I come -out--and what do I find? I find that my girl Flora has gone and married -some man or other, perhaps a fool, how do I know; or perhaps--anyway not -good enough." - -"Stop, papa." - -"A silly love affair as likely as not," he continued monotonously, his -thin lips writhing between the ill-omened sunk corners. "And a very -suspicious thing it is too, on the part of a loving daughter." - -She tried to interrupt him but he went on till she actually clapped her -hand on his mouth. He rolled his eyes a bit but when she took her hand -away he remained silent. - -"Wait. I must tell you . . . And first of all, papa, understand this, -for everything's in that: he is the most generous man in the world. He -is . . . " - -De Barral very still in his corner uttered with an effort "You are in -love with him." - -"Papa! He came to me. I was thinking of you. I had no eyes for -anybody. I could no longer bear to think of you. It was then that he -came. Only then. At that time when--when I was going to give up." - -She gazed into his faded blue eyes as if yearning to be understood, to be -given encouragement, peace--a word of sympathy. He declared without -animation "I would like to break his neck." - -She had the mental exclamation of the overburdened. - -"Oh my God!" and watched him with frightened eyes. But he did not appear -insane or in any other way formidable. This comforted her. The silence -lasted for some little time. Then suddenly he asked: - -"What's your name then?" - -For a moment in the profound trouble of the task before her she did not -understand what the question meant. Then, her face faintly flushing, she -whispered: "Anthony." - -Her father, a red spot on each cheek, leaned his head back wearily in the -corner of the cab. - -"Anthony. What is he? Where did he spring from?" - -"Papa, it was in the country, on a road--" - -He groaned, "On a road," and closed his eyes. - -"It's too long to explain to you now. We shall have lots of time. There -are things I could not tell you now. But some day. Some day. For now -nothing can part us. Nothing. We are safe as long as we live--nothing -can ever come between us." - -"You are infatuated with the fellow," he remarked, without opening his -eyes. And she said: "I believe in him," in a low voice. "You and I must -believe in him." - -"Who the devil is he?" - -"He's the brother of the lady--you know Mrs. Fyne, she knew mother--who -was so kind to me. I was staying in the country, in a cottage, with Mr. -and Mrs. Fyne. It was there that we met. He came on a visit. He -noticed me. I--well--we are married now." - -She was thankful that his eyes were shut. It made it easier to talk of -the future she had arranged, which now was an unalterable thing. She did -not enter on the path of confidences. That was impossible. She felt he -would not understand her. She felt also that he suffered. Now and then -a great anxiety gripped her heart with a mysterious sense of guilt--as -though she had betrayed him into the hands of an enemy. With his eyes -shut he had an air of weary and pious meditation. She was a little -afraid of it. Next moment a great pity for him filled her heart. And in -the background there was remorse. His face twitched now and then just -perceptibly. He managed to keep his eyelids down till he heard that the -'husband' was a sailor and that he, the father, was being taken straight -on board ship ready to sail away from this abominable world of -treacheries, and scorns and envies and lies, away, away over the blue -sea, the sure, the inaccessible, the uncontaminated and spacious refuge -for wounded souls. - -Something like that. Not the very words perhaps but such was the general -sense of her overwhelming argument--the argument of refuge. - -I don't think she gave a thought to material conditions. But as part of -that argument set forth breathlessly, as if she were afraid that if she -stopped for a moment she could never go on again, she mentioned that -generosity of a stormy type, which had come to her from the sea, had -caught her up on the brink of unmentionable failure, had whirled her away -in its first ardent gust and could be trusted now, implicitly trusted, to -carry them both, side by side, into absolute safety. - -She believed it, she affirmed it. He understood thoroughly at last, and -at once the interior of that cab, of an aspect so pacific in the eyes of -the people on the pavements, became the scene of a great agitation. The -generosity of Roderick Anthony--the son of the poet--affected the -ex-financier de Barral in a manner which must have brought home to Flora -de Barral the extreme arduousness of the business of being a woman. Being -a woman is a terribly difficult trade since it consists principally of -dealings with men. This man--the man inside the cab--cast oft his stiff -placidity and behaved like an animal. I don't mean it in an offensive -sense. What he did was to give way to an instinctive panic. Like some -wild creature scared by the first touch of a net falling on its back, old -de Barral began to struggle, lank and angular, against the empty air--as -much of it as there was in the cab--with staring eyes and gasping mouth -from which his daughter shrank as far as she could in the confined space. - -"Stop the cab. Stop him I tell you. Let me get out!" were the strangled -exclamations she heard. Why? What for? To do what? He would hear -nothing. She cried to him "Papa! Papa! What do you want to do?" And -all she got from him was: "Stop. I must get out. I want to think. I -must get out to think." - -It was a mercy that he didn't attempt to open the door at once. He only -stuck his head and shoulders out of the window crying to the cabman. She -saw the consequences, the cab stopping, a crowd collecting around a -raving old gentleman . . . In this terrible business of being a woman so -full of fine shades, of delicate perplexities (and very small rewards) -you can never know what rough work you may have to do, at any moment. -Without hesitation Flora seized her father round the body and pulled -back--being astonished at the ease with which she managed to make him -drop into his seat again. She kept him there resolutely with one hand -pressed against his breast, and leaning across him, she, in her turn put -her head and shoulders out of the window. By then the cab had drawn up -to the curbstone and was stopped. "No! I've changed my mind. Go on -please where you were told first. To the docks." - -She wondered at the steadiness of her own voice. She heard a grunt from -the driver and the cab began to roll again. Only then she sank into her -place keeping a watchful eye on her companion. He was hardly anything -more by this time. Except for her childhood's impressions he was just--a -man. Almost a stranger. How was one to deal with him? And there was -the other too. Also almost a stranger. The trade of being a woman was -very difficult. Too difficult. Flora closed her eyes saying to herself: -"If I think too much about it I shall go mad." And then opening them she -asked her father if the prospect of living always with his daughter and -being taken care of by her affection away from the world, which had no -honour to give to his grey hairs, was such an awful prospect. - -"Tell me, is it so bad as that?" - -She put that question sadly, without bitterness. The famous--or -notorious--de Barral had lost his rigidity now. He was bent. Nothing -more deplorably futile than a bent poker. He said nothing. She added -gently, suppressing an uneasy remorseful sigh: - -"And it might have been worse. You might have found no one, no one in -all this town, no one in all the world, not even me! Poor papa!" - -She made a conscience-stricken movement towards him thinking: "Oh! I am -horrible, I am horrible." And old de Barral, scared, tired, bewildered -by the extraordinary shocks of his liberation, swayed over and actually -leaned his head on her shoulder, as if sorrowing over his regained -freedom. - -The movement by itself was touching. Flora supporting him lightly -imagined that he was crying; and at the thought that had she smashed in a -quarry that shoulder, together with some other of her bones, this grey -and pitiful head would have had nowhere to rest, she too gave way to -tears. They flowed quietly, easing her overstrained nerves. Suddenly he -pushed her away from him so that her head struck the side of the cab, -pushing himself away too from her as if something had stung him. - -All the warmth went out of her emotion. The very last tears turned cold -on her cheek. But their work was done. She had found courage, -resolution, as women do, in a good cry. With his hand covering the upper -part of his face whether to conceal his eyes or to shut out an unbearable -sight, he was stiffening up in his corner to his usual poker-like -consistency. She regarded him in silence. His thin obstinate lips -moved. He uttered the name of the cousin--the man, you remember, who did -not approve of the Fynes, and whom rightly or wrongly little Fyne -suspected of interested motives, in view of de Barral having possibly put -away some plunder, somewhere before the smash. - -I may just as well tell you at once that I don't know anything more of -him. But de Barral was of the opinion, speaking in his low voice from -under his hand, that this relation would have been only too glad to have -secured his guidance. - -"Of course I could not come forward in my own name, or person. But the -advice of a man of my experience is as good as a fortune to anybody -wishing to venture into finance. The same sort of thing can be done -again." - -He shuffled his feet a little, let fall his hand; and turning carefully -toward his daughter his puffy round cheeks, his round chin resting on his -collar, he bent on her the faded, resentful gaze of his pale eyes, which -were wet. - -"The start is really only a matter of judicious advertising. There's no -difficulty. And here you go and . . . " - -He turned his face away. "After all I am still de Barral, _the_ de -Barral. Didn't you remember that?" - -"Papa," said Flora; "listen. It's you who must remember that there is no -longer a de Barral . . . " He looked at her sideways anxiously. "There -is Mr. Smith, whom no harm, no trouble, no wicked lies of evil people can -ever touch." - -"Mr. Smith," he breathed out slowly. "Where does he belong to? There's -not even a Miss Smith." - -"There is your Flora." - -"My Flora! You went and . . . I can't bear to think of it. It's -horrible." - -"Yes. It was horrible enough at times," she said with feeling, because -somehow, obscurely, what this man said appealed to her as if it were her -own thought clothed in an enigmatic emotion. "I think with shame -sometimes how I . . . No not yet. I shall not tell you. At least not -now." - -The cab turned into the gateway of the dock. Flora handed the tall hat -to her father. "Here, papa. And please be good. I suppose you love me. -If you don't, then I wonder who--" - -He put the hat on, and stiffened hard in his corner, kept a sidelong -glance on his girl. "Try to be nice for my sake. Think of the years I -have been waiting for you. I do indeed want support--and peace. A -little peace." - -She clasped his arm suddenly with both hands pressing with all her might -as if to crush the resistance she felt in him. "I could not have peace -if I did not have you with me. I won't let you go. Not after all I went -through. I won't." The nervous force of her grip frightened him a -little. She laughed suddenly. "It's absurd. It's as if I were asking -you for a sacrifice. What am I afraid of? Where could you go? I mean -now, to-day, to-night? You can't tell me. Have you thought of it? Well -I have been thinking of it for the last year. Longer. I nearly went mad -trying to find out. I believe I was mad for a time or else I should -never have thought . . . " - -* * * * * - -"This was as near as she came to a confession," remarked Marlow in a -changed tone. "The confession I mean of that walk to the top of the -quarry which she reproached herself with so bitterly. And he made of it -what his fancy suggested. It could not possibly be a just notion. The -cab stopped alongside the ship and they got out in the manner described -by the sensitive Franklin. I don't know if they suspected each other's -sanity at the end of that drive. But that is possible. We all seem a -little mad to each other; an excellent arrangement for the bulk of -humanity which finds in it an easy motive of forgiveness. Flora crossed -the quarter-deck with a rapidity born of apprehension. It had grown -unbearable. She wanted this business over. She was thankful on looking -back to see he was following her. "If he bolts away," she thought, "then -I shall know that I am of no account indeed! That no one loves me, that -words and actions and protestations and everything in the world is -false--and I shall jump into the dock. _That_ at least won't lie." - -Well I don't know. If it had come to that she would have been most -likely fished out, what with her natural want of luck and the good many -people on the quay and on board. And just where the _Ferndale_ was -moored there hung on a wall (I know the berth) a coil of line, a pole, -and a life-buoy kept there on purpose to save people who tumble into the -dock. It's not so easy to get away from life's betrayals as she thought. -However it did not come to that. He followed her with his quick gliding -walk. Mr. Smith! The liberated convict de Barral passed off the solid -earth for the last time, vanished for ever, and there was Mr. Smith added -to that world of waters which harbours so many queer fishes. An old -gentleman in a silk hat, darting wary glances. He followed, because mere -existence has its claims which are obeyed mechanically. I have no doubt -he presented a respectable figure. Father-in-law. Nothing more -respectable. But he carried in his heart the confused pain of dismay and -affection, of involuntary repulsion and pity. Very much like his -daughter. Only in addition he felt a furious jealousy of the man he was -going to see. - -A residue of egoism remains in every affection--even paternal. And this -man in the seclusion of his prison had thought himself into such a sense -of ownership of that single human being he had to think about, as may -well be inconceivable to us who have not had to serve a long (and -wickedly unjust) sentence of penal servitude. She was positively the -only thing, the one point where his thoughts found a resting-place, for -years. She was the only outlet for his imagination. He had not much of -that faculty to be sure, but there was in it the force of concentration. -He felt outraged, and perhaps it was an absurdity on his part, but I -venture to suggest rather in degree than in kind. I have a notion that -no usual, normal father is pleased at parting with his daughter. No. Not -even when he rationally appreciates "Jane being taken off his hands" or -perhaps is able to exult at an excellent match. At bottom, quite deep -down, down in the dark (in some cases only by digging), there is to be -found a certain repugnance . . . With mothers of course it is different. -Women are more loyal, not to each other, but to their common femininity -which they behold triumphant with a secret and proud satisfaction. - -The circumstances of that match added to Mr. Smith's indignation. And if -he followed his daughter into that ship's cabin it was as if into a house -of disgrace and only because he was still bewildered by the suddenness of -the thing. His will, so long lying fallow, was overborne by her -determination and by a vague fear of that regained liberty. - -You will be glad to hear that Anthony, though he did shirk the welcome on -the quay, behaved admirably, with the simplicity of a man who has no -small meannesses and makes no mean reservations. His eyes did not flinch -and his tongue did not falter. He was, I have it on the best authority, -admirable in his earnestness, in his sincerity and also in his restraint. -He was perfect. Nevertheless the vital force of his unknown -individuality addressing him so familiarly was enough to fluster Mr. -Smith. Flora saw her father trembling in all his exiguous length, though -he held himself stiffer than ever if that was possible. He muttered a -little and at last managed to utter, not loud of course but very -distinctly: "I am here under protest," the corners of his mouth sunk -disparagingly, his eyes stony. "I am here under protest. I have been -locked up by a conspiracy. I--" - -He raised his hands to his forehead--his silk hat was on the table rim -upwards; he had put it there with a despairing gesture as he came in--he -raised his hands to his forehead. "It seems to me unfair. I--" He -broke off again. Anthony looked at Flora who stood by the side of her -father. - -"Well, sir, you will soon get used to me. Surely you and she must have -had enough of shore-people and their confounded half-and-half ways to -last you both for a life-time. A particularly merciful lot they are too. -You ask Flora. I am alluding to my own sister, her best friend, and not -a bad woman either as they go." - -The captain of the _Ferndale_ checked himself. "Lucky thing I was there -to step in. I want you to make yourself at home, and before long--" - -The faded stare of the Great de Barral silenced Anthony by its -inexpressive fixity. He signalled with his eyes to Flora towards the -door of the state-room fitted specially to receive Mr. Smith, the free -man. She seized the free man's hat off the table and took him -caressingly under the arm. "Yes! This is home, come and see your room, -papa!" - -Anthony himself threw open the door and Flora took care to shut it -carefully behind herself and her father. "See," she began but desisted -because it was clear that he would look at none of the contrivances for -his comfort. She herself had hardly seen them before. He was looking -only at the new carpet and she waited till he should raise his eyes. - -He didn't do that but spoke in his usual voice. "So this is your -husband, that . . . And I locked up!" - -"Papa, what's the good of harping on that," she remonstrated no louder. -"He is kind." - -"And you went and . . . married him so that he should be kind to me. Is -that it? How did you know that I wanted anybody to be kind to me?" - -"How strange you are!" she said thoughtfully. - -"It's hard for a man who has gone through what I have gone through to -feel like other people. Has that occurred to you? . . . " He looked up -at last . . . "Mrs. Anthony, I can't bear the sight of the fellow." She -met his eyes without flinching and he added, "You want to go to him now." -His mild automatic manner seemed the effect of tremendous -self-restraint--and yet she remembered him always like that. She felt -cold all over. - -"Why, of course, I must go to him," she said with a slight start. - -He gnashed his teeth at her and she went out. - -Anthony had not moved from the spot. One of his hands was resting on the -table. She went up to him, stopped, then deliberately moved still -closer. "Thank you, Roderick." - -"You needn't thank me," he murmured. "It's I who . . . " - -"No, perhaps I needn't. You do what you like. But you are doing it -well." - -He sighed then hardly above a whisper because they were near the state- -room door, "Upset, eh?" - -She made no sign, no sound of any kind. The thorough falseness of the -position weighed on them both. But he was the braver of the two. "I -dare say. At first. Did you think of telling him you were happy?" - -"He never asked me," she smiled faintly at him. She was disappointed by -his quietness. "I did not say more than I was absolutely obliged to -say--of myself." She was beginning to be irritated with this man a -little. "I told him I had been very lucky," she said suddenly -despondent, missing Anthony's masterful manner, that something arbitrary -and tender which, after the first scare, she had accustomed herself to -look forward to with pleasurable apprehension. He was contemplating her -rather blankly. She had not taken off her outdoor things, hat, gloves. -She was like a caller. And she had a movement suggesting the end of a -not very satisfactory business call. "Perhaps it would be just as well -if we went ashore. Time yet." - -He gave her a glimpse of his unconstrained self in the low vehement "You -dare!" which sprang to his lips and out of them with a most menacing -inflexion. - -"You dare . . . What's the matter now?" - -These last words were shot out not at her but at some target behind her -back. Looking over her shoulder she saw the bald head with black bunches -of hair of the congested and devoted Franklin (he had his cap in his -hand) gazing sentimentally from the saloon doorway with his lobster eyes. -He was heard from the distance in a tone of injured innocence reporting -that the berthing master was alongside and that he wanted to move the -ship into the basin before the crew came on board. - -His captain growled "Well, let him," and waved away the ulcerated and -pathetic soul behind these prominent eyes which lingered on the offensive -woman while the mate backed out slowly. Anthony turned to Flora. - -"You could not have meant it. You are as straight as they make them." - -"I am trying to be." - -"Then don't joke in that way. Think of what would become of--me." - -"Oh yes. I forgot. No, I didn't mean it. It wasn't a joke. It was -forgetfulness. You wouldn't have been wronged. I couldn't have gone. -I--I am too tired." - -He saw she was swaying where she stood and restrained himself violently -from taking her into his arms, his frame trembling with fear as though he -had been tempted to an act of unparalleled treachery. He stepped aside -and lowering his eyes pointed to the door of the stern-cabin. It was -only after she passed by him that he looked up and thus he did not see -the angry glance she gave him before she moved on. He looked after her. -She tottered slightly just before reaching the door and flung it to -behind her nervously. - -Anthony--he had felt this crash as if the door had been slammed inside -his very breast--stood for a moment without moving and then shouted for -Mrs. Brown. This was the steward's wife, his lucky inspiration to make -Flora comfortable. "Mrs. Brown! Mrs. Brown!" At last she appeared from -somewhere. "Mrs. Anthony has come on board. Just gone into the cabin. -Hadn't you better see if you can be of any assistance?" - -"Yes, sir." - -And again he was alone with the situation he had created in the hardihood -and inexperience of his heart. He thought he had better go on deck. In -fact he ought to have been there before. At any rate it would be the -usual thing for him to be on deck. But a sound of muttering and of faint -thuds somewhere near by arrested his attention. They proceeded from Mr. -Smith's room, he perceived. It was very extraordinary. "He's talking to -himself," he thought. "He seems to be thumping the bulkhead with his -fists--or his head." - -Anthony's eyes grew big with wonder while he listened to these noises. He -became so attentive that he did not notice Mrs. Brown till she actually -stopped before him for a moment to say: - -"Mrs. Anthony doesn't want any assistance, sir." - -* * * * * - -This was you understand the voyage before Mr. Powell--young Powell -then--joined the _Ferndale_; chance having arranged that he should get -his start in life in that particular ship of all the ships then in the -port of London. The most unrestful ship that ever sailed out of any port -on earth. I am not alluding to her sea-going qualities. Mr. Powell -tells me she was as steady as a church. I mean unrestful in the sense, -for instance in which this planet of ours is unrestful--a matter of an -uneasy atmosphere disturbed by passions, jealousies, loves, hates and the -troubles of transcendental good intentions, which, though ethically -valuable, I have no doubt cause often more unhappiness than the plots of -the most evil tendency. For those who refuse to believe in chance he, I -mean Mr. Powell, must have been obviously predestined to add his native -ingenuousness to the sum of all the others carried by the honest ship -_Ferndale_. He was too ingenuous. Everybody on board was, exception -being made of Mr. Smith who, however, was simple enough in his way, with -that terrible simplicity of the fixed idea, for which there is also -another name men pronounce with dread and aversion. His fixed idea was -to save his girl from the man who had possessed himself of her (I use -these words on purpose because the image they suggest was clearly in Mr. -Smith's mind), possessed himself unfairly of her while he, the father, -was locked up. - -"I won't rest till I have got you away from that man," he would murmur to -her after long periods of contemplation. We know from Powell how he used -to sit on the skylight near the long deck-chair on which Flora was -reclining, gazing into her face from above with an air of guardianship -and investigation at the same time. - -It is almost impossible to say if he ever had considered the event -rationally. The avatar of de Barral into Mr. Smith had not been effected -without a shock--that much one must recognize. It may be that it drove -all practical considerations out of his mind, making room for awful and -precise visions which nothing could dislodge afterwards. - -And it might have been the tenacity, the unintelligent tenacity, of the -man who had persisted in throwing millions of other people's thrift into -the Lone Valley Railway, the Labrador Docks, the Spotted Leopard Copper -Mine, and other grotesque speculations exposed during the famous de -Barral trial, amongst murmurs of astonishment mingled with bursts of -laughter. For it is in the Courts of Law that Comedy finds its last -refuge in our deadly serious world. As to tears and lamentations, these -were not heard in the august precincts of comedy, because they were -indulged in privately in several thousand homes, where, with a fine -dramatic effect, hunger had taken the place of Thrift. - -But there was one at least who did not laugh in court. That person was -the accused. The notorious de Barral did not laugh because he was -indignant. He was impervious to words, to facts, to inferences. It -would have been impossible to make him see his guilt or his folly--either -by evidence or argument--if anybody had tried to argue. - -Neither did his daughter Flora try to argue with him. The cruelty of her -position was so great, its complications so thorny, if I may express -myself so, that a passive attitude was yet her best refuge--as it had -been before her of so many women. - -For that sort of inertia in woman is always enigmatic and therefore -menacing. It makes one pause. A woman may be a fool, a sleepy fool, an -agitated fool, a too awfully noxious fool, and she may even be simply -stupid. But she is never dense. She's never made of wood through and -through as some men are. There is in woman always, somewhere, a spring. -Whatever men don't know about women (and it may be a lot or it may be -very little) men and even fathers do know that much. And that is why so -many men are afraid of them. - -Mr. Smith I believe was afraid of his daughter's quietness though of -course he interpreted it in his own way. - -He would, as Mr. Powell depicts, sit on the skylight and bend over the -reclining girl, wondering what there was behind the lost gaze under the -darkened eyelids in the still eyes. He would look and look and then he -would say, whisper rather, it didn't take much for his voice to drop to a -mere breath--he would declare, transferring his faded stare to the -horizon, that he would never rest till he had "got her away from that -man." - -"You don't know what you are saying, papa." - -She would try not to show her weariness, the nervous strain of these two -men's antagonism around her person which was the cause of her languid -attitudes. For as a matter of fact the sea agreed with her. - -As likely as not Anthony would be walking on the other side of the deck. -The strain was making him restless. He couldn't sit still anywhere. He -had tried shutting himself up in his cabin; but that was no good. He -would jump up to rush on deck and tramp, tramp up and down that poop till -he felt ready to drop, without being able to wear down the agitation of -his soul, generous indeed, but weighted by its envelope of blood and -muscle and bone; handicapped by the brain creating precise images and -everlastingly speculating, speculating--looking out for signs, watching -for symptoms. - -And Mr. Smith with a slight backward jerk of his small head at the -footsteps on the other side of the skylight would insist in his awful, -hopelessly gentle voice that he knew very well what he was saying. Hadn't -she given herself to that man while he was locked up. - -"Helpless, in jail, with no one to think of, nothing to look forward to, -but my daughter. And then when they let me out at last I find her -gone--for it amounts to this. Sold. Because you've sold yourself; you -know you have." - -With his round unmoved face, a lot of fine white hair waving in the wind- -eddies of the spanker, his glance levelled over the sea he seemed to be -addressing the universe across her reclining form. She would protest -sometimes. - -"I wish you would not talk like this, papa. You are only tormenting me, -and tormenting yourself." - -"Yes, I am tormented enough," he admitted meaningly. But it was not -talking about it that tormented him. It was thinking of it. And to sit -and look at it was worse for him than it possibly could have been for her -to go and give herself up, bad as that must have been. - -"For of course you suffered. Don't tell me you didn't? You must have." - -She had renounced very soon all attempts at protests. It was useless. It -might have made things worse; and she did not want to quarrel with her -father, the only human being that really cared for her, absolutely, -evidently, completely--to the end. There was in him no pity, no -generosity, nothing whatever of these fine things--it was for her, for -her very own self such as it was, that this human being cared. This -certitude would have made her put up with worse torments. For, of -course, she too was being tormented. She felt also helpless, as if the -whole enterprise had been too much for her. This is the sort of -conviction which makes for quietude. She was becoming a fatalist. - -What must have been rather appalling were the necessities of daily life, -the intercourse of current trifles. That naturally had to go on. They -wished good morning to each other, they sat down together to meals--and I -believe there would be a game of cards now and then in the evening, -especially at first. What frightened her most was the duplicity of her -father, at least what looked like duplicity, when she remembered his -persistent, insistent whispers on deck. However her father was a -taciturn person as far back as she could remember him best--on the -Parade. It was she who chattered, never troubling herself to discover -whether he was pleased or displeased. And now she couldn't fathom his -thoughts. Neither did she chatter to him. Anthony with a forced -friendly smile as if frozen to his lips seemed only too thankful at not -being made to speak. Mr. Smith sometimes forgot himself while studying -his hand so long that Flora had to recall him to himself by a murmured -"Papa--your lead." Then he apologized by a faint as if inward -ejaculation "Beg your pardon, Captain." Naturally she addressed Anthony -as Roderick and he addressed her as Flora. This was all the acting that -was necessary to judge from the wincing twitch of the old man's mouth at -every uttered "Flora." On hearing the rare "Rodericks" he had sometimes -a scornful grimace as faint and faded and colourless as his whole stiff -personality. - -He would be the first to retire. He was not infirm. With him too the -life on board ship seemed to agree; but from a sense of duty, of -affection, or to placate his hidden fury, his daughter always accompanied -him to his state-room "to make him comfortable." She lighted his lamp, -helped him into his dressing-gown or got him a book from a bookcase -fitted in there--but this last rarely, because Mr. Smith used to declare -"I am no reader" with something like pride in his low tones. Very often -after kissing her good-night on the forehead he would treat her to some -such fretful remark: "It's like being in jail--'pon my word. I suppose -that man is out there waiting for you. Head jailer! Ough!" - -She would smile vaguely; murmur a conciliatory "How absurd." But once, -out of patience, she said quite sharply "Leave off. It hurts me. One -would think you hate me." - -"It isn't you I hate," he went on monotonously breathing at her. "No, it -isn't you. But if I saw that you loved that man I think I could hate you -too." - -That word struck straight at her heart. "You wouldn't be the first -then," she muttered bitterly. But he was busy with his fixed idea and -uttered an awfully equable "But you don't! Unfortunate girl!" - -She looked at him steadily for a time then said "Good-night, papa." - -As a matter of fact Anthony very seldom waited for her alone at the table -with the scattered cards, glasses, water-jug, bottles and soon. He took -no more opportunities to be alone with her than was absolutely necessary -for the edification of Mrs. Brown. Excellent, faithful woman; the wife -of his still more excellent and faithful steward. And Flora wished all -these excellent people, devoted to Anthony, she wished them all further; -and especially the nice, pleasant-spoken Mrs. Brown with her beady, -mobile eyes and her "Yes certainly, ma'am," which seemed to her to have a -mocking sound. And so this short trip--to the Western Islands only--came -to an end. It was so short that when young Powell joined the _Ferndale_ -by a memorable stroke of chance, no more than seven months had elapsed -since the--let us say the liberation of the convict de Barral and his -avatar into Mr. Smith. - -* * * * * - -For the time the ship was loading in London Anthony took a cottage near a -little country station in Essex, to house Mr. Smith and Mr. Smith's -daughter. It was altogether his idea. How far it was necessary for Mr. -Smith to seek rural retreat I don't know. Perhaps to some extent it was -a judicious arrangement. There were some obligations incumbent on the -liberated de Barral (in connection with reporting himself to the police I -imagine) which Mr. Smith was not anxious to perform. De Barral had to -vanish; the theory was that de Barral had vanished, and it had to be -upheld. Poor Flora liked the country, even if the spot had nothing more -to recommend it than its retired character. - -Now and then Captain Anthony ran down; but as the station was a real -wayside one, with no early morning trains up, he could never stay for -more than the afternoon. It appeared that he must sleep in town so as to -be early on board his ship. The weather was magnificent and whenever the -captain of the _Ferndale_ was seen on a brilliant afternoon coming down -the road Mr. Smith would seize his stick and toddle off for a solitary -walk. But whether he would get tired or because it gave him some -satisfaction to see "that man" go away--or for some cunning reason of his -own, he was always back before the hour of Anthony's departure. On -approaching the cottage he would see generally "that man" lying on the -grass in the orchard at some distance from his daughter seated in a chair -brought out of the cottage's living room. Invariably Mr. Smith made -straight for them and as invariably had the feeling that his approach was -not disturbing a very intimate conversation. He sat with them, through a -silent hour or so, and then it would be time for Anthony to go. Mr. -Smith, perhaps from discretion, would casually vanish a minute or so -before, and then watch through the diamond panes of an upstairs room -"that man" take a lingering look outside the gate at the invisible Flora, -lift his hat, like a caller, and go off down the road. Then only Mr. -Smith would join his daughter again. - -These were the bad moments for her. Not always, of course, but -frequently. It was nothing extraordinary to hear Mr. Smith begin gently -with some observation like this: - -"That man is getting tired of you." - -He would never pronounce Anthony's name. It was always "that man." - -Generally she would remain mute with wide open eyes gazing at nothing -between the gnarled fruit trees. Once, however, she got up and walked -into the cottage. Mr. Smith followed her carrying the chair. He banged -it down resolutely and in that smooth inexpressive tone so many ears used -to bend eagerly to catch when it came from the Great de Barral he said: - -"Let's get away." - -She had the strength of mind not to spin round. On the contrary she went -on to a shabby bit of a mirror on the wall. In the greenish glass her -own face looked far off like the livid face of a drowned corpse at the -bottom of a pool. She laughed faintly. - -"I tell you that man's getting--" - -"Papa," she interrupted him. "I have no illusions as to myself. It has -happened to me before but--" - -Her voice failing her suddenly her father struck in with quite an -unwonted animation. "Let's make a rush for it, then." - -Having mastered both her fright and her bitterness, she turned round, sat -down and allowed her astonishment to be seen. Mr. Smith sat down too, -his knees together and bent at right angles, his thin legs parallel to -each other and his hands resting on the arms of the wooden arm-chair. His -hair had grown long, his head was set stiffly, there was something -fatuously venerable in his aspect. - -"You can't care for him. Don't tell me. I understand your motive. And -I have called you an unfortunate girl. You are that as much as if you -had gone on the streets. Yes. Don't interrupt me, Flora. I was -everlastingly being interrupted at the trial and I can't stand it any -more. I won't be interrupted by my own child. And when I think that it -is on the very day before they let me out that you . . . " - -He had wormed this fact out of her by that time because Flora had got -tired of evading the question. He had been very much struck and -distressed. Was that the trust she had in him? Was that a proof of -confidence and love? The very day before! Never given him even half a -chance. It was as at the trial. They never gave him a chance. They -would not give him time. And there was his own daughter acting exactly -as his bitterest enemies had done. Not giving him time! - -The monotony of that subdued voice nearly lulled her dismay to sleep. She -listened to the unavoidable things he was saying. - -"But what induced that man to marry you? Of course he's a gentleman. One -can see that. And that makes it worse. Gentlemen don't understand -anything about city affairs--finance. Why!--the people who started the -cry after me were a firm of gentlemen. The counsel, the judge--all -gentlemen--quite out of it! No notion of . . . And then he's a sailor -too. Just a skipper--" - -"My grandfather was nothing else," she interrupted. And he made an -angular gesture of impatience. - -"Yes. But what does a silly sailor know of business? Nothing. No -conception. He can have no idea of what it means to be the daughter of -Mr. de Barral--even after his enemies had smashed him. What on earth -induced him--" - -She made a movement because the level voice was getting on her nerves. -And he paused, but only to go on again in the same tone with the remark: - -"Of course you are pretty. And that's why you are lost--like many other -poor girls. Unfortunate is the word for you." - -She said: "It may be. Perhaps it is the right word; but listen, papa. I -mean to be honest." - -He began to exhale more speeches. - -"Just the sort of man to get tired and then leave you and go off with his -beastly ship. And anyway you can never be happy with him. Look at his -face. I want to save you. You see I was not perhaps a very good husband -to your poor mother. She would have done better to have left me long -before she died. I have been thinking it all over. I won't have you -unhappy." - -He ran his eyes over her with an attention which was surprisingly -noticeable. Then said, "H'm! Yes. Let's clear out before it is too -late. Quietly, you and I." - -She said as if inspired and with that calmness which despair often gives: -"There is no money to go away with, papa." - -He rose up straightening himself as though he were a hinged figure. She -said decisively: - -"And of course you wouldn't think of deserting me, papa?" - -"Of course not," sounded his subdued tone. And he left her, gliding away -with his walk which Mr. Powell described to me as being as level and wary -as his voice. He walked as if he were carrying a glass full of water on -his head. - -Flora naturally said nothing to Anthony of that edifying conversation. -His generosity might have taken alarm at it and she did not want to be -left behind to manage her father alone. And moreover she was too honest. -She would be honest at whatever cost. She would not be the first to -speak. Never. And the thought came into her head: "I am indeed an -unfortunate creature!" - -It was by the merest coincidence that Anthony coming for the afternoon -two days later had a talk with Mr. Smith in the orchard. Flora for some -reason or other had left them for a moment; and Anthony took that -opportunity to be frank with Mr. Smith. He said: "It seems to me, sir, -that you think Flora has not done very well for herself. Well, as to -that I can't say anything. All I want you to know is that I have tried -to do the right thing." And then he explained that he had willed -everything he was possessed of to her. "She didn't tell you, I suppose?" - -Mr. Smith shook his head slightly. And Anthony, trying to be friendly, -was just saying that he proposed to keep the ship away from home for at -least two years. "I think, sir, that from every point of view it would -be best," when Flora came back and the conversation, cut short in that -direction, languished and died. Later in the evening, after Anthony had -been gone for hours, on the point of separating for the night, Mr. Smith -remarked suddenly to his daughter after a long period of brooding: - -"A will is nothing. One tears it up. One makes another." Then after -reflecting for a minute he added unemotionally: - -"One tells lies about it." - -Flora, patient, steeled against every hurt and every disgust to the point -of wondering at herself, said: "You push your dislike of--of--Roderick -too far, papa. You have no regard for me. You hurt me." - -He, as ever inexpressive to the point of terrifying her sometimes by the -contrast of his placidity and his words, turned away from her a pair of -faded eyes. - -"I wonder how far your dislike goes," he began. "His very name sticks in -your throat. I've noticed it. It hurts me. What do you think of that? -You might remember that you are not the only person that's hurt by your -folly, by your hastiness, by your recklessness." He brought back his -eyes to her face. "And the very day before they were going to let me -out." His feeble voice failed him altogether, the narrow compressed lips -only trembling for a time before he added with that extraordinary -equanimity of tone, "I call it sinful." - -Flora made no answer. She judged it simpler, kinder and certainly safer -to let him talk himself out. This, Mr. Smith, being naturally taciturn, -never took very long to do. And we must not imagine that this sort of -thing went on all the time. She had a few good days in that cottage. The -absence of Anthony was a relief and his visits were pleasurable. She was -quieter. He was quieter too. She was almost sorry when the time to join -the ship arrived. It was a moment of anguish, of excitement; they -arrived at the dock in the evening and Flora after "making her father -comfortable" according to established usage lingered in the state-room -long enough to notice that he was surprised. She caught his pale eyes -observing her quite stonily. Then she went out after a cheery -good-night. - -Contrary to her hopes she found Anthony yet in the saloon. Sitting in -his arm-chair at the head of the table he was picking up some business -papers which he put hastily in his breast pocket and got up. He asked -her if her day, travelling up to town and then doing some shopping, had -tired her. She shook her head. Then he wanted to know in a half-jocular -way how she felt about going away, and for a long voyage this time. - -"Does it matter how I feel?" she asked in a tone that cast a gloom over -his face. He answered with repressed violence which she did not expect: - -"No, it does not matter, because I cannot go without you. I've told you -. . . You know it. You don't think I could." - -"I assure you I haven't the slightest wish to evade my obligations," she -said steadily. "Even if I could. Even if I dared, even if I had to die -for it!" - -He looked thunderstruck. They stood facing each other at the end of the -saloon. Anthony stuttered. "Oh no. You won't die. You don't mean it. -You have taken kindly to the sea." - -She laughed, but she felt angry. - -"No, I don't mean it. I tell you I don't mean to evade my obligations. I -shall live on . . . feeling a little crushed, nevertheless." - -"Crushed!" he repeated. "What's crushing you?" - -"Your magnanimity," she said sharply. But her voice was softened after a -time. "Yet I don't know. There is a perfection in it--do you understand -me, Roderick?--which makes it almost possible to bear." - -He sighed, looked away, and remarked that it was time to put out the lamp -in the saloon. The permission was only till ten o'clock. - -"But you needn't mind that so much in your cabin. Just see that the -curtains of the ports are drawn close and that's all. The steward might -have forgotten to do it. He lighted your reading lamp in there before he -went ashore for a last evening with his wife. I don't know if it was -wise to get rid of Mrs. Brown. You will have to look after yourself, -Flora." - -He was quite anxious; but Flora as a matter of fact congratulated herself -on the absence of Mrs. Brown. No sooner had she closed the door of her -state-room than she murmured fervently, "Yes! Thank goodness, she is -gone." There would be no gentle knock, followed by her appearance with -her equivocal stare and the intolerable: "Can I do anything for you, -ma'am?" which poor Flora had learned to fear and hate more than any voice -or any words on board that ship--her only refuge from the world which had -no use for her, for her imperfections and for her troubles. - -* * * * * - -Mrs. Brown had been very much vexed at her dismissal. The Browns were a -childless couple and the arrangement had suited them perfectly. Their -resentment was very bitter. Mrs. Brown had to remain ashore alone with -her rage, but the steward was nursing his on board. Poor Flora had no -greater enemy, the aggrieved mate had no greater sympathizer. And Mrs. -Brown, with a woman's quick power of observation and inference (the -putting of two and two together) had come to a certain conclusion which -she had imparted to her husband before leaving the ship. The morose -steward permitted himself once to make an allusion to it in Powell's -hearing. It was in the officers' mess-room at the end of a meal while he -lingered after putting a fruit pie on the table. He and the chief mate -started a dialogue about the alarming change in the captain, the sallow -steward looking down with a sinister frown, Franklin rolling upwards his -eyes, sentimental in a red face. Young Powell had heard a lot of that -sort of thing by that time. It was growing monotonous; it had always -sounded to him a little absurd. He struck in impatiently with the remark -that such lamentations over a man merely because he had taken a wife -seemed to him like lunacy. - -Franklin muttered, "Depends on what the wife is up to." The steward -leaning against the bulkhead near the door glowered at Powell, that -newcomer, that ignoramus, that stranger without right or privileges. He -snarled: - -"Wife! Call her a wife, do you?" - -"What the devil do you mean by this?" exclaimed young Powell. - -"I know what I know. My old woman has not been six months on board for -nothing. You had better ask her when we get back." - -And meeting sullenly the withering stare of Mr. Powell the steward -retreated backwards. - -Our young friend turned at once upon the mate. "And you let that -confounded bottle-washer talk like this before you, Mr. Franklin. Well, -I am astonished." - -"Oh, it isn't what you think. It isn't what you think." Mr. Franklin -looked more apoplectic than ever. "If it comes to that I could astonish -you. But it's no use. I myself can hardly . . . You couldn't -understand. I hope you won't try to make mischief. There was a time, -young fellow, when I would have dared any man--any man, you hear?--to -make mischief between me and Captain Anthony. But not now. Not now. -There's a change! Not in me though . . . " - -Young Powell rejected with indignation any suggestion of making mischief. -"Who do you take me for?" he cried. "Only you had better tell that -steward to be careful what he says before me or I'll spoil his good looks -for him for a month and will leave him to explain the why of it to the -captain the best way he can." - -This speech established Powell as a champion of Mrs. Anthony. Nothing -more bearing on the question was ever said before him. He did not care -for the steward's black looks; Franklin, never conversational even at the -best of times and avoiding now the only topic near his heart, addressed -him only on matters of duty. And for that, too, Powell cared very -little. The woes of the apoplectic mate had begun to bore him long -before. Yet he felt lonely a bit at times. Therefore the little -intercourse with Mrs. Anthony either in one dog-watch or the other was -something to be looked forward to. The captain did not mind it. That -was evident from his manner. One night he inquired (they were then alone -on the poop) what they had been talking about that evening? Powell had -to confess that it was about the ship. Mrs. Anthony had been asking him -questions. - -"Takes interest--eh?" jerked out the captain moving rapidly up and down -the weather side of the poop. - -"Yes, sir. Mrs. Anthony seems to get hold wonderfully of what one's -telling her." - -"Sailor's granddaughter. One of the old school. Old sea-dog of the best -kind, I believe," ejaculated the captain, swinging past his motionless -second officer and leaving the words behind him like a trail of sparks -succeeded by a perfect conversational darkness, because, for the next two -hours till he left the deck, he didn't open his lips again. - -On another occasion . . . we mustn't forget that the ship had crossed the -line and was adding up south latitude every day by then . . . on another -occasion, about seven in the evening, Powell on duty, heard his name -uttered softly in the companion. The captain was on the stairs, thin- -faced, his eyes sunk, on his arm a Shetland wool wrap. - -"Mr. Powell--here." - -"Yes, sir." - -"Give this to Mrs. Anthony. Evenings are getting chilly." - -And the haggard face sank out of sight. Mrs. Anthony was surprised on -seeing the shawl. - -"The captain wants you to put this on," explained young Powell, and as -she raised herself in her seat he dropped it on her shoulders. She -wrapped herself up closely. - -"Where was the captain?" she asked. - -"He was in the companion. Called me on purpose," said Powell, and then -retreated discreetly, because she looked as though she didn't want to -talk any more that evening. Mr. Smith--the old gentleman--was as usual -sitting on the skylight near her head, brooding over the long chair but -by no means inimical, as far as his unreadable face went, to those -conversations of the two youngest people on board. In fact they seemed -to give him some pleasure. Now and then he would raise his faded china -eyes to the animated face of Mr. Powell thoughtfully. When the young -sailor was by, the old man became less rigid, and when his daughter, on -rare occasions, smiled at some artless tale of Mr. Powell, the -inexpressive face of Mr. Smith reflected dimly that flash of evanescent -mirth. For Mr. Powell had come now to entertain his captain's wife with -anecdotes from the not very distant past when he was a boy, on board -various ships,--funny things do happen on board ship. Flora was quite -surprised at times to find herself amused. She was even heard to laugh -twice in the course of a month. It was not a loud sound but it was -startling enough at the after-end of the _Ferndale_ where low tones or -silence were the rule. The second time this happened the captain himself -must have been startled somewhere down below; because he emerged from the -depths of his unobtrusive existence and began his tramping on the -opposite side of the poop. - -Almost immediately he called his young second officer over to him. This -was not done in displeasure. The glance he fastened on Mr. Powell -conveyed a sort of approving wonder. He engaged him in desultory -conversation as if for the only purpose of keeping a man who could -provoke such a sound, near his person. Mr. Powell felt himself liked. He -felt it. Liked by that haggard, restless man who threw at him -disconnected phrases to which his answers were, "Yes, sir," "No, sir," -"Oh, certainly," "I suppose so, sir,"--and might have been clearly -anything else for all the other cared. - -It was then, Mr. Powell told me, that he discovered in himself an already -old-established liking for Captain Anthony. He also felt sorry for him -without being able to discover the origins of that sympathy of which he -had become so suddenly aware. - -Meantime Mr. Smith, bending forward stiffly as though he had a hinged -back, was speaking to his daughter. - -She was a child no longer. He wanted to know if she believed in--in -hell. In eternal punishment? - -His peculiar voice, as if filtered through cotton-wool was inaudible on -the other side of the deck. Poor Flora, taken very much unawares, made -an inarticulate murmur, shook her head vaguely, and glanced in the -direction of the pacing Anthony who was not looking her way. It was no -use glancing in that direction. Of young Powell, leaning against the -mizzen-mast and facing his captain she could only see the shoulder and -part of a blue serge back. - -And the unworried, unaccented voice of her father went on tormenting her. - -"You see, you must understand. When I came out of jail it was with joy. -That is, my soul was fairly torn in two--but anyway to see you happy--I -had made up my mind to that. Once I could be sure that you were happy -then of course I would have had no reason to care for life--strictly -speaking--which is all right for an old man; though naturally . . . no -reason to wish for death either. But this sort of life! What sense, -what meaning, what value has it either for you or for me? It's just -sitting down to look at the death, that's coming, coming. What else is -it? I don't know how you can put up with that. I don't think you can -stand it for long. Some day you will jump overboard." - -Captain Anthony had stopped for a moment staring ahead from the break of -the poop, and poor Flora sent at his back a look of despairing appeal -which would have moved a heart of stone. But as though she had done -nothing he did not stir in the least. She got out of the long chair and -went towards the companion. Her father followed carrying a few small -objects, a handbag, her handkerchief, a book. They went down together. - -It was only then that Captain Anthony turned, looked at the place they -had vacated and resumed his tramping, but not his desultory conversation -with his second officer. His nervous exasperation had grown so much that -now very often he used to lose control of his voice. If he did not watch -himself it would suddenly die in his throat. He had to make sure before -he ventured on the simplest saying, an order, a remark on the wind, a -simple good-morning. That's why his utterance was abrupt, his answers to -people startlingly brusque and often not forthcoming at all. - -It happens to the most resolute of men to find himself at grips not only -with unknown forces, but with a well-known force the real might of which -he had not understood. Anthony had discovered that he was not the proud -master but the chafing captive of his generosity. It rose in front of -him like a wall which his respect for himself forbade him to scale. He -said to himself: "Yes, I was a fool--but she has trusted me!" Trusted! A -terrible word to any man somewhat exceptional in a world in which success -has never been found in renunciation and good faith. And it must also be -said, in order not to make Anthony more stupidly sublime than he was, -that the behaviour of Flora kept him at a distance. The girl was afraid -to add to the exasperation of her father. It was her unhappy lot to be -made more wretched by the only affection which she could not suspect. She -could not be angry with it, however, and out of deference for that -exaggerated sentiment she hardly dared to look otherwise than by stealth -at the man whose masterful compassion had carried her off. And quite -unable to understand the extent of Anthony's delicacy, she said to -herself that "he didn't care." He probably was beginning at bottom to -detest her--like the governess, like the maiden lady, like the German -woman, like Mrs. Fyne, like Mr. Fyne--only he was extraordinary, he was -generous. At the same time she had moments of irritation. He was -violent, headstrong--perhaps stupid. Well, he had had his way. - -A man who has had his way is seldom happy, for generally he finds that -the way does not lead very far on this earth of desires which can never -be fully satisfied. Anthony had entered with extreme precipitation the -enchanted gardens of Armida saying to himself "At last!" As to Armida, -herself, he was not going to offer her any violence. But now he had -discovered that all the enchantment was in Armida herself, in Armida's -smiles. This Armida did not smile. She existed, unapproachable, behind -the blank wall of his renunciation. His force, fit for action, -experienced the impatience, the indignation, almost the despair of his -vitality arrested, bound, stilled, progressively worn down, frittered -away by Time; by that force blind and insensible, which seems inert and -yet uses one's life up by its imperceptible action, dropping minute after -minute on one's living heart like drops of water wearing down a stone. - -He upbraided himself. What else could he have expected? He had rushed -in like a ruffian; he had dragged the poor defenceless thing by the hair -of her head, as it were, on board that ship. It was really atrocious. -Nothing assured him that his person could be attractive to this or any -other woman. And his proceedings were enough in themselves to make -anyone odious. He must have been bereft of his senses. She must fatally -detest and fear him. Nothing could make up for such brutality. And yet -somehow he resented this very attitude which seemed to him completely -justifiable. Surely he was not too monstrous (morally) to be looked at -frankly sometimes. But no! She wouldn't. Well, perhaps, some day . . . -Only he was not going ever to attempt to beg for forgiveness. With the -repulsion she felt for his person she would certainly misunderstand the -most guarded words, the most careful advances. Never! Never! - -It would occur to Anthony at the end of such meditations that death was -not an unfriendly visitor after all. No wonder then that even young -Powell, his faculties having been put on the alert, began to think that -there was something unusual about the man who had given him his chance in -life. Yes, decidedly, his captain was "strange." There was something -wrong somewhere, he said to himself, never guessing that his young and -candid eyes were in the presence of a passion profound, tyrannical and -mortal, discovering its own existence, astounded at feeling itself -helpless and dismayed at finding itself incurable. - -Powell had never before felt this mysterious uneasiness so strongly as on -that evening when it had been his good fortune to make Mrs. Anthony laugh -a little by his artless prattle. Standing out of the way, he had watched -his captain walk the weather-side of the poop, he took full cognizance of -his liking for that inexplicably strange man and saw him swerve towards -the companion and go down below with sympathetic if utterly -uncomprehending eyes. - -Shortly afterwards, Mr. Smith came up alone and manifested a desire for a -little conversation. He, too, if not so mysterious as the captain, was -not very comprehensible to Mr. Powell's uninformed candour. He often -favoured thus the second officer. His talk alluded somewhat -enigmatically and often without visible connection to Mr. Powell's -friendliness towards himself and his daughter. "For I am well aware that -we have no friends on board this ship, my dear young man," he would add, -"except yourself. Flora feels that too." - -And Mr. Powell, flattered and embarrassed, could but emit a vague murmur -of protest. For the statement was true in a sense, though the fact was -in itself insignificant. The feelings of the ship's company could not -possibly matter to the captain's wife and to Mr. Smith--her father. Why -the latter should so often allude to it was what surprised our Mr. -Powell. This was by no means the first occasion. More like the -twentieth rather. And in his weak voice, with his monotonous intonation, -leaning over the rail and looking at the water the other continued this -conversation, or rather his remarks, remarks of such a monstrous nature -that Mr. Powell had no option but to accept them for gruesome jesting. - -"For instance," said Mr. Smith, "that mate, Franklin, I believe he would -just as soon see us both overboard as not." - -"It's not so bad as that," laughed Mr. Powell, feeling uncomfortable, -because his mind did not accommodate itself easily to exaggeration of -statement. "He isn't a bad chap really," he added, very conscious of Mr. -Franklin's offensive manner of which instances were not far to seek. -"He's such a fool as to be jealous. He has been with the captain for -years. It's not for me to say, perhaps, but I think the captain has -spoiled all that gang of old servants. They are like a lot of pet old -dogs. Wouldn't let anybody come near him if they could help it. I've -never seen anything like it. And the second mate, I believe, was like -that too." - -"Well, he isn't here, luckily. There would have been one more enemy," -said Mr. Smith. "There's enough of them without him. And you being here -instead of him makes it much more pleasant for my daughter and myself. -One feels there may be a friend in need. For really, for a woman all -alone on board ship amongst a lot of unfriendly men . . . " - -"But Mrs Anthony is not alone," exclaimed Powell. "There's you, and -there's the . . . " - -Mr. Smith interrupted him. - -"Nobody's immortal. And there are times when one feels ashamed to live. -Such an evening as this for instance." - -It was a lovely evening; the colours of a splendid sunset had died out -and the breath of a warm breeze seemed to have smoothed out the sea. Away -to the south the sheet lightning was like the flashing of an enormous -lantern hidden under the horizon. In order to change the conversation -Mr. Powell said: - -"Anyway no one can charge you with being a Jonah, Mr. Smith. We have had -a magnificent quick passage so far. The captain ought to be pleased. And -I suppose you are not sorry either." - -This diversion was not successful. Mr. Smith emitted a sort of bitter -chuckle and said: "Jonah! That's the fellow that was thrown overboard by -some sailors. It seems to me it's very easy at sea to get rid of a -person one does not like. The sea does not give up its dead as the earth -does." - -"You forget the whale, sir," said young Powell. - -Mr. Smith gave a start. "Eh? What whale? Oh! Jonah. I wasn't -thinking of Jonah. I was thinking of this passage which seems so quick -to you. But only think what it is to me? It isn't a life, going about -the sea like this. And, for instance, if one were to fall ill, there -isn't a doctor to find out what's the matter with one. It's worrying. It -makes me anxious at times." - -"Is Mrs. Anthony not feeling well?" asked Powell. But Mr. Smith's remark -was not meant for Mrs. Anthony. She was well. He himself was well. It -was the captain's health that did not seem quite satisfactory. Had Mr. -Powell noticed his appearance? - -Mr. Powell didn't know enough of the captain to judge. He couldn't tell. -But he observed thoughtfully that Mr. Franklin had been saying the same -thing. And Franklin had known the captain for years. The mate was quite -worried about it. - -This intelligence startled Mr. Smith considerably. "Does he think he is -in danger of dying?" he exclaimed with an animation quite extraordinary -for him, which horrified Mr. Powell. - -"Heavens! Die! No! Don't you alarm yourself, sir. I've never heard a -word about danger from Mr. Franklin." - -"Well, well," sighed Mr. Smith and left the poop for the saloon rather -abruptly. - -As a matter of fact Mr. Franklin had been on deck for some considerable -time. He had come to relieve young Powell; but seeing him engaged in -talk with the "enemy"--with one of the "enemies" at least--had kept at a -distance, which, the poop of the _Ferndale_ being aver seventy feet long, -he had no difficulty in doing. Mr. Powell saw him at the head of the -ladder leaning on his elbow, melancholy and silent. "Oh! Here you are, -sir." - -"Here I am. Here I've been ever since six o'clock. Didn't want to -interrupt the pleasant conversation. If you like to put in half of your -watch below jawing with a dear friend, that's not my affair. Funny taste -though." - -"He isn't a bad chap," said the impartial Powell. - -The mate snorted angrily, tapping the deck with his foot; then: "Isn't -he? Well, give him my love when you come together again for another nice -long yarn." - -"I say, Mr. Franklin, I wonder the captain don't take offence at your -manners." - -"The captain. I wish to goodness he would start a row with me. Then I -should know at least I am somebody on board. I'd welcome it, Mr. Powell. -I'd rejoice. And dam' me I would talk back too till I roused him. He's -a shadow of himself. He walks about his ship like a ghost. He's fading -away right before our eyes. But of course you don't see. You don't care -a hang. Why should you?" - -Mr. Powell did not wait for more. He went down on the main deck. Without -taking the mate's jeremiads seriously he put them beside the words of Mr. -Smith. He had grown already attached to Captain Anthony. There was -something not only attractive but compelling in the man. Only it is very -difficult for youth to believe in the menace of death. Not in the fact -itself, but in its proximity to a breathing, moving, talking, superior -human being, showing no sign of disease. And Mr. Powell thought that -this talk was all nonsense. But his curiosity was awakened. There was -something, and at any time some circumstance might occur . . . No, he -would never find out . . . There was nothing to find out, most likely. -Mr. Powell went to his room where he tried to read a book he had already -read a good many times. Presently a bell rang for the officers' supper. - - - -CHAPTER SIX--. . . A MOONLESS NIGHT, THICK WITH STARS ABOVE, VERY DARK ON -THE WATER - - -In the mess-room Powell found Mr. Franklin hacking at a piece of cold -salt beef with a table knife. The mate, fiery in the face and rolling -his eyes over that task, explained that the carver belonging to the mess- -room could not be found. The steward, present also, complained savagely -of the cook. The fellow got things into his galley and then lost them. -Mr. Franklin tried to pacify him with mournful firmness. - -"There, there! That will do. We who have been all these years together -in the ship have other things to think about than quarrelling among -ourselves." - -Mr. Powell thought with exasperation: "Here he goes again," for this -utterance had nothing cryptic for him. The steward having withdrawn -morosely, he was not surprised to hear the mate strike the usual note. -That morning the mizzen topsail tie had carried away (probably a -defective link) and something like forty feet of chain and wire-rope, -mixed up with a few heavy iron blocks, had crashed down from aloft on the -poop with a terrifying racket. - -"Did you notice the captain then, Mr. Powell. Did you notice?" - -Powell confessed frankly that he was too scared himself when all that lot -of gear came down on deck to notice anything. - -"The gin-block missed his head by an inch," went on the mate -impressively. "I wasn't three feet from him. And what did he do? Did -he shout, or jump, or even look aloft to see if the yard wasn't coming -down too about our ears in a dozen pieces? It's a marvel it didn't. No, -he just stopped short--no wonder; he must have felt the wind of that iron -gin-block on his face--looked down at it, there, lying close to his -foot--and went on again. I believe he didn't even blink. It isn't -natural. The man is stupefied." - -He sighed ridiculously and Mr. Powell had suppressed a grin, when the -mate added as if he couldn't contain himself: - -"He will be taking to drink next. Mark my words. That's the next -thing." - -Mr. Powell was disgusted. - -"You are so fond of the captain and yet you don't seem to care what you -say about him. I haven't been with him for seven years, but I know he -isn't the sort of man that takes to drink. And then--why the devil -should he?" - -"Why the devil, you ask. Devil--eh? Well, no man is safe from the -devil--and that's answer enough for you," wheezed Mr. Franklin not -unkindly. "There was a time, a long time ago, when I nearly took to -drink myself. What do you say to that?" - -Mr. Powell expressed a polite incredulity. The thick, congested mate -seemed on the point of bursting with despondency. "That was bad example -though. I was young and fell into dangerous company, made a fool of -myself--yes, as true as you see me sitting here. Drank to forget. -Thought it a great dodge." - -Powell looked at the grotesque Franklin with awakened interest and with -that half-amused sympathy with which we receive unprovoked confidences -from men with whom we have no sort of affinity. And at the same time he -began to look upon him more seriously. Experience has its prestige. And -the mate continued: - -"If it hadn't been for the old lady, I would have gone to the devil. I -remembered her in time. Nothing like having an old lady to look after to -steady a chap and make him face things. But as bad luck would have it, -Captain Anthony has no mother living, not a blessed soul belonging to him -as far as I know. Oh, aye, I fancy he said once something to me of a -sister. But she's married. She don't need him. Yes. In the old days -he used to talk to me as if we had been brothers," exaggerated the mate -sentimentally. "'Franklin,'--he would say--'this ship is my nearest -relation and she isn't likely to turn against me. And I suppose you are -the man I've known the longest in the world.' That's how he used to -speak to me. Can I turn my back on him? He has turned his back on his -ship; that's what it has come to. He has no one now but his old -Franklin. But what's a fellow to do to put things back as they were and -should be. Should be--I say!" - -His starting eyes had a terrible fixity. Mr. Powell's irresistible -thought, "he resembles a boiled lobster in distress," was followed by -annoyance. "Good Lord," he said, "you don't mean to hint that Captain -Anthony has fallen into bad company. What is it you want to save him -from?" - -"I do mean it," affirmed the mate, and the very absurdity of the -statement made it impressive--because it seemed so absolutely audacious. -"Well, you have a cheek," said young Powell, feeling mentally helpless. -"I have a notion the captain would half kill you if he were to know how -you carry on." - -"And welcome," uttered the fervently devoted Franklin. "I am willing, if -he would only clear the ship afterwards of that . . . You are but a -youngster and you may go and tell him what you like. Let him knock the -stuffing out of his old Franklin first and think it over afterwards. -Anything to pull him together. But of course you wouldn't. You are all -right. Only you don't know that things are sometimes different from what -they look. There are friendships that are no friendships, and marriages -that are no marriages. Phoo! Likely to be right--wasn't it? Never a -hint to me. I go off on leave and when I come back, there it is--all -over, settled! Not a word beforehand. No warning. If only: 'What do -you think of it, Franklin?'--or anything of the sort. And that's a man -who hardly ever did anything without asking my advice. Why! He couldn't -take over a new coat from the tailor without . . . first thing, directly -the fellow came on board with some new clothes, whether in London or in -China, it would be: 'Pass the word along there for Mr. Franklin. Mr. -Franklin wanted in the cabin.' In I would go. 'Just look at my back, -Franklin. Fits all right, doesn't it?' And I would say: 'First rate, -sir,' or whatever was the truth of it. That or anything else. Always -the truth of it. Always. And well he knew it; and that's why he dared -not speak right out. Talking about workmen, alterations, cabins . . . -Phoo! . . . instead of a straightforward--'Wish me joy, Mr. Franklin!' -Yes, that was the way to let me know. God only knows what they -are--perhaps she isn't his daughter any more than she is . . . She -doesn't resemble that old fellow. Not a bit. Not a bit. It's very -awful. You may well open your mouth, young man. But for goodness' sake, -you who are mixed up with that lot, keep your eyes and ears open too in -case--in case of . . . I don't know what. Anything. One wonders what -can happen here at sea! Nothing. Yet when a man is called a jailer -behind his back." - -Mr. Franklin hid his face in his hands for a moment and Powell shut his -mouth, which indeed had been open. He slipped out of the mess-room -noiselessly. "The mate's crazy," he thought. It was his firm -conviction. Nevertheless, that evening, he felt his inner tranquillity -disturbed at last by the force and obstinacy of this craze. He couldn't -dismiss it with the contempt it deserved. Had the word "jailer" really -been pronounced? A strange word for the mate to even _imagine_ he had -heard. A senseless, unlikely word. But this word being the only clear -and definite statement in these grotesque and dismal ravings was -comparatively restful to his mind. Powell's mind rested on it still when -he came up at eight o'clock to take charge of the deck. It was a -moonless night, thick with stars above, very dark on the water. A steady -air from the west kept the sails asleep. Franklin mustered both watches -in low tones as if for a funeral, then approaching Powell: - -"The course is east-south-east," said the chief mate distinctly. - -"East-south-east, sir." - -"Everything's set, Mr. Powell." - -"All right, sir." - -The other lingered, his sentimental eyes gleamed silvery in the shadowy -face. "A quiet night before us. I don't know that there are any special -orders. A settled, quiet night. I dare say you won't see the captain. -Once upon a time this was the watch he used to come up and start a chat -with either of us then on deck. But now he sits in that infernal stern- -cabin and mopes. Jailer--eh?" - -Mr. Powell walked away from the mate and when at some distance said, -"Damn!" quite heartily. It was a confounded nuisance. It had ceased to -be funny; that hostile word "jailer" had given the situation an air of -reality. - -* * * * * - -Franklin's grotesque mortal envelope had disappeared from the poop to -seek its needful repose, if only the worried soul would let it rest a -while. Mr. Powell, half sorry for the thick little man, wondered whether -it would let him. For himself, he recognized that the charm of a quiet -watch on deck when one may let one's thoughts roam in space and time had -been spoiled without remedy. What shocked him most was the implied -aspersion of complicity on Mrs. Anthony. It angered him. In his own -words to me, he felt very "enthusiastic" about Mrs. Anthony. -"Enthusiastic" is good; especially as he couldn't exactly explain to me -what he meant by it. But he felt enthusiastic, he says. That silly -Franklin must have been dreaming. That was it. He had dreamed it all. -Ass. Yet the injurious word stuck in Powell's mind with its associated -ideas of prisoner, of escape. He became very uncomfortable. And just -then (it might have been half an hour or more since he had relieved -Franklin) just then Mr. Smith came up on the poop alone, like a gliding -shadow and leaned over the rail by his side. Young Powell was affected -disagreeably by his presence. He made a movement to go away but the -other began to talk--and Powell remained where he was as if retained by a -mysterious compulsion. The conversation started by Mr. Smith had nothing -peculiar. He began to talk of mail-boats in general and in the end -seemed anxious to discover what were the services from Port Elizabeth to -London. Mr. Powell did not know for certain but imagined that there must -be communication with England at least twice a month. "Are you thinking -of leaving us, sir; of going home by steam? Perhaps with Mrs. Anthony," -he asked anxiously. - -"No! No! How can I?" Mr. Smith got quite agitated, for him, which did -not amount to much. He was just asking for the sake of something to talk -about. No idea at all of going home. One could not always do what one -wanted and that's why there were moments when one felt ashamed to live. -This did not mean that one did not want to live. Oh no! - -He spoke with careless slowness, pausing frequently and in such a low -voice that Powell had to strain his hearing to catch the phrases dropped -overboard as it were. And indeed they seemed not worth the effort. It -was like the aimless talk of a man pursuing a secret train of thought far -removed from the idle words we so often utter only to keep in touch with -our fellow beings. An hour passed. It seemed as though Mr. Smith could -not make up his mind to go below. He repeated himself. Again he spoke -of lives which one was ashamed of. It was necessary to put up with such -lives as long as there was no way out, no possible issue. He even -alluded once more to mail-boat services on the East coast of Africa and -young Powell had to tell him once more that he knew nothing about them. - -"Every fortnight, I thought you said," insisted Mr. Smith. He stirred, -seemed to detach himself from the rail with difficulty. His long, -slender figure straightened into stiffness, as if hostile to the -enveloping soft peace of air and sea and sky, emitted into the night a -weak murmur which Mr. Powell fancied was the word, "Abominable" repeated -three times, but which passed into the faintly louder declaration: "The -moment has come--to go to bed," followed by a just audible sigh. - -"I sleep very well," added Mr. Smith in his restrained tone. "But it is -the moment one opens one's eyes that is horrible at sea. These days! Oh, -these days! I wonder how anybody can . . . " - -"I like the life," observed Mr. Powell. - -"Oh, you. You have only yourself to think of. You have made your bed. -Well, it's very pleasant to feel that you are friendly to us. My -daughter has taken quite a liking to you, Mr. Powell." - -He murmured, "Good-night" and glided away rigidly. Young Powell asked -himself with some distaste what was the meaning of these utterances. His -mind had been worried at last into that questioning attitude by no other -person than the grotesque Franklin. Suspicion was not natural to him. -And he took good care to carefully separate in his thoughts Mrs. Anthony -from this man of enigmatic words--her father. Presently he observed that -the sheen of the two deck dead-lights of Mr. Smith's room had gone out. -The old gentleman had been surprisingly quick in getting into bed. -Shortly afterwards the lamp in the foremost skylight of the saloon was -turned out; and this was the sign that the steward had taken in the tray -and had retired for the night. - -Young Powell had settled down to the regular officer-of-the-watch tramp -in the dense shadow of the world decorated with stars high above his -head, and on earth only a few gleams of light about the ship. The lamp -in the after skylight was kept burning through the night. There were -also the dead-lights of the stern-cabins glimmering dully in the deck far -aft, catching his eye when he turned to walk that way. The brasses of -the wheel glittered too, with the dimly lit figure of the man detached, -as if phosphorescent, against the black and spangled background of the -horizon. - -Young Powell, in the silence of the ship, reinforced by the great silent -stillness of the world, said to himself that there was something -mysterious in such beings as the absurd Franklin, and even in such beings -as himself. It was a strange and almost improper thought to occur to the -officer of the watch of a ship on the high seas on no matter how quiet a -night. Why on earth was he bothering his head? Why couldn't he dismiss -all these people from his mind? It was as if the mate had infected him -with his own diseased devotion. He would not have believed it possible -that he should be so foolish. But he was--clearly. He was foolish in a -way totally unforeseen by himself. Pushing this self-analysis further, -he reflected that the springs of his conduct were just as obscure. - -"I may be catching myself any time doing things of which I have no -conception," he thought. And as he was passing near the mizzen-mast he -perceived a coil of rope left lying on the deck by the oversight of the -sweepers. By an impulse which had nothing mysterious in it, he stooped -as he went by with the intention of picking it up and hanging it up on -its proper pin. This movement brought his head down to the level of the -glazed end of the after skylight--the lighted skylight of the most -private part of the saloon, consecrated to the exclusiveness of Captain -Anthony's married life; the part, let me remind you, cut off from the -rest of that forbidden space by a pair of heavy curtains. I mention -these curtains because at this point Mr. Powell himself recalled the -existence of that unusual arrangement to my mind. - -He recalled them with simple-minded compunction at that distance of time. -He said: "You understand that directly I stooped to pick up that coil of -running gear--the spanker foot-outhaul, it was--I perceived that I could -see right into that part of the saloon the curtains were meant to make -particularly private. Do you understand me?" he insisted. - -I told him that I understood; and he proceeded to call my attention to -the wonderful linking up of small facts, with something of awe left yet, -after all these years, at the precise workmanship of chance, fate, -providence, call it what you will! "For, observe, Marlow," he said, -making at me very round eyes which contrasted funnily with the austere -touch of grey on his temples, "observe, my dear fellow, that everything -depended on the men who cleared up the poop in the evening leaving that -coil of rope on the deck, and on the topsail-tie carrying away in a most -incomprehensible and surprising manner earlier in the day, and the end of -the chain whipping round the coaming and shivering to bits the coloured -glass-pane at the end of the skylight. It had the arms of the city of -Liverpool on it; I don't know why unless because the _Ferndale_ was -registered in Liverpool. It was very thick plate glass. Anyhow, the -upper part got smashed, and directly we had attended to things aloft Mr. -Franklin had set the carpenter to patch up the damage with some pieces of -plain glass. I don't know where they got them; I think the people who -fitted up new bookcases in the captain's room had left some spare panes. -Chips was there the whole afternoon on his knees, messing with putty and -red-lead. It wasn't a neat job when it was done, not by any means, but -it would serve to keep the weather out and let the light in. Clear -glass. And of course I was not thinking of it. I just stooped to pick -up that rope and found my head within three inches of that clear glass, -and--dash it all! I found myself out. Not half an hour before I was -saying to myself that it was impossible to tell what was in people's -heads or at the back of their talk, or what they were likely to be up to. -And here I found myself up to as low a trick as you can well think of. -For, after I had stooped, there I remained prying, spying, anyway -looking, where I had no business to look. Not consciously at first, may -be. He who has eyes, you know, nothing can stop him from seeing things -as long as there are things to see in front of him. What I saw at first -was the end of the table and the tray clamped on to it, a patent tray for -sea use, fitted with holders for a couple of decanters, water-jug and -glasses. The glitter of these things caught my eye first; but what I saw -next was the captain down there, alone as far as I could see; and I could -see pretty well the whole of that part up to the cottage piano, dark -against the satin-wood panelling of the bulkhead. And I remained -looking. I did. And I don't know that I was ashamed of myself either, -then. It was the fault of that Franklin, always talking of the man, -making free with him to that extent that really he seemed to have become -our property, his and mine, in a way. It's funny, but one had that -feeling about Captain Anthony. To watch him was not so much worse than -listening to Franklin talking him over. Well, it's no use making excuses -for what's inexcusable. I watched; but I dare say you know that there -could have been nothing inimical in this low behaviour of mine. On the -contrary. I'll tell you now what he was doing. He was helping himself -out of a decanter. I saw every movement, and I said to myself mockingly -as though jeering at Franklin in my thoughts, 'Hallo! Here's the captain -taking to drink at last.' He poured a little brandy or whatever it was -into a long glass, filled it with water, drank about a fourth of it and -stood the glass back into the holder. Every sign of a bad drinking bout, -I was saying to myself, feeling quite amused at the notions of that -Franklin. He seemed to me an enormous ass, with his jealousy and his -fears. At that rate a month would not have been enough for anybody to -get drunk. The captain sat down in one of the swivel arm-chairs fixed -around the table; I had him right under me and as he turned the chair -slightly, I was looking, I may say, down his back. He took another -little sip and then reached for a book which was lying on the table. I -had not noticed it before. Altogether the proceedings of a desperate -drunkard--weren't they? He opened the book and held it before his face. -If this was the way he took to drink, then I needn't worry. He was in no -danger from that, and as to any other, I assure you no human being could -have looked safer than he did down there. I felt the greatest contempt -for Franklin just then, while I looked at Captain Anthony sitting there -with a glass of weak brandy-and-water at his elbow and reading in the -cabin of his ship, on a quiet night--the quietest, perhaps the finest, of -a prosperous passage. And if you wonder why I didn't leave off my ugly -spying I will tell you how it was. Captain Anthony was a great reader -just about that time; and I, too, I have a great liking for books. To -this day I can't come near a book but I must know what it is about. It -was a thickish volume he had there, small close print, double columns--I -can see it now. What I wanted to make out was the title at the top of -the page. I have very good eyes but he wasn't holding it conveniently--I -mean for me up there. Well, it was a history of some kind, that much I -read and then suddenly he bangs the book face down on the table, jumps up -as if something had bitten him and walks away aft. - -"Funny thing shame is. I had been behaving badly and aware of it in a -way, but I didn't feel really ashamed till the fright of being found out -in my honourable occupation drove me from it. I slunk away to the -forward end of the poop and lounged about there, my face and ears burning -and glad it was a dark night, expecting every moment to hear the -captain's footsteps behind me. For I made sure he was coming on deck. -Presently I thought I had rather meet him face to face and I walked -slowly aft prepared to see him emerge from the companion before I got -that far. I even thought of his having detected me by some means. But -it was impossible, unless he had eyes in the top of his head. I had -never had a view of his face down there. It was impossible; I was safe; -and I felt very mean, yet, explain it as you may, I seemed not to care. -And the captain not appearing on deck, I had the impulse to go on being -mean. I wanted another peep. I really don't know what was the beastly -influence except that Mr. Franklin's talk was enough to demoralize any -man by raising a sort of unhealthy curiosity which did away in my case -with all the restraints of common decency. - -"I did not mean to run the risk of being caught squatting in a suspicious -attitude by the captain. There was also the helmsman to consider. So -what I did--I am surprised at my low cunning--was to sit down naturally -on the skylight-seat and then by bending forward I found that, as I -expected, I could look down through the upper part of the end-pane. The -worst that could happen to me then, if I remained too long in that -position, was to be suspected by the seaman aft at the wheel of having -gone to sleep there. For the rest my ears would give me sufficient -warning of any movements in the companion. - -"But in that way my angle of view was changed. The field too was -smaller. The end of the table, the tray and the swivel-chair I had right -under my eyes. The captain had not come back yet. The piano I could not -see now; but on the other hand I had a very oblique downward view of the -curtains drawn across the cabin and cutting off the forward part of it -just about the level of the skylight-end and only an inch or so from the -end of the table. They were heavy stuff, travelling on a thick brass rod -with some contrivance to keep the rings from sliding to and fro when the -ship rolled. But just then the ship was as still almost as a model shut -up in a glass case while the curtains, joined closely, and, perhaps on -purpose, made a little too long moved no more than a solid wall." - -* * * * * - -Marlow got up to get another cigar. The night was getting on to what I -may call its deepest hour, the hour most favourable to evil purposes of -men's hate, despair or greed--to whatever can whisper into their ears the -unlawful counsels of protest against things that are; the hour of ill- -omened silence and chill and stagnation, the hour when the criminal plies -his trade and the victim of sleeplessness reaches the lowest depth of -dreadful discouragement; the hour before the first sight of dawn. I know -it, because while Marlow was crossing the room I looked at the clock on -the mantelpiece. He however never looked that way though it is possible -that he, too, was aware of the passage of time. He sat down heavily. - -"Our friend Powell," he began again, "was very anxious that I should -understand the topography of that cabin. I was interested more by its -moral atmosphere, that tension of falsehood, of desperate acting, which -tainted the pure sea-atmosphere into which the magnanimous Anthony had -carried off his conquest and--well--his self-conquest too, trying to act -at the same time like a beast of prey, a pure spirit and the "most -generous of men." Too big an order clearly because he was nothing of a -monster but just a common mortal, a little more self-willed and -self-confident than most, may be, both in his roughness and in his -delicacy. - -As to the delicacy of Mr. Powell's proceedings I'll say nothing. He -found a sort of depraved excitement in watching an unconscious man--and -such an attractive and mysterious man as Captain Anthony at that. He -wanted another peep at him. He surmised that the captain must come back -soon because of the glass two-thirds full and also of the book put down -so brusquely. God knows what sudden pang had made Anthony jump up so. I -am convinced he used reading as an opiate against the pain of his -magnanimity which like all abnormal growths was gnawing at his healthy -substance with cruel persistence. Perhaps he had rushed into his cabin -simply to groan freely in absolute and delicate secrecy. At any rate he -tarried there. And young Powell would have grown weary and compunctious -at last if it had not become manifest to him that he had not been alone -in the highly incorrect occupation of watching the movements of Captain -Anthony. - -Powell explained to me that no sound did or perhaps could reach him from -the saloon. The first sign--and we must remember that he was using his -eyes for all they were worth--was an unaccountable movement of the -curtain. It was wavy and very slight; just perceptible in fact to the -sharpened faculties of a secret watcher; for it can't be denied that our -wits are much more alert when engaged in wrong-doing (in which one -mustn't be found out) than in a righteous occupation. - -He became suspicious, with no one and nothing definite in his mind. He -was suspicious of the curtain itself and observed it. It looked very -innocent. Then just as he was ready to put it down to a trick of -imagination he saw trembling movements where the two curtains joined. -Yes! Somebody else besides himself had been watching Captain Anthony. He -owns artlessly that this roused his indignation. It was really too much -of a good thing. In this state of intense antagonism he was startled to -observe tips of fingers fumbling with the dark stuff. Then they grasped -the edge of the further curtain and hung on there, just fingers and -knuckles and nothing else. It made an abominable sight. He was looking -at it with unaccountable repulsion when a hand came into view; a short, -puffy, old, freckled hand projecting into the lamplight, followed by a -white wrist, an arm in a grey coat-sleeve, up to the elbow, beyond the -elbow, extended tremblingly towards the tray. Its appearance was weird -and nauseous, fantastic and silly. But instead of grabbing the bottle as -Powell expected, this hand, tremulous with senile eagerness, swerved to -the glass, rested on its edge for a moment (or so it looked from above) -and went back with a jerk. The gripping fingers of the other hand -vanished at the same time, and young Powell staring at the motionless -curtains could indulge for a moment the notion that he had been dreaming. - -But that notion did not last long. Powell, after repressing his first -impulse to spring for the companion and hammer at the captain's door, -took steps to have himself relieved by the boatswain. He was in a state -of distraction as to his feelings and yet lucid as to his mind. He -remained on the skylight so as to keep his eye on the tray. - -Still the captain did not appear in the saloon. "If he had," said Mr. -Powell, "I knew what to do. I would have put my elbow through the pane -instantly--crash." - -I asked him why? - -"It was the quickest dodge for getting him away from that tray," he -explained. "My throat was so dry that I didn't know if I could shout -loud enough. And this was not a case for shouting, either." - -The boatswain, sleepy and disgusted, arriving on the poop, found the -second officer doubled up over the end of the skylight in a pose which -might have been that of severe pain. And his voice was so changed that -the man, though naturally vexed at being turned out, made no comment on -the plea of sudden indisposition which young Powell put forward. - -The rapidity with which the sick man got off the poop must have -astonished the boatswain. But Powell, at the moment he opened the door -leading into the saloon from the quarter-deck, had managed to control his -agitation. He entered swiftly but without noise and found himself in the -dark part of the saloon, the strong sheen of the lamp on the other side -of the curtains visible only above the rod on which they ran. The door -of Mr. Smith's cabin was in that dark part. He passed by it assuring -himself by a quick side glance that it was imperfectly closed. "Yes," he -said to me. "The old man must have been watching through the crack. Of -that I am certain; but it was not for me that he was watching and -listening. Horrible! Surely he must have been startled to hear and see -somebody he did not expect. He could not possibly guess why I was coming -in, but I suppose he must have been concerned." Concerned indeed! He -must have been thunderstruck, appalled. - -Powell's only distinct aim was to remove the suspected tumbler. He had -no other plan, no other intention, no other thought. Do away with it in -some manner. Snatch it up and run out with it. - -You know that complete mastery of one fixed idea, not a reasonable but an -emotional mastery, a sort of concentrated exaltation. Under its empire -men rush blindly through fire and water and opposing violence, and -nothing can stop them--unless, sometimes, a grain of sand. For his blind -purpose (and clearly the thought of Mrs. Anthony was at the bottom of it) -Mr. Powell had plenty of time. What checked him at the crucial moment -was the familiar, harmless aspect of common things, the steady light, the -open book on the table, the solitude, the peace, the home-like effect of -the place. He held the glass in his hand; all he had to do was to vanish -back beyond the curtains, flee with it noiselessly into the night on -deck, fling it unseen overboard. A minute or less. And then all that -would have happened would have been the wonder at the utter disappearance -of a glass tumbler, a ridiculous riddle in pantry-affairs beyond the wit -of anyone on board to solve. The grain of sand against which Powell -stumbled in his headlong career was a moment of incredulity as to the -truth of his own conviction because it had failed to affect the safe -aspect of familiar things. He doubted his eyes too. He must have dreamt -it all! "I am dreaming now," he said to himself. And very likely for a -few seconds he must have looked like a man in a trance or profoundly -asleep on his feet, and with a glass of brandy-and-water in his hand. - -What woke him up and, at the same time, fixed his feet immovably to the -spot, was a voice asking him what he was doing there in tones of thunder. -Or so it sounded to his ears. Anthony, opening the door of his stern- -cabin had naturally exclaimed. What else could you expect? And the -exclamation must have been fairly loud if you consider the nature of the -sight which met his eye. There, before him, stood his second officer, a -seemingly decent, well-bred young man, who, being on duty, had left the -deck and had sneaked into the saloon, apparently for the inexpressibly -mean purpose of drinking up what was left of his captain's brandy-and- -water. There he was, caught absolutely with the glass in his hand. - -But the very monstrosity of appearances silenced Anthony after the first -exclamation; and young Powell felt himself pierced through and through by -the overshadowed glance of his captain. Anthony advanced quietly. The -first impulse of Mr. Powell, when discovered, had been to dash the glass -on the deck. He was in a sort of panic. But deep down within him his -wits were working, and the idea that if he did that he could prove -nothing and that the story he had to tell was completely incredible, -restrained him. The captain came forward slowly. With his eyes now -close to his, Powell, spell-bound, numb all over, managed to lift one -finger to the deck above mumbling the explanatory words, "Boatswain on -the poop." - -The captain moved his head slightly as much as to say, "That's all -right"--and this was all. Powell had no voice, no strength. The air was -unbreathable, thick, sticky, odious, like hot jelly in which all -movements became difficult. He raised the glass a little with immense -difficulty and moved his trammelled lips sufficiently to form the words: - -"Doctored." - -Anthony glanced at it for an instant, only for an instant, and again -fastened his eyes on the face of his second mate. Powell added a fervent -"I believe" and put the glass down on the tray. The captain's glance -followed the movement and returned sternly to his face. The young man -pointed a finger once more upwards and squeezed out of his iron-bound -throat six consecutive words of further explanation. "Through the -skylight. The white pane." - -The captain raised his eyebrows very much at this, while young Powell, -ashamed but desperate, nodded insistently several times. He meant to say -that: Yes. Yes. He had done that thing. He had been spying . . . The -captain's gaze became thoughtful. And, now the confession was over, the -iron-bound feeling of Powell's throat passed away giving place to a -general anxiety which from his breast seemed to extend to all the limbs -and organs of his body. His legs trembled a little, his vision was -confused, his mind became blankly expectant. But he was alert enough. At -a movement of Anthony he screamed in a strangled whisper. - -"Don't, sir! Don't touch it." - -The captain pushed aside Powell's extended arm, took up the glass and -raised it slowly against the lamplight. The liquid, of very pale amber -colour, was clear, and by a glance the captain seemed to call Powell's -attention to the fact. Powell tried to pronounce the word, "dissolved" -but he only thought of it with great energy which however failed to move -his lips. Only when Anthony had put down the glass and turned to him he -recovered such a complete command of his voice that he could keep it down -to a hurried, forcible whisper--a whisper that shook him. - -"Doctored! I swear it! I have seen. Doctored! I have seen." - -Not a feature of the captain's face moved. His was a calm to take one's -breath away. It did so to young Powell. Then for the first time Anthony -made himself heard to the point. - -"You did! . . . Who was it?" - -And Powell gasped freely at last. "A hand," he whispered fearfully, "a -hand and the arm--only the arm--like that." - -He advanced his own, slow, stealthy, tremulous in faithful reproduction, -the tips of two fingers and the thumb pressed together and hovering above -the glass for an instant--then the swift jerk back, after the deed. - -"Like that," he repeated growing excited. "From behind this." He -grasped the curtain and glaring at the silent Anthony flung it back -disclosing the forepart of the saloon. There was on one to be seen. - -Powell had not expected to see anybody. "But," he said to me, "I knew -very well there was an ear listening and an eye glued to the crack of a -cabin door. Awful thought. And that door was in that part of the saloon -remaining in the shadow of the other half of the curtain. I pointed at -it and I suppose that old man inside saw me pointing. The captain had a -wonderful self-command. You couldn't have guessed anything from his -face. Well, it was perhaps more thoughtful than usual. And indeed this -was something to think about. But I couldn't think steadily. My brain -would give a sort of jerk and then go dead again. I had lost all notion -of time, and I might have been looking at the captain for days and months -for all I knew before I heard him whisper to me fiercely: "Not a word!" -This jerked me out of that trance I was in and I said "No! No! I didn't -mean even you." - -"I wanted to explain my conduct, my intentions, but I read in his eyes -that he understood me and I was only too glad to leave off. And there we -were looking at each other, dumb, brought up short by the question "What -next?" - -"I thought Captain Anthony was a man of iron till I saw him suddenly -fling his head to the right and to the left fiercely, like a wild animal -at bay not knowing which way to break out . . . " - -* * * * * - -"Truly," commented Marlow, "brought to bay was not a bad comparison; a -better one than Mr. Powell was aware of. At that moment the appearance -of Flora could not but bring the tension to the breaking point. She came -out in all innocence but not without vague dread. Anthony's exclamation -on first seeing Powell had reached her in her cabin, where, it seems, she -was brushing her hair. She had heard the very words. "What are you -doing here?" And the unwonted loudness of the voice--his voice--breaking -the habitual stillness of that hour would have startled a person having -much less reason to be constantly apprehensive, than the captive of -Anthony's masterful generosity. She had no means to guess to whom the -question was addressed and it echoed in her heart, as Anthony's voice -always did. Followed complete silence. She waited, anxious, expectant, -till she could stand the strain no longer, and with the weary mental -appeal of the overburdened. "My God! What is it now?" she opened the -door of her room and looked into the saloon. Her first glance fell on -Powell. For a moment, seeing only the second officer with Anthony, she -felt relieved and made as if to draw back; but her sharpened perception -detected something suspicious in their attitudes, and she came forward -slowly. - -"I was the first to see Mrs. Anthony," related Powell, "because I was -facing aft. The captain, noticing my eyes, looked quickly over his -shoulder and at once put his finger to his lips to caution me. As if I -were likely to let out anything before her! Mrs. Anthony had on a -dressing-gown of some grey stuff with red facings and a thick red cord -round her waist. Her hair was down. She looked a child; a pale-faced -child with big blue eyes and a red mouth a little open showing a glimmer -of white teeth. The light fell strongly on her as she came up to the end -of the table. A strange child though; she hardly affected one like a -child, I remember. Do you know," exclaimed Mr. Powell, who clearly must -have been, like many seamen, an industrious reader, "do you know what she -looked like to me with those big eyes and something appealing in her -whole expression. She looked like a forsaken elf. Captain Anthony had -moved towards her to keep her away from my end of the table, where the -tray was. I had never seen them so near to each other before, and it -made a great contrast. It was wonderful, for, with his beard cut to a -point, his swarthy, sunburnt complexion, thin nose and his lean head -there was something African, something Moorish in Captain Anthony. His -neck was bare; he had taken off his coat and collar and had drawn on his -sleeping jacket in the time that he had been absent from the saloon. I -seem to see him now. Mrs. Anthony too. She looked from him to me--I -suppose I looked guilty or frightened--and from me to him, trying to -guess what there was between us two. Then she burst out with a "What has -happened?" which seemed addressed to me. I mumbled "Nothing! Nothing, -ma'am," which she very likely did not hear. - -"You must not think that all this had lasted a long time. She had taken -fright at our behaviour and turned to the captain pitifully. "What is it -you are concealing from me?" A straight question--eh? I don't know what -answer the captain would have made. Before he could even raise his eyes -to her she cried out "Ah! Here's papa" in a sharp tone of relief, but -directly afterwards she looked to me as if she were holding her breath -with apprehension. I was so interested in her that, how shall I say it, -her exclamation made no connection in my brain at first. I also noticed -that she had sidled up a little nearer to Captain Anthony, before it -occurred to me to turn my head. I can tell you my neck stiffened in the -twisted position from the shock of actually seeing that old man! He had -dared! I suppose you think I ought to have looked upon him as mad. But -I couldn't. It would have been certainly easier. But I could _not_. You -should have seen him. First of all he was completely dressed with his -very cap still on his head just as when he left me on deck two hours -before, saying in his soft voice: "The moment has come to go to -bed"--while he meant to go and do that thing and hide in his dark cabin, -and watch the stuff do its work. A cold shudder ran down my back. He -had his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his arms were pressed close -to his thin, upright body, and he shuffled across the cabin with his -short steps. There was a red patch on each of his old soft cheeks as if -somebody had been pinching them. He drooped his head a little, and -looked with a sort of underhand expectation at the captain and Mrs. -Anthony standing close together at the other end of the saloon. The -calculating horrible impudence of it! His daughter was there; and I am -certain he had seen the captain putting his finger on his lips to warn -me. And then he had coolly come out! He passed my imagination, I assure -you. After that one shiver his presence killed every faculty in -me--wonder, horror, indignation. I felt nothing in particular just as if -he were still the old gentleman who used to talk to me familiarly every -day on deck. Would you believe it?" - -"Mr. Powell challenged my powers of wonder at this internal phenomenon," -went on Marlow after a slight pause. "But even if they had not been -fully engaged, together with all my powers of attention in following the -facts of the case, I would not have been astonished by his statements -about himself. Taking into consideration his youth they were by no means -incredible; or, at any rate, they were the least incredible part of the -whole. They were also the least interesting part. The interest was -elsewhere, and there of course all he could do was to look at the -surface. The inwardness of what was passing before his eyes was hidden -from him, who had looked on, more impenetrably than from me who at a -distance of years was listening to his words. What presently happened at -this crisis in Flora de Barral's fate was beyond his power of comment, -seemed in a sense natural. And his own presence on the scene was so -strangely motived that it was left for me to marvel alone at this young -man, a completely chance-comer, having brought it about on that night. - -Each situation created either by folly or wisdom has its psychological -moment. The behaviour of young Powell with its mixture of boyish -impulses combined with instinctive prudence, had not created it--I can't -say that--but had discovered it to the very people involved. What would -have happened if he had made a noise about his discovery? But he didn't. -His head was full of Mrs. Anthony and he behaved with a discretion beyond -his years. Some nice children often do; and surely it is not from -reflection. They have their own inspirations. Young Powell's -inspiration consisted in being "enthusiastic" about Mrs. Anthony. -'Enthusiastic' is really good. And he was amongst them like a child, -sensitive, impressionable, plastic--but unable to find for himself any -sort of comment. - -I don't know how much mine may be worth; but I believe that just then the -tension of the false situation was at its highest. Of all the forms -offered to us by life it is the one demanding a couple to realize it -fully, which is the most imperative. Pairing off is the fate of mankind. -And if two beings thrown together, mutually attracted, resist the -necessity, fail in understanding and voluntarily stop short of the--the -embrace, in the noblest meaning of the word, then they are committing a -sin against life, the call of which is simple. Perhaps sacred. And the -punishment of it is an invasion of complexity, a tormenting, forcibly -tortuous involution of feelings, the deepest form of suffering from which -indeed something significant may come at last, which may be criminal or -heroic, may be madness or wisdom--or even a straight if despairing -decision. - -Powell on taking his eyes off the old gentleman noticed Captain Anthony, -swarthy as an African, by the side of Flora whiter than the lilies, take -his handkerchief out and wipe off his forehead the sweat of anguish--like -a man who is overcome. "And no wonder," commented Mr. Powell here. Then -the captain said, "Hadn't you better go back to your room." This was to -Mrs. Anthony. He tried to smile at her. "Why do you look startled? This -night is like any other night." - -"Which," Powell again commented to me earnestly, "was a lie . . . No -wonder he sweated." You see from this the value of Powell's comments. -Mrs. Anthony then said: "Why are you sending me away?" - -"Why! That you should go to sleep. That you should rest." And Captain -Anthony frowned. Then sharply, "You stay here, Mr. Powell. I shall want -you presently." - -As a matter of fact Powell had not moved. Flora did not mind his -presence. He himself had the feeling of being of no account to those -three people. He was looking at Mrs. Anthony as unabashed as the -proverbial cat looking at a king. Mrs. Anthony glanced at him. She did -not move, gripped by an inexplicable premonition. She had arrived at the -very limit of her endurance as the object of Anthony's magnanimity; she -was the prey of an intuitive dread of she did not know what mysterious -influence; she felt herself being pushed back into that solitude, that -moral loneliness, which had made all her life intolerable. And then, in -that close communion established again with Anthony, she felt--as on that -night in the garden--the force of his personal fascination. The passive -quietness with which she looked at him gave her the appearance of a -person bewitched--or, say, mesmerically put to sleep--beyond any notion -of her surroundings. - -After telling Mr. Powell not to go away the captain remained silent. -Suddenly Mrs. Anthony pushed back her loose hair with a decisive gesture -of her arms and moved still nearer to him. "Here's papa up yet," she -said, but she did not look towards Mr. Smith. "Why is it? And you? I -can't go on like this, Roderick--between you two. Don't." - -Anthony interrupted her as if something had untied his tongue. - -"Oh yes. Here's your father. And . . . Why not. Perhaps it is just as -well you came out. Between us two? Is that it? I won't pretend I don't -understand. I am not blind. But I can't fight any longer for what I -haven't got. I don't know what you imagine has happened. Something has -though. Only you needn't be afraid. No shadow can touch you--because I -give up. I can't say we had much talk about it, your father and I, but, -the long and the short of it is, that I must learn to live without -you--which I have told you was impossible. I was speaking the truth. But -I have done fighting, or waiting, or hoping. Yes. You shall go." - -At this point Mr. Powell who (he confessed to me) was listening with -uncomprehending awe, heard behind his back a triumphant chuckling sound. -It gave him the shudders, he said, to mention it now; but at the time, -except for another chill down the spine, it had not the power to destroy -his absorption in the scene before his eyes, and before his ears too, -because just then Captain Anthony raised his voice grimly. Perhaps he -too had heard the chuckle of the old man. - -"Your father has found an argument which makes me pause, if it does not -convince me. No! I can't answer it. I--I don't want to answer it. I -simply surrender. He shall have his way with you--and with me. Only," -he added in a gloomy lowered tone which struck Mr. Powell as if a pedal -had been put down, "only it shall take a little time. I have never lied -to you. Never. I renounce not only my chance but my life. In a few -days, directly we get into port, the very moment we do, I, who have said -I could never let you go, I shall let you go." - -To the innocent beholder Anthony seemed at this point to become -physically exhausted. My view is that the utter falseness of his, I may -say, aspirations, the vanity of grasping the empty air, had come to him -with an overwhelming force, leaving him disarmed before the other's mad -and sinister sincerity. As he had said himself he could not fight for -what he did not possess; he could not face such a thing as this for the -sake of his mere magnanimity. The normal alone can overcome the -abnormal. He could not even reproach that man over there. "I own myself -beaten," he said in a firmer tone. "You are free. I let you off since I -must." - -Powell, the onlooker, affirms that at these incomprehensible words Mrs. -Anthony stiffened into the very image of astonishment, with a frightened -stare and frozen lips. But next minute a cry came out from her heart, -not very loud but of a quality which made not only Captain Anthony (he -was not looking at her), not only him but also the more distant (and -equally unprepared) young man, catch their breath: "But I don't want to -be let off," she cried. - -She was so still that one asked oneself whether the cry had come from -her. The restless shuffle behind Powell's back stopped short, the -intermittent shadowy chuckling ceased too. Young Powell, glancing round, -saw Mr. Smith raise his head with his faded eyes very still, puckered at -the corners, like a man perceiving something coming at him from a great -distance. And Mrs. Anthony's voice reached Powell's ears, entreating and -indignant. - -"You can't cast me off like this, Roderick. I won't go away from you. I -won't--" - -Powell turned about and discovered then that what Mr. Smith was puckering -his eyes at, was the sight of his daughter clinging round Captain -Anthony's neck--a sight not in itself improper, but which had the power -to move young Powell with a bashfully profound emotion. It was different -from his emotion while spying at the revelations of the skylight, but in -this case too he felt the discomfort, if not the guilt, of an unseen -beholder. Experience was being piled up on his young shoulders. Mrs. -Anthony's hair hung back in a dark mass like the hair of a drowned woman. -She looked as if she would let go and sink to the floor if the captain -were to withhold his sustaining arm. But the captain obviously had no -such intention. Standing firm and still he gazed with sombre eyes at Mr. -Smith. For a time the low convulsive sobbing of Mr. Smith's daughter was -the only sound to trouble the silence. The strength of Anthony's clasp -pressing Flora to his breast could not be doubted even at that distance, -and suddenly, awakening to his opportunity, he began to partly support -her, partly carry her in the direction of her cabin. His head was bent -over her solicitously, then recollecting himself, with a glance full of -unwonted fire, his voice ringing in a note unknown to Mr. Powell, he -cried to him, "Don't you go on deck yet. I want you to stay down here -till I come back. There are some instructions I want to give you." - -And before the young man could answer, Anthony had disappeared in the -stern-cabin, burdened and exulting. - -"Instructions," commented Mr. Powell. "That was all right. Very likely; -but they would be such instructions as, I thought to myself, no ship's -officer perhaps had ever been given before. It made me feel a little -sick to think what they would be dealing with, probably. But there! -Everything that happens on board ship on the high seas has got to be -dealt with somehow. There are no special people to fly to for -assistance. And there I was with that old man left in my charge. When -he noticed me looking at him he started to shuffle again athwart the -saloon. He kept his hands rammed in his pockets, he was as stiff-backed -as ever, only his head hung down. After a bit he says in his gentle soft -tone: "Did you see it?" - -There were in Powell's head no special words to fit the horror of his -feelings. So he said--he had to say something, "Good God! What were you -thinking of, Mr. Smith, to try to . . . " And then he left off. He -dared not utter the awful word poison. Mr. Smith stopped his prowl. - -"Think! What do you know of thinking. I don't think. There is -something in my head that thinks. The thoughts in men, it's like being -drunk with liquor or--You can't stop them. A man who thinks will think -anything. No! But have you seen it. Have you?" - -"I tell you I have! I am certain!" said Powell forcibly. "I was looking -at you all the time. You've done something to the drink in that glass." - -Then Powell lost his breath somehow. Mr. Smith looked at him curiously, -with mistrust. - -"My good young man, I don't know what you are talking about. I ask -you--have you seen? Who would have believed it? with her arms round his -neck. When! Oh! Ha! Ha! You did see! Didn't you? It wasn't a -delusion--was it? Her arms round . . . But I have never wholly trusted -her." - -"Then I flew out at him, said Mr. Powell. I told him he was jolly lucky -to have fallen upon Captain Anthony. A man in a million. He started -again shuffling to and fro. "You too," he said mournfully, keeping his -eyes down. "Eh? Wonderful man? But have you a notion who I am? Listen! -I have been the Great Mr. de Barral. So they printed it in the papers -while they were getting up a conspiracy. And I have been doing time. And -now I am brought low." His voice died down to a mere breath. "Brought -low." - -He took his hands out of his pocket, dragged the cap down on his head and -stuck them back into his pockets, exactly as if preparing himself to go -out into a great wind. "But not so low as to put up with this disgrace, -to see her, fast in this fellow's clutches, without doing something. She -wouldn't listen to me. Frightened? Silly? I had to think of some way -to get her out of this. Did you think she cared for him? No! Would -anybody have thought so? No! She pretended it was for my sake. She -couldn't understand that if I hadn't been an old man I would have flown -at his throat months ago. As it was I was tempted every time he looked -at her. My girl. Ough! Any man but this. And all the time the wicked -little fool was lying to me. It was their plot, their conspiracy! These -conspiracies are the devil. She has been leading me on, till she has -fairly put my head under the heel of that jailer, of that scoundrel, of -her husband . . . Treachery! Bringing me low. Lower than herself. In -the dirt. That's what it means. Doesn't it? Under his heel!" - -He paused in his restless shuffle and again, seizing his cap with both -hands, dragged it furiously right down on his ears. Powell had lost -himself in listening to these broken ravings, in looking at that old -feverish face when, suddenly, quick as lightning, Mr. Smith spun round, -snatched up the captain's glass and with a stifled, hurried exclamation, -"Here's luck," tossed the liquor down his throat. - -"I know now the meaning of the word 'Consternation,'" went on Mr. Powell. -"That was exactly my state of mind. I thought to myself directly: -There's nothing in that drink. I have been dreaming, I have made the -awfulest mistake! . . ." - -Mr. Smith put the glass down. He stood before Powell unharmed, quieted -down, in a listening attitude, his head inclined on one side, chewing his -thin lips. Suddenly he blinked queerly, grabbed Powell's shoulder and -collapsed, subsiding all at once as though he had gone soft all over, as -a piece of silk stuff collapses. Powell seized his arm instinctively and -checked his fall; but as soon as Mr. Smith was fairly on the floor he -jerked himself free and backed away. Almost as quick he rushed forward -again and tried to lift up the body. But directly he raised his -shoulders he knew that the man was dead! Dead! - -He lowered him down gently. He stood over him without fear or any other -feeling, almost indifferent, far away, as it were. And then he made -another start and, if he had not kept Mrs. Anthony always in his mind, he -would have let out a yell for help. He staggered to her cabin-door, and, -as it was, his call for "Captain Anthony" burst out of him much too loud; -but he made a great effort of self-control. "I am waiting for my orders, -sir," he said outside that door distinctly, in a steady tone. - -It was very still in there; still as death. Then he heard a shuffle of -feet and the captain's voice "All right. Coming." He leaned his back -against the bulkhead as you see a drunken man sometimes propped up -against a wall, half doubled up. In that attitude the captain found him, -when he came out, pulling the door to after him quickly. At once Anthony -let his eyes run all over the cabin. Powell, without a word, clutched -his forearm, led him round the end of the table and began to justify -himself. "I couldn't stop him," he whispered shakily. "He was too quick -for me. He drank it up and fell down." But the captain was not -listening. He was looking down at Mr. Smith, thinking perhaps that it -was a mere chance his own body was not lying there. They did not want to -speak. They made signs to each other with their eyes. The captain -grasped Powell's shoulder as if in a vice and glanced at Mrs. Anthony's -cabin door, and it was enough. He knew that the young man understood -him. Rather! Silence! Silence for ever about this. Their very glances -became stealthy. Powell looked from the body to the door of the dead -man's state-room. The captain nodded and let him go; and then Powell -crept over, hooked the door open and crept back with fearful glances -towards Mrs. Anthony's cabin. They stooped over the corpse. Captain -Anthony lifted up the shoulders. - -Mr. Powell shuddered. "I'll never forget that interminable journey -across the saloon, step by step, holding our breath. For part of the way -the drawn half of the curtain concealed us from view had Mrs. Anthony -opened her door; but I didn't draw a free breath till after we laid the -body down on the swinging cot. The reflection of the saloon light left -most of the cabin in the shadow. Mr. Smith's rigid, extended body looked -shadowy too, shadowy and alive. You know he always carried himself as -stiff as a poker. We stood by the cot as though waiting for him to make -us a sign that he wanted to be left alone. The captain threw his arm -over my shoulder and said in my very ear: "The steward'll find him in the -morning." - -"I made no answer. It was for him to say. It was perhaps the best way. -It's no use talking about my thoughts. They were not concerned with -myself, nor yet with that old man who terrified me more now than when he -was alive. Him whom I pitied was the captain. He whispered. "I am -certain of you, Mr. Powell. You had better go on deck now. As to me -. . . " and I saw him raise his hands to his head as if distracted. But his -last words before we stole out that cabin stick to my mind with the very -tone of his mutter--to himself, not to me: - -"No! No! I am not going to stumble now over that corpse." - -* * * - -"This is what our Mr. Powell had to tell me," said Marlow, changing his -tone. I was glad to learn that Flora de Barral had been saved from -_that_ sinister shadow at least falling upon her path. - -We sat silent then, my mind running on the end of de Barral, on the -irresistible pressure of imaginary griefs, crushing conscience, scruples, -prudence, under their ever-expanding volume; on the sombre and venomous -irony in the obsession which had mastered that old man. - -"Well," I said. - -"The steward found him," Mr. Powell roused himself. "He went in there -with a cup of tea at five and of course dropped it. I was on watch -again. He reeled up to me on deck pale as death. I had been expecting -it; and yet I could hardly speak. "Go and tell the captain quietly," I -managed to say. He ran off muttering "My God! My God!" and I'm hanged -if he didn't get hysterical while trying to tell the captain, and start -screaming in the saloon, "Fully dressed! Dead! Fully dressed!" Mrs. -Anthony ran out of course but she didn't get hysterical. Franklin, who -was there too, told me that she hid her face on the captain's breast and -then he went out and left them there. It was days before Mrs. Anthony -was seen on deck. The first time I spoke to her she gave me her hand and -said, "My poor father was quite fond of you, Mr. Powell." She started -wiping her eyes and I fled to the other side of the deck. One would like -to forget all this had ever come near her." - -But clearly he could not, because after lighting his pipe he began musing -aloud: "Very strong stuff it must have been. I wonder where he got it. -It could hardly be at a common chemist. Well, he had it from somewhere--a -mere pinch it must have been, no more." - -"I have my theory," observed Marlow, "which to a certain extent does away -with the added horror of a coldly premeditated crime. Chance had stepped -in there too. It was not Mr. Smith who obtained the poison. It was the -Great de Barral. And it was not meant for the obscure, magnanimous -conqueror of Flora de Barral; it was meant for the notorious financier -whose enterprises had nothing to do with magnanimity. He had his -physician in his days of greatness. I even seem to remember that the man -was called at the trial on some small point or other. I can imagine that -de Barral went to him when he saw, as he could hardly help seeing, the -possibility of a "triumph of envious rivals"--a heavy sentence. - -I doubt if for love or even for money, but I think possibly, from pity -that man provided him with what Mr. Powell called "strong stuff." From -what Powell saw of the very act I am fairly certain it must have been -contained in a capsule and that he had it about him on the last day of -his trial, perhaps secured by a stitch in his waistcoat pocket. He -didn't use it. Why? Did he think of his child at the last moment? Was -it want of courage? We can't tell. But he found it in his clothes when -he came out of jail. It had escaped investigation if there was any. -Chance had armed him. And chance alone, the chance of Mr. Powell's life, -forced him to turn the abominable weapon against himself. - -I imparted my theory to Mr. Powell who accepted it at once as, in a -sense, favourable to the father of Mrs. Anthony. Then he waved his hand. -"Don't let us think of it." - -I acquiesced and very soon he observed dreamily: - -"I was with Captain and Mrs. Anthony sailing all over the world for near -on six years. Almost as long as Franklin." - -"Oh yes! What about Franklin?" I asked. - -Powell smiled. "He left the _Ferndale_ a year or so afterwards, and I -took his place. Captain Anthony recommended him for a command. You -don't think Captain Anthony would chuck a man aside like an old glove. -But of course Mrs. Anthony did not like him very much. I don't think she -ever let out a whisper against him but Captain Anthony could read her -thoughts. - -And again Powell seemed to lose himself in the past. I asked, for -suddenly the vision of the Fynes passed through my mind. - -"Any children?" - -Powell gave a start. "No! No! Never had any children," and again -subsided, puffing at his short briar pipe. - -"Where are they now?" I inquired next as if anxious to ascertain that all -Fyne's fears had been misplaced and vain as our fears often are; that -there were no undesirable cousins for his dear girls, no danger of -intrusion on their spotless home. Powell looked round at me slowly, his -pipe smouldering in his hand. - -"Don't you know?" he uttered in a deep voice. - -"Know what?" - -"That the _Ferndale_ was lost this four years or more. Sunk. Collision. -And Captain Anthony went down with her." - -"You don't say so!" I cried quite affected as if I had known Captain -Anthony personally. "Was--was Mrs. Anthony lost too?" - -"You might as well ask if I was lost," Mr. Powell rejoined so testily as -to surprise me. "You see me here,--don't you." - -He was quite huffy, but noticing my wondering stare he smoothed his -ruffled plumes. And in a musing tone. - -"Yes. Good men go out as if there was no use for them in the world. It -seems as if there were things that, as the Turks say, are written. Or -else fate has a try and sometimes misses its mark. You remember that -close shave we had of being run down at night, I told you of, my first -voyage with them. This go it was just at dawn. A flat calm and a fog -thick enough to slice with a knife. Only there were no explosives on -board. I was on deck and I remember the cursed, murderous thing looming -up alongside and Captain Anthony (we were both on deck) calling out, -"Good God! What's this! Shout for all hands, Powell, to save -themselves. There's no dynamite on board now. I am going to get the -wife! . . " I yelled, all the watch on deck yelled. Crash!" - -Mr. Powell gasped at the recollection. "It was a Belgian Green Star -liner, the _Westland_," he went on, "commanded by one of those stop-for- -nothing skippers. Flaherty was his name and I hope he will die without -absolution. She cut half through the old _Ferndale_ and after the blow -there was a silence like death. Next I heard the captain back on deck -shouting, "Set your engines slow ahead," and a howl of "Yes, yes," -answering him from her forecastle; and then a whole crowd of people up -there began making a row in the fog. They were throwing ropes down to us -in dozens, I must say. I and the captain fastened one of them under Mrs. -Anthony's arms: I remember she had a sort of dim smile on her face." - -"Haul up carefully," I shouted to the people on the steamer's deck. -"You've got a woman on that line." - -The captain saw her landed up there safe. And then we made a rush round -our decks to see no one was left behind. As we got back the captain -says: "Here she's gone at last, Powell; the dear old thing! Run down at -sea." - -"Indeed she is gone," I said. "But it might have been worse. Shin up -this rope, sir, for God's sake. I will steady it for you." - -"What are you thinking about," he says angrily. "It isn't my turn. Up -with you." - -These were the last words he ever spoke on earth I suppose. I knew he -meant to be the last to leave his ship, so I swarmed up as quick as I -could, and those damned lunatics up there grab at me from above, lug me -in, drag me along aft through the row and the riot of the silliest -excitement I ever did see. Somebody hails from the bridge, "Have you got -them all on board?" and a dozen silly asses start yelling all together, -"All saved! All saved," and then that accursed Irishman on the bridge, -with me roaring No! No! till I thought my head would burst, rings his -engines astern. He rings the engines astern--I fighting like mad to make -myself heard! And of course . . . " - -I saw tears, a shower of them fall down Mr. Powell's face. His voice -broke. - -"The _Ferndale_ went down like a stone and Captain Anthony went down with -her, the finest man's soul that ever left a sailor's body. I raved like -a maniac, like a devil, with a lot of fools crowding round me and asking, -"Aren't you the captain?" - -"I wasn't fit to tie the shoe-strings of the man you have drowned," I -screamed at them . . . Well! Well! I could see for myself that it was -no good lowering a boat. You couldn't have seen her alongside. No use. -And only think, Marlow, it was I who had to go and tell Mrs. Anthony. -They had taken her down below somewhere, first-class saloon. I had to go -and tell her! That Flaherty, God forgive him, comes to me as white as a -sheet, "I think you are the proper person." God forgive him. I wished -to die a hundred times. A lot of kind ladies, passengers, were -chattering excitedly around Mrs. Anthony--a real parrot house. The -ship's doctor went before me. He whispers right and left and then there -falls a sudden hush. Yes, I wished myself dead. But Mrs. Anthony was a -brick. - -Here Mr. Powell fairly burst into tears. "No one could help loving -Captain Anthony. I leave you to imagine what he was to her. Yet before -the week was out it was she who was helping me to pull myself together." - -"Is Mrs. Anthony in England now?" I asked after a while. - -He wiped his eyes without any false shame. "Oh yes." He began to look -for matches, and while diving for the box under the table added: "And not -very far from here either. That little village up there--you know." - -"No! Really! Oh I see!" - -Mr. Powell smoked austerely, very detached. But I could not let him off -like this. The sly beggar. So this was the secret of his passion for -sailing about the river, the reason of his fondness for that creek. - -"And I suppose," I said, "that you are still as 'enthusiastic' as ever. -Eh? If I were you I would just mention my enthusiasm to Mrs. Anthony. -Why not?" - -He caught his falling pipe neatly. But if what the French call -_effarement_ was ever expressed on a human countenance it was on this -occasion, testifying to his modesty, his sensibility and his innocence. -He looked afraid of somebody overhearing my audacious--almost -sacrilegious hint--as if there had not been a mile and a half of lonely -marshland and dykes between us and the nearest human habitation. And -then perhaps he remembered the soothing fact for he allowed a gleam to -light up his eyes, like the reflection of some inward fire tended in the -sanctuary of his heart by a devotion as pure as that of any vestal. - -It flashed and went out. He smiled a bashful smile, sighed: - -"Pah! Foolishness. You ought to know better," he said, more sad than -annoyed. "But I forgot that you never knew Captain Anthony," he added -indulgently. - -I reminded him that I knew Mrs. Anthony; even before he--an old friend -now--had ever set eyes on her. And as he told me that Mrs. Anthony had -heard of our meetings I wondered whether she would care to see me. Mr. -Powell volunteered no opinion then; but next time we lay in the creek he -said, "She will be very pleased. You had better go to-day." - -The afternoon was well advanced before I approached the cottage. The -amenity of a fine day in its decline surrounded me with a beneficent, a -calming influence; I felt it in the silence of the shady lane, in the -pure air, in the blue sky. It is difficult to retain the memory of the -conflicts, miseries, temptations and crimes of men's self-seeking -existence when one is alone with the charming serenity of the unconscious -nature. Breathing the dreamless peace around the picturesque cottage I -was approaching, it seemed to me that it must reign everywhere, over all -the globe of water and land and in the hearts of all the dwellers on this -earth. - -Flora came down to the garden gate to meet me, no longer the perversely -tempting, sorrowful, wisp of white mist drifting in the complicated bad -dream of existence. Neither did she look like a forsaken elf. I -stammered out stupidly, "Again in the country, Miss . . . Mrs . . . " She -was very good, returned the pressure of my hand, but we were slightly -embarrassed. Then we laughed a little. Then we became grave. - -I am no lover of day-breaks. You know how thin, equivocal, is the light -of the dawn. But she was now her true self, she was like a fine tranquil -afternoon--and not so very far advanced either. A woman not much over -thirty, with a dazzling complexion and a little colour, a lot of hair, a -smooth brow, a fine chin, and only the eyes of the Flora of the old days, -absolutely unchanged. - -In the room into which she led me we found a Miss Somebody--I didn't -catch the name,--an unobtrusive, even an indistinct, middle-aged person -in black. A companion. All very proper. She came and went and even sat -down at times in the room, but a little apart, with some sewing. By the -time she had brought in a lighted lamp I had heard all the details which -really matter in this story. Between me and her who was once Flora de -Barral the conversation was not likely to keep strictly to the weather. - -The lamp had a rosy shade; and its glow wreathed her in perpetual -blushes, made her appear wonderfully young as she sat before me in a -deep, high-backed arm-chair. I asked: - -"Tell me what is it you said in that famous letter which so upset Mrs. -Fyne, and caused little Fyne to interfere in this offensive manner?" - -"It was simply crude," she said earnestly. "I was feeling reckless and I -wrote recklessly. I knew she would disapprove and I wrote foolishly. It -was the echo of her own stupid talk. I said that I did not love her -brother but that I had no scruples whatever in marrying him." - -She paused, hesitating, then with a shy half-laugh: - -"I really believed I was selling myself, Mr. Marlow. And I was proud of -it. What I suffered afterwards I couldn't tell you; because I only -discovered my love for my poor Roderick through agonies of rage and -humiliation. I came to suspect him of despising me; but I could not put -it to the test because of my father. Oh! I would not have been too -proud. But I had to spare poor papa's feelings. Roderick was perfect, -but I felt as though I were on the rack and not allowed even to cry out. -Papa's prejudice against Roderick was my greatest grief. It was -distracting. It frightened me. Oh! I have been miserable! That night -when my poor father died suddenly I am certain they had some sort of -discussion, about me. But I did not want to hold out any longer against -my own heart! I could not." - -She stopped short, then impulsively: - -"Truth will out, Mr. Marlow." - -"Yes," I said. - -She went on musingly. - -"Sorrow and happiness were mingled at first like darkness and light. For -months I lived in a dusk of feelings. But it was quiet. It was warm -. . . " - -Again she paused, then going back in her thoughts. "No! There was no -harm in that letter. It was simply foolish. What did I know of life -then? Nothing. But Mrs. Fyne ought to have known better. She wrote a -letter to her brother, a little later. Years afterwards Roderick allowed -me to glance at it. I found in it this sentence: 'For years I tried to -make a friend of that girl; but I warn you once more that she has the -nature of a heartless adventuress . . . ' Adventuress!" repeated Flora -slowly. "So be it. I have had a fine adventure." - -"It was fine, then," I said interested. - -"The finest in the world! Only think! I loved and I was loved, -untroubled, at peace, without remorse, without fear. All the world, all -life were transformed for me. And how much I have seen! How good people -were to me! Roderick was so much liked everywhere. Yes, I have known -kindness and safety. The most familiar things appeared lighted up with a -new light, clothed with a loveliness I had never suspected. The sea -itself! . . . You are a sailor. You have lived your life on it. But do -you know how beautiful it is, how strong, how charming, how friendly, how -mighty . . . " - -I listened amazed and touched. She was silent only a little while. - -"It was too good to last. But nothing can rob me of it now . . . Don't -think that I repine. I am not even sad now. Yes, I have been happy. But -I remember also the time when I was unhappy beyond endurance, beyond -desperation. Yes. You remember that. And later on, too. There was a -time on board the _Ferndale_ when the only moments of relief I knew were -when I made Mr. Powell talk to me a little on the poop. You like -him?--Don't you?" - -"Excellent fellow," I said warmly. "You see him often?" - -"Of course. I hardly know another soul in the world. I am alone. And -he has plenty of time on his hands. His aunt died a few years ago. He's -doing nothing, I believe." - -"He is fond of the sea," I remarked. "He loves it." - -"He seems to have given it up," she murmured. - -"I wonder why?" - -She remained silent. "Perhaps it is because he loves something else -better," I went on. "Come, Mrs. Anthony, don't let me carry away from -here the idea that you are a selfish person, hugging the memory of your -past happiness, like a rich man his treasure, forgetting the poor at the -gate." - -I rose to go, for it was getting late. She got up in some agitation and -went out with me into the fragrant darkness of the garden. She detained -my hand for a moment and then in the very voice of the Flora of old days, -with the exact intonation, showing the old mistrust, the old doubt of -herself, the old scar of the blow received in childhood, pathetic and -funny, she murmured, "Do you think it possible that he should care for -me?" - -"Just ask him yourself. You are brave." - -"Oh, I am brave enough," she said with a sigh. - -"Then do. For if you don't you will be wronging that patient man -cruelly." - -I departed leaving her dumb. Next day, seeing Powell making preparations -to go ashore, I asked him to give my regards to Mrs. Anthony. He -promised he would. - -"Listen, Powell," I said. "We got to know each other by chance?" - -"Oh, quite!" he admitted, adjusting his hat. - -"And the science of life consists in seizing every chance that presents -itself," I pursued. "Do you believe that?" - -"Gospel truth," he declared innocently. - -"Well, don't forget it." - -"Oh, I! I don't expect now anything to present itself," he said, jumping -ashore. - -He didn't turn up at high water. I set my sail and just as I had cast -off from the bank, round the black barn, in the dusk, two figures -appeared and stood silent, indistinct. - -"Is that you, Powell?" I hailed. - -"And Mrs. Anthony," his voice came impressively through the silence of -the great marsh. "I am not sailing to-night. I have to see Mrs. Anthony -home." - -"Then I must even go alone," I cried. - -Flora's voice wished me "_bon voyage_" in a most friendly but tremulous -tone. - -"You shall hear from me before long," shouted Powell, suddenly, just as -my boat had cleared the mouth of the creek. - -"This was yesterday," added Marlow, lolling in the arm-chair lazily. "I -haven't heard yet; but I expect to hear any moment . . . What on earth -are you grinning at in this sarcastic manner? I am not afraid of going -to church with a friend. Hang it all, for all my belief in Chance I am -not exactly a pagan . . . 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Chance</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Joseph Conrad</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September, 1998 [eBook #1476]<br /> -[Most recently updated: December 2, 2023]</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price</div> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHANCE ***</div> - -<h1>CHANCE</h1> - -<h3>A TALE IN TWO PARTS</h3> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="letter"> -Those that hold that all things are governed by Fortune had not erred, had they -not persisted there -</p> - -<p class="right"> -SIR THOMAS BROWNE -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="letter"> -TO SIR HUGH CLIFFORD, K.C.M.G. WHOSE STEADFAST FRIENDSHIP IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE -EXISTENCE OF THESE PAGES -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>PART I—THE DAMSEL</h2> - -<h3>CHAPTER ONE—YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE</h3> - -<p> -I believe he had seen us out of the window coming off to dine in the dinghy of -a fourteen-ton yawl belonging to Marlow my host and skipper. We helped the boy -we had with us to haul the boat up on the landing-stage before we went up to -the riverside inn, where we found our new acquaintance eating his dinner in -dignified loneliness at the head of a long table, white and inhospitable like a -snow bank. -</p> - -<p> -The red tint of his clear-cut face with trim short black whiskers under a cap -of curly iron-grey hair was the only warm spot in the dinginess of that room -cooled by the cheerless tablecloth. We knew him already by sight as the owner -of a little five-ton cutter, which he sailed alone apparently, a fellow -yachtsman in the unpretending band of fanatics who cruise at the mouth of the -Thames. But the first time he addressed the waiter sharply as ‘steward’ we knew -him at once for a sailor as well as a yachtsman. -</p> - -<p> -Presently he had occasion to reprove that same waiter for the slovenly manner -in which the dinner was served. He did it with considerable energy and then -turned to us. -</p> - -<p> -“If we at sea,” he declared, “went about our work as people ashore high and low -go about theirs we should never make a living. No one would employ us. And -moreover no ship navigated and sailed in the happy-go-lucky manner people -conduct their business on shore would ever arrive into port.” -</p> - -<p> -Since he had retired from the sea he had been astonished to discover that the -educated people were not much better than the others. No one seemed to take any -proper pride in his work: from plumbers who were simply thieves to, say, -newspaper men (he seemed to think them a specially intellectual class) who -never by any chance gave a correct version of the simplest affair. This -universal inefficiency of what he called “the shore gang” he ascribed in -general to the want of responsibility and to a sense of security. -</p> - -<p> -“They see,” he went on, “that no matter what they do this tight little island -won’t turn turtle with them or spring a leak and go to the bottom with their -wives and children.” -</p> - -<p> -From this point the conversation took a special turn relating exclusively to -sea-life. On that subject he got quickly in touch with Marlow who in his time -had followed the sea. They kept up a lively exchange of reminiscences while I -listened. They agreed that the happiest time in their lives was as youngsters -in good ships, with no care in the world but not to lose a watch below when at -sea and not a moment’s time in going ashore after work hours when in harbour. -They agreed also as to the proudest moment they had known in that calling which -is never embraced on rational and practical grounds, because of the glamour of -its romantic associations. It was the moment when they had passed successfully -their first examination and left the seamanship Examiner with the little -precious slip of blue paper in their hands. -</p> - -<p> -“That day I wouldn’t have called the Queen my cousin,” declared our new -acquaintance enthusiastically. -</p> - -<p> -At that time the Marine Board examinations took place at the St. Katherine’s -Dock House on Tower Hill, and he informed us that he had a special affection -for the view of that historic locality, with the Gardens to the left, the front -of the Mint to the right, the miserable tumble-down little houses farther away, -a cabstand, boot-blacks squatting on the edge of the pavement and a pair of big -policemen gazing with an air of superiority at the doors of the Black Horse -public-house across the road. This was the part of the world, he said, his eyes -first took notice of, on the finest day of his life. He had emerged from the -main entrance of St. Katherine’s Dock House a full-fledged second mate after -the hottest time of his life with Captain R-, the most dreaded of the three -seamanship Examiners who at the time were responsible for the merchant service -officers qualifying in the Port of London. -</p> - -<p> -“We all who were preparing to pass,” he said, “used to shake in our shoes at -the idea of going before him. He kept me for an hour and a half in the torture -chamber and behaved as though he hated me. He kept his eyes shaded with one of -his hands. Suddenly he let it drop saying, “You will do!” Before I realised -what he meant he was pushing the blue slip across the table. I jumped up as if -my chair had caught fire. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, sir,” says I, grabbing the paper. -</p> - -<p> -“Good morning, good luck to you,” he growls at me. -</p> - -<p> -“The old doorkeeper fussed out of the cloak-room with my hat. They always do. -But he looked very hard at me before he ventured to ask in a sort of timid -whisper: “Got through all right, sir?” For all answer I dropped a half-crown -into his soft broad palm. “Well,” says he with a sudden grin from ear to ear, -“I never knew him keep any of you gentlemen so long. He failed two second mates -this morning before your turn came. Less than twenty minutes each: that’s about -his usual time.” -</p> - -<p> -“I found myself downstairs without being aware of the steps as if I had floated -down the staircase. The finest day in my life. The day you get your first -command is nothing to it. For one thing a man is not so young then and for -another with us, you know, there is nothing much more to expect. Yes, the -finest day of one’s life, no doubt, but then it is just a day and no more. What -comes after is about the most unpleasant time for a youngster, the trying to -get an officer’s berth with nothing much to show but a brand-new certificate. -It is surprising how useless you find that piece of ass’s skin that you have -been putting yourself in such a state about. It didn’t strike me at the time -that a Board of Trade certificate does not make an officer, not by a long long -way. But the slippers of the ships I was haunting with demands for a job knew -that very well. I don’t wonder at them now, and I don’t blame them either. But -this ‘trying to get a ship’ is pretty hard on a youngster all the same . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -He went on then to tell us how tired he was and how discouraged by this lesson -of disillusion following swiftly upon the finest day of his life. He told us -how he went the round of all the ship-owners’ offices in the City where some -junior clerk would furnish him with printed forms of application which he took -home to fill up in the evening. He used to run out just before midnight to post -them in the nearest pillar-box. And that was all that ever came of it. In his -own words: he might just as well have dropped them all properly addressed and -stamped into the sewer grating. -</p> - -<p> -Then one day, as he was wending his weary way to the docks, he met a friend and -former shipmate a little older than himself outside the Fenchurch Street -Railway Station. -</p> - -<p> -He craved for sympathy but his friend had just “got a ship” that very morning -and was hurrying home in a state of outward joy and inward uneasiness usual to -a sailor who after many days of waiting suddenly gets a berth. This friend had -the time to condole with him but briefly. He must be moving. Then as he was -running off, over his shoulder as it were, he suggested: “Why don’t you go and -speak to Mr. Powell in the Shipping Office.” Our friend objected that he did -not know Mr. Powell from Adam. And the other already pretty near round the -corner shouted back advice: “Go to the private door of the Shipping Office and -walk right up to him. His desk is by the window. Go up boldly and say I sent -you.” -</p> - -<p> -Our new acquaintance looking from one to the other of us declared: “Upon my -word, I had grown so desperate that I’d have gone boldly up to the devil -himself on the mere hint that he had a second mate’s job to give away.” -</p> - -<p> -It was at this point that interrupting his flow of talk to light his pipe but -holding us with his eye he inquired whether we had known Powell. Marlow with a -slight reminiscent smile murmured that he “remembered him very well.” -</p> - -<p> -Then there was a pause. Our new acquaintance had become involved in a vexatious -difficulty with his pipe which had suddenly betrayed his trust and disappointed -his anticipation of self-indulgence. To keep the ball rolling I asked Marlow if -this Powell was remarkable in any way. -</p> - -<p> -“He was not exactly remarkable,” Marlow answered with his usual nonchalance. -“In a general way it’s very difficult for one to become remarkable. People -won’t take sufficient notice of one, don’t you know. I remember Powell so well -simply because as one of the Shipping Masters in the Port of London he -dispatched me to sea on several long stages of my sailor’s pilgrimage. He -resembled Socrates. I mean he resembled him genuinely: that is in the face. A -philosophical mind is but an accident. He reproduced exactly the familiar bust -of the immortal sage, if you will imagine the bust with a high top hat riding -far on the back of the head, and a black coat over the shoulders. As I never -saw him except from the other side of the long official counter bearing the -five writing desks of the five Shipping Masters, Mr. Powell has remained a bust -to me.” -</p> - -<p> -Our new acquaintance advanced now from the mantelpiece with his pipe in good -working order. -</p> - -<p> -“What was the most remarkable about Powell,” he enunciated dogmatically with -his head in a cloud of smoke, “is that he should have had just that name. You -see, my name happens to be Powell too.” -</p> - -<p> -It was clear that this intelligence was not imparted to us for social purposes. -It required no acknowledgment. We continued to gaze at him with expectant eyes. -</p> - -<p> -He gave himself up to the vigorous enjoyment of his pipe for a silent minute or -two. Then picking up the thread of his story he told us how he had started hot -foot for Tower Hill. He had not been that way since the day of his -examination—the finest day of his life—the day of his overweening pride. It was -very different now. He would not have called the Queen his cousin, still, but -this time it was from a sense of profound abasement. He didn’t think himself -good enough for anybody’s kinship. He envied the purple-nosed old cab-drivers -on the stand, the boot-black boys at the edge of the pavement, the two large -bobbies pacing slowly along the Tower Gardens railings in the consciousness of -their infallible might, and the bright scarlet sentries walking smartly to and -fro before the Mint. He envied them their places in the scheme of world’s -labour. And he envied also the miserable sallow, thin-faced loafers blinking -their obscene eyes and rubbing their greasy shoulders against the door-jambs of -the Black Horse pub, because they were too far gone to feel their degradation. -</p> - -<p> -I must render the man the justice that he conveyed very well to us the sense of -his youthful hopelessness surprised at not finding its place in the sun and no -recognition of its right to live. -</p> - -<p> -He went up the outer steps of St. Katherine’s Dock House, the very steps from -which he had some six weeks before surveyed the cabstand, the buildings, the -policemen, the boot-blacks, the paint, gilt, and plateglass of the Black Horse, -with the eye of a Conqueror. At the time he had been at the bottom of his heart -surprised that all this had not greeted him with songs and incense, but now (he -made no secret of it) he made his entry in a slinking fashion past the -doorkeeper’s glass box. “I hadn’t any half-crowns to spare for tips,” he -remarked grimly. The man, however, ran out after him asking: “What do you -require?” but with a grateful glance up at the first floor in remembrance of -Captain R-’s examination room (how easy and delightful all that had been) he -bolted down a flight leading to the basement and found himself in a place of -dusk and mystery and many doors. He had been afraid of being stopped by some -rule of no-admittance. However he was not pursued. -</p> - -<p> -The basement of St. Katherine’s Dock House is vast in extent and confusing in -its plan. Pale shafts of light slant from above into the gloom of its chilly -passages. Powell wandered up and down there like an early Christian refugee in -the catacombs; but what little faith he had in the success of his enterprise -was oozing out at his finger-tips. At a dark turn under a gas bracket whose -flame was half turned down his self-confidence abandoned him altogether. -</p> - -<p> -“I stood there to think a little,” he said. “A foolish thing to do because of -course I got scared. What could you expect? It takes some nerve to tackle a -stranger with a request for a favour. I wished my namesake Powell had been the -devil himself. I felt somehow it would have been an easier job. You see, I -never believed in the devil enough to be scared of him; but a man can make -himself very unpleasant. I looked at a lot of doors, all shut tight, with a -growing conviction that I would never have the pluck to open one of them. -Thinking’s no good for one’s nerve. I concluded I would give up the whole -business. But I didn’t give up in the end, and I’ll tell you what stopped me. -It was the recollection of that confounded doorkeeper who had called after me. -I felt sure the fellow would be on the look-out at the head of the stairs. If -he asked me what I had been after, as he had the right to do, I wouldn’t know -what to answer that wouldn’t make me look silly if no worse. I got very hot. -There was no chance of slinking out of this business. -</p> - -<p> -“I had lost my bearings somehow down there. Of the many doors of various sizes, -right and left, a good few had glazed lights above; some however must have led -merely into lumber rooms or such like, because when I brought myself to try one -or two I was disconcerted to find that they were locked. I stood there -irresolute and uneasy like a baffled thief. The confounded basement was as -still as a grave and I became aware of my heart beats. Very uncomfortable -sensation. Never happened to me before or since. A bigger door to the left of -me, with a large brass handle looked as if it might lead into the Shipping -Office. I tried it, setting my teeth. “Here goes!” -</p> - -<p> -“It came open quite easily. And lo! the place it opened into was hardly any -bigger than a cupboard. Anyhow it wasn’t more than ten feet by twelve; and as I -in a way expected to see the big shadowy cellar-like extent of the Shipping -Office where I had been once or twice before, I was extremely startled. A gas -bracket hung from the middle of the ceiling over a dark, shabby writing-desk -covered with a litter of yellowish dusty documents. Under the flame of the -single burner which made the place ablaze with light, a plump, little man was -writing hard, his nose very near the desk. His head was perfectly bald and -about the same drab tint as the papers. He appeared pretty dusty too. -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t notice whether there were any cobwebs on him, but I shouldn’t wonder -if there were because he looked as though he had been imprisoned for years in -that little hole. The way he dropped his pen and sat blinking my way upset me -very much. And his dungeon was hot and musty; it smelt of gas and mushrooms, -and seemed to be somewhere 120 feet below the ground. Solid, heavy stacks of -paper filled all the corners half-way up to the ceiling. And when the thought -flashed upon me that these were the premises of the Marine Board and that this -fellow must be connected in some way with ships and sailors and the sea, my -astonishment took my breath away. One couldn’t imagine why the Marine Board -should keep that bald, fat creature slaving down there. For some reason or -other I felt sorry and ashamed to have found him out in his wretched captivity. -I asked gently and sorrowfully: “The Shipping Office, please.” -</p> - -<p> -He piped up in a contemptuous squeaky voice which made me start: “Not here. Try -the passage on the other side. Street side. This is the Dock side. You’ve lost -your way . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -He spoke in such a spiteful tone that I thought he was going to round off with -the words: “You fool” . . . and perhaps he meant to. But what he finished -sharply with was: “Shut the door quietly after you.” -</p> - -<p> -And I did shut it quietly—you bet. Quick and quiet. The indomitable spirit of -that chap impressed me. I wonder sometimes whether he has succeeded in writing -himself into liberty and a pension at last, or had to go out of his gas-lighted -grave straight into that other dark one where nobody would want to intrude. My -humanity was pleased to discover he had so much kick left in him, but I was not -comforted in the least. It occurred to me that if Mr. Powell had the same sort -of temper . . . However, I didn’t give myself time to think and scuttled across -the space at the foot of the stairs into the passage where I’d been told to -try. And I tried the first door I came to, right away, without any hanging -back, because coming loudly from the hall above an amazed and scandalized voice -wanted to know what sort of game I was up to down there. “Don’t you know -there’s no admittance that way?” it roared. But if there was anything more I -shut it out of my hearing by means of a door marked <i>Private</i> on the -outside. It let me into a six-feet wide strip between a long counter and the -wall, taken off a spacious, vaulted room with a grated window and a glazed door -giving daylight to the further end. The first thing I saw right in front of me -were three middle-aged men having a sort of romp together round about another -fellow with a thin, long neck and sloping shoulders who stood up at a desk -writing on a large sheet of paper and taking no notice except that he grinned -quietly to himself. They turned very sour at once when they saw me. I heard one -of them mutter ‘Hullo! What have we here?’ -</p> - -<p> -“‘I want to see Mr. Powell, please,’ I said, very civil but firm; I would let -nothing scare me away now. This was the Shipping Office right enough. It was -after 3 o’clock and the business seemed over for the day with them. The -long-necked fellow went on with his writing steadily. I observed that he was no -longer grinning. The three others tossed their heads all together towards the -far end of the room where a fifth man had been looking on at their antics from -a high stool. I walked up to him as boldly as if he had been the devil himself. -With one foot raised up and resting on the cross-bar of his seat he never -stopped swinging the other which was well clear of the stone floor. He had -unbuttoned the top of his waistcoat and he wore his tall hat very far at the -back of his head. He had a full unwrinkled face and such clear-shining eyes -that his grey beard looked quite false on him, stuck on for a disguise. You -said just now he resembled Socrates—didn’t you? I don’t know about that. This -Socrates was a wise man, I believe?” -</p> - -<p> -“He was,” assented Marlow. “And a true friend of youth. He lectured them in a -peculiarly exasperating manner. It was a way he had.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then give me Powell every time,” declared our new acquaintance sturdily. “He -didn’t lecture me in any way. Not he. He said: ‘How do you do?’ quite kindly to -my mumble. Then says he looking very hard at me: ‘I don’t think I know you—do -I?’ -</p> - -<p> -“No, sir,” I said and down went my heart sliding into my boots, just as the -time had come to summon up all my cheek. There’s nothing meaner in the world -than a piece of impudence that isn’t carried off well. For fear of appearing -shamefaced I started about it so free and easy as almost to frighten myself. He -listened for a while looking at my face with surprise and curiosity and then -held up his hand. I was glad enough to shut up, I can tell you. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you are a cool hand,” says he. “And that friend of yours too. He -pestered me coming here every day for a fortnight till a captain I’m acquainted -with was good enough to give him a berth. And no sooner he’s provided for than -he turns you on. You youngsters don’t seem to mind whom you get into trouble.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was my turn now to stare with surprise and curiosity. He hadn’t been -talking loud but he lowered his voice still more. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you know it’s illegal?” -</p> - -<p> -“I wondered what he was driving at till I remembered that procuring a berth for -a sailor is a penal offence under the Act. That clause was directed of course -against the swindling practices of the boarding-house crimps. It had never -struck me it would apply to everybody alike no matter what the motive, because -I believed then that people on shore did their work with care and foresight. -</p> - -<p> -“I was confounded at the idea, but Mr. Powell made me soon see that an Act of -Parliament hasn’t any sense of its own. It has only the sense that’s put into -it; and that’s precious little sometimes. He didn’t mind helping a young man to -a ship now and then, he said, but if we kept on coming constantly it would soon -get about that he was doing it for money. -</p> - -<p> -“A pretty thing that would be: the Senior Shipping-Master of the Port of London -hauled up in a police court and fined fifty pounds,” says he. “I’ve another -four years to serve to get my pension. It could be made to look very black -against me and don’t you make any mistake about it,” he says. -</p> - -<p> -“And all the time with one knee well up he went on swinging his other leg like -a boy on a gate and looking at me very straight with his shining eyes. I was -confounded I tell you. It made me sick to hear him imply that somebody would -make a report against him. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” I asked shocked, “who would think of such a scurvy trick, sir?” I was -half disgusted with him for having the mere notion of it. -</p> - -<p> -“Who?” says he, speaking very low. “Anybody. One of the office messengers -maybe. I’ve risen to be the Senior of this office and we are all very good -friends here, but don’t you think that my colleague that sits next to me -wouldn’t like to go up to this desk by the window four years in advance of the -regulation time? Or even one year for that matter. It’s human nature.” -</p> - -<p> -“I could not help turning my head. The three fellows who had been skylarking -when I came in were now talking together very soberly, and the long-necked chap -was going on with his writing still. He seemed to me the most dangerous of the -lot. I saw him sideface and his lips were set very tight. I had never looked at -mankind in that light before. When one’s young human nature shocks one. But -what startled me most was to see the door I had come through open slowly and -give passage to a head in a uniform cap with a Board of Trade badge. It was -that blamed old doorkeeper from the hall. He had run me to earth and meant to -dig me out too. He walked up the office smirking craftily, cap in hand. -</p> - -<p> -“What is it, Symons?” asked Mr. Powell. -</p> - -<p> -“I was only wondering where this ’ere gentleman ’ad gone to, sir. He slipped -past me upstairs, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -I felt mighty uncomfortable. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s all right, Symons. I know the gentleman,” says Mr. Powell as serious as -a judge. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, sir. Of course, sir. I saw the gentleman running races all by -’isself down ’ere, so I . . .” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s all right I tell you,” Mr. Powell cut him short with a wave of his hand; -and, as the old fraud walked off at last, he raised his eyes to me. I did not -know what to do: stay there, or clear out, or say that I was sorry. -</p> - -<p> -“Let’s see,” says he, “what did you tell me your name was?” -</p> - -<p> -“Now, observe, I hadn’t given him my name at all and his question embarrassed -me a bit. Somehow or other it didn’t seem proper for me to fling his own name -at him as it were. So I merely pulled out my new certificate from my pocket and -put it into his hand unfolded, so that he could read <i>Charles Powell</i> -written very plain on the parchment. -</p> - -<p> -“He dropped his eyes on to it and after a while laid it quietly on the desk by -his side. I didn’t know whether he meant to make any remark on this -coincidence. Before he had time to say anything the glass door came open with a -bang and a tall, active man rushed in with great strides. His face looked very -red below his high silk hat. You could see at once he was the skipper of a big -ship. -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Powell after telling me in an undertone to wait a little addressed him in -a friendly way. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve been expecting you in every moment to fetch away your Articles, Captain. -Here they are all ready for you.” And turning to a pile of agreements lying at -his elbow he took up the topmost of them. From where I stood I could read the -words: “Ship <i>Ferndale</i>” written in a large round hand on the first page. -</p> - -<p> -“No, Mr. Powell, they aren’t ready, worse luck,” says that skipper. “I’ve got -to ask you to strike out my second officer.” He seemed excited and bothered. He -explained that his second mate had been working on board all the morning. At -one o’clock he went out to get a bit of dinner and didn’t turn up at two as he -ought to have done. Instead there came a messenger from the hospital with a -note signed by a doctor. Collar bone and one arm broken. Let himself be knocked -down by a pair horse van while crossing the road outside the dock gate, as if -he had neither eyes nor ears. And the ship ready to leave the dock at six -o’clock to-morrow morning! -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Powell dipped his pen and began to turn the leaves of the agreement over. -“We must then take his name off,” he says in a kind of unconcerned sing-song. -</p> - -<p> -“What am I to do?” burst out the skipper. “This office closes at four o’clock. -I can’t find a man in half an hour.” -</p> - -<p> -“This office closes at four,” repeats Mr. Powell glancing up and down the pages -and touching up a letter here and there with perfect indifference. -</p> - -<p> -“Even if I managed to lay hold some time to-day of a man ready to go at such -short notice I couldn’t ship him regularly here—could I?” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Powell was busy drawing his pen through the entries relating to that -unlucky second mate and making a note in the margin. -</p> - -<p> -“You could sign him on yourself on board,” says he without looking up. “But I -don’t think you’ll find easily an officer for such a pier-head jump.” -</p> - -<p> -“Upon this the fine-looking skipper gave signs of distress. The ship mustn’t -miss the next morning’s tide. He had to take on board forty tons of dynamite -and a hundred and twenty tons of gunpowder at a place down the river before -proceeding to sea. It was all arranged for next day. There would be no end of -fuss and complications if the ship didn’t turn up in time . . . I couldn’t help -hearing all this, while wishing him to take himself off, because I wanted to -know why Mr. Powell had told me to wait. After what he had been saying there -didn’t seem any object in my hanging about. If I had had my certificate in my -pocket I should have tried to slip away quietly; but Mr. Powell had turned -about into the same position I found him in at first and was again swinging his -leg. My certificate open on the desk was under his left elbow and I couldn’t -very well go up and jerk it away. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know,” says he carelessly, addressing the helpless captain but looking -fixedly at me with an expression as if I hadn’t been there. “I don’t know -whether I ought to tell you that I know of a disengaged second mate at hand.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you mean you’ve got him here?” shouts the other looking all over the empty -public part of the office as if he were ready to fling himself bodily upon -anything resembling a second mate. He had been so full of his difficulty that I -verify believe he had never noticed me. Or perhaps seeing me inside he may have -thought I was some understrapper belonging to the place. But when Mr. Powell -nodded in my direction he became very quiet and gave me a long stare. Then he -stooped to Mr. Powell’s ear—I suppose he imagined he was whispering, but I -heard him well enough. -</p> - -<p> -“Looks very respectable.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly,” says the shipping-master quite calm and staring all the time at -me. “His name’s Powell.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I see!” says the skipper as if struck all of a heap. “But is he ready to -join at once?” -</p> - -<p> -“I had a sort of vision of my lodgings—in the North of London, too, beyond -Dalston, away to the devil—and all my gear scattered about, and my empty -sea-chest somewhere in an outhouse the good people I was staying with had at -the end of their sooty strip of garden. I heard the Shipping Master say in the -coolest sort of way: -</p> - -<p> -“He’ll sleep on board to-night.” -</p> - -<p> -“He had better,” says the Captain of the <i>Ferndale</i> very businesslike, as -if the whole thing were settled. I can’t say I was dumb for joy as you may -suppose. It wasn’t exactly that. I was more by way of being out of breath with -the quickness of it. It didn’t seem possible that this was happening to me. But -the skipper, after he had talked for a while with Mr. Powell, too low for me to -hear became visibly perplexed. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose he had heard I was freshly passed and without experience as an -officer, because he turned about and looked me over as if I had been exposed -for sale. -</p> - -<p> -“He’s young,” he mutters. “Looks smart, though . . . You’re smart and willing -(this to me very sudden and loud) and all that, aren’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“I just managed to open and shut my mouth, no more, being taken unawares. But -it was enough for him. He made as if I had deafened him with protestations of -my smartness and willingness. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course, of course. All right.” And then turning to the Shipping Master who -sat there swinging his leg, he said that he certainly couldn’t go to sea -without a second officer. I stood by as if all these things were happening to -some other chap whom I was seeing through with it. Mr. Powell stared at me with -those shining eyes of his. But that bothered skipper turns upon me again as -though he wanted to snap my head off. -</p> - -<p> -“You aren’t too big to be told how to do things—are you? You’ve a lot to learn -yet though you mayn’t think so.” -</p> - -<p> -“I had half a mind to save my dignity by telling him that if it was my -seamanship he was alluding to I wanted him to understand that a fellow who had -survived being turned inside out for an hour and a half by Captain R- was equal -to any demand his old ship was likely to make on his competence. However he -didn’t give me a chance to make that sort of fool of myself because before I -could open my mouth he had gone round on another tack and was addressing -himself affably to Mr. Powell who swinging his leg never took his eyes off me. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll take your young friend willingly, Mr. Powell. If you let him sign on as -second-mate at once I’ll take the Articles away with me now.” -</p> - -<p> -“It suddenly dawned upon me that the innocent skipper of the <i>Ferndale</i> -had taken it for granted that I was a relative of the Shipping Master! I was -quite astonished at this discovery, though indeed the mistake was natural -enough under the circumstances. What I ought to have admired was the reticence -with which this misunderstanding had been established and acted upon. But I was -too stupid then to admire anything. All my anxiety was that this should be -cleared up. I was ass enough to wonder exceedingly at Mr. Powell failing to -notice the misapprehension. I saw a slight twitch come and go on his face; but -instead of setting right that mistake the Shipping Master swung round on his -stool and addressed me as ‘Charles.’ He did. And I detected him taking a hasty -squint at my certificate just before, because clearly till he did so he was not -sure of my christian name. “Now then come round in front of the desk, Charles,” -says he in a loud voice. -</p> - -<p> -“Charles! At first, I declare to you, it didn’t seem possible that he was -addressing himself to me. I even looked round for that Charles but there was -nobody behind me except the thin-necked chap still hard at his writing, and the -other three Shipping Masters who were changing their coats and reaching for -their hats, making ready to go home. It was the industrious thin-necked man who -without laying down his pen lifted with his left hand a flap near his desk and -said kindly: -</p> - -<p> -“Pass this way.” -</p> - -<p> -I walked through in a trance, faced Mr. Powell, from whom I learned that we -were bound to Port Elizabeth first, and signed my name on the Articles of the -ship <i>Ferndale</i> as second mate—the voyage not to exceed two years. -</p> - -<p> -“You won’t fail to join—eh?” says the captain anxiously. “It would cause no end -of trouble and expense if you did. You’ve got a good six hours to get your gear -together, and then you’ll have time to snatch a sleep on board before the crew -joins in the morning.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was easy enough for him to talk of getting ready in six hours for a voyage -that was not to exceed two years. He hadn’t to do that trick himself, and with -his sea-chest locked up in an outhouse the key of which had been mislaid for a -week as I remembered. But neither was I much concerned. The idea that I was -absolutely going to sea at six o’clock next morning hadn’t got quite into my -head yet. It had been too sudden. -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Powell, slipping the Articles into a long envelope, spoke up with a sort -of cold half-laugh without looking at either of us. -</p> - -<p> -“Mind you don’t disgrace the name, Charles.” -</p> - -<p> -“And the skipper chimes in very kindly: -</p> - -<p> -“He’ll do well enough I dare say. I’ll look after him a bit.” -</p> - -<p> -“Upon this he grabs the Articles, says something about trying to run in for a -minute to see that poor devil in the hospital, and off he goes with his heavy -swinging step after telling me sternly: “Don’t you go like that poor fellow and -get yourself run over by a cart as if you hadn’t either eyes or ears.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Powell,” says I timidly (there was by then only the thin-necked man left -in the office with us and he was already by the door, standing on one leg to -turn the bottom of his trousers up before going away). “Mr. Powell,” says I, “I -believe the Captain of the <i>Ferndale</i> was thinking all the time that I was -a relation of yours.” -</p> - -<p> -“I was rather concerned about the propriety of it, you know, but Mr. Powell -didn’t seem to be in the least. -</p> - -<p> -“Did he?” says he. “That’s funny, because it seems to me too that I’ve been a -sort of good uncle to several of you young fellows lately. Don’t you think so -yourself? However, if you don’t like it you may put him right—when you get out -to sea.” At this I felt a bit queer. Mr. Powell had rendered me a very good -service:- because it’s a fact that with us merchant sailors the first voyage as -officer is the real start in life. He had given me no less than that. I told -him warmly that he had done for me more that day than all my relations put -together ever did. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, no, no,” says he. “I guess it’s that shipment of explosives waiting down -the river which has done most for you. Forty tons of dynamite have been your -best friend to-day, young man.” -</p> - -<p> -“That was true too, perhaps. Anyway I saw clearly enough that I had nothing to -thank myself for. But as I tried to thank him, he checked my stammering. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t be in a hurry to thank me,” says he. “The voyage isn’t finished yet.” -</p> - -<p> -Our new acquaintance paused, then added meditatively: “Queer man. As if it made -any difference. Queer man.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s certainly unwise to admit any sort of responsibility for our actions, -whose consequences we are never able to foresee,” remarked Marlow by way of -assent. -</p> - -<p> -“The consequence of his action was that I got a ship,” said the other. “That -could not do much harm,” he added with a laugh which argued a probably -unconscious contempt of general ideas. -</p> - -<p> -But Marlow was not put off. He was patient and reflective. He had been at sea -many years and I verily believe he liked sea-life because upon the whole it is -favourable to reflection. I am speaking of the now nearly vanished sea-life -under sail. To those who may be surprised at the statement I will point out -that this life secured for the mind of him who embraced it the inestimable -advantages of solitude and silence. Marlow had the habit of pursuing general -ideas in a peculiar manner, between jest and earnest. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I wouldn’t suggest,” he said, “that your namesake Mr. Powell, the Shipping -Master, had done you much harm. Such was hardly his intention. And even if it -had been he would not have had the power. He was but a man, and the incapacity -to achieve anything distinctly good or evil is inherent in our earthly -condition. Mediocrity is our mark. And perhaps it’s just as well, since, for -the most part, we cannot be certain of the effect of our actions.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know about the effect,” the other stood up to Marlow manfully. “What -effect did you expect anyhow? I tell you he did something uncommonly kind.” -</p> - -<p> -“He did what he could,” Marlow retorted gently, “and on his own showing that -was not a very great deal. I cannot help thinking that there was some malice in -the way he seized the opportunity to serve you. He managed to make you -uncomfortable. You wanted to go to sea, but he jumped at the chance of -accommodating your desire with a vengeance. I am inclined to think your cheek -alarmed him. And this was an excellent occasion to suppress you altogether. For -if you accepted he was relieved of you with every appearance of humanity, and -if you made objections (after requesting his assistance, mind you) it was open -to him to drop you as a sort of impostor. You might have had to decline that -berth for some very valid reason. From sheer necessity perhaps. The notice was -too uncommonly short. But under the circumstances you’d have covered yourself -with ignominy.” -</p> - -<p> -Our new friend knocked the ashes out of his pipe. -</p> - -<p> -“Quite a mistake,” he said. “I am not of the declining sort, though I’ll admit -it was something like telling a man that you would like a bath and in -consequence being instantly knocked overboard to sink or swim with your clothes -on. However, I didn’t feel as if I were in deep water at first. I left the -shipping office quietly and for a time strolled along the street as easy as if -I had a week before me to fit myself out. But by and by I reflected that the -notice was even shorter than it looked. The afternoon was well advanced; I had -some things to get, a lot of small matters to attend to, one or two persons to -see. One of them was an aunt of mine, my only relation, who quarrelled with -poor father as long as he lived about some silly matter that had neither right -nor wrong to it. She left her money to me when she died. I used always to go -and see her for decency’s sake. I had so much to do before night that I didn’t -know where to begin. I felt inclined to sit down on the kerb and hold my head -in my hands. It was as if an engine had been started going under my skull. -Finally I sat down in the first cab that came along and it was a hard matter to -keep on sitting there I can tell you, while we rolled up and down the streets, -pulling up here and there, the parcels accumulating round me and the engine in -my head gathering more way every minute. The composure of the people on the -pavements was provoking to a degree, and as to the people in shops, they were -benumbed, more than half frozen—imbecile. Funny how it affects you to be in a -peculiar state of mind: everybody that does not act up to your excitement seems -so confoundedly unfriendly. And my state of mind what with the hurry, the worry -and a growing exultation was peculiar enough. That engine in my head went round -at its top speed hour after hour till eleven at about at night it let up on me -suddenly at the entrance to the Dock before large iron gates in a dead wall.” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -These gates were closed and locked. The cabby, after shooting his things off -the roof of his machine into young Powell’s arms, drove away leaving him alone -with his sea-chest, a sail cloth bag and a few parcels on the pavement about -his feet. It was a dark, narrow thoroughfare he told us. A mean row of houses -on the other side looked empty: there wasn’t the smallest gleam of light in -them. The white-hot glare of a gin palace a good way off made the intervening -piece of the street pitch black. Some human shapes appearing mysteriously, as -if they had sprung up from the dark ground, shunned the edge of the faint light -thrown down by the gateway lamps. These figures were wary in their movements -and perfectly silent of foot, like beasts of prey slinking about a camp fire. -Powell gathered up his belongings and hovered over them like a hen over her -brood. A gruffly insinuating voice said: -</p> - -<p> -“Let’s carry your things in, Capt’in! I’ve got my pal ’ere.” -</p> - -<p> -He was a tall, bony, grey-haired ruffian with a bulldog jaw, in a torn cotton -shirt and moleskin trousers. The shadow of his hobnailed boots was enormous and -coffinlike. His pal, who didn’t come up much higher than his elbow, stepping -forward exhibited a pale face with a long drooping nose and no chin to speak -of. He seemed to have just scrambled out of a dust-bin in a tam-o’shanter cap -and a tattered soldier’s coat much too long for him. Being so deadly white he -looked like a horrible dirty invalid in a ragged dressing gown. The coat -flapped open in front and the rest of his apparel consisted of one brace which -crossed his naked, bony chest, and a pair of trousers. He blinked rapidly as if -dazed by the faint light, while his patron, the old bandit, glowered at young -Powell from under his beetling brow. -</p> - -<p> -“Say the word, Capt’in. The bobby’ll let us in all right. ’E knows both of us.” -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t answer him,” continued Mr. Powell. “I was listening to footsteps on -the other side of the gate, echoing between the walls of the warehouses as if -in an uninhabited town of very high buildings dark from basement to roof. You -could never have guessed that within a stone’s throw there was an open sheet of -water and big ships lying afloat. The few gas lamps showing up a bit of brick -work here and there, appeared in the blackness like penny dips in a range of -cellars—and the solitary footsteps came on, tramp, tramp. A dock policeman -strode into the light on the other side of the gate, very broad-chested and -stern. -</p> - -<p> -“Hallo! What’s up here?” -</p> - -<p> -“He was really surprised, but after some palaver he let me in together with the -two loafers carrying my luggage. He grumbled at them however and slammed the -gate violently with a loud clang. I was startled to discover how many night -prowlers had collected in the darkness of the street in such a short time and -without my being aware of it. Directly we were through they came surging -against the bars, silent, like a mob of ugly spectres. But suddenly, up the -street somewhere, perhaps near that public-house, a row started as if Bedlam -had broken loose: shouts, yells, an awful shrill shriek—and at that noise all -these heads vanished from behind the bars. -</p> - -<p> -“Look at this,” marvelled the constable. “It’s a wonder to me they didn’t make -off with your things while you were waiting.” -</p> - -<p> -“I would have taken good care of that,” I said defiantly. But the constable -wasn’t impressed. -</p> - -<p> -“Much you would have done. The bag going off round one dark corner; the chest -round another. Would you have run two ways at once? And anyhow you’d have been -tripped up and jumped upon before you had run three yards. I tell you you’ve -had a most extraordinary chance that there wasn’t one of them regular boys -about to-night, in the High Street, to twig your loaded cab go by. Ted here is -honest . . . You are on the honest lay, Ted, ain’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Always was, orficer,” said the big ruffian with feeling. The other frail -creature seemed dumb and only hopped about with the edge of its soldier coat -touching the ground. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes, I dare say,” said the constable. “Now then, forward, march . . . He’s -that because he ain’t game for the other thing,” he confided to me. “He hasn’t -got the nerve for it. However, I ain’t going to lose sight of them two till -they go out through the gate. That little chap’s a devil. He’s got the nerve -for anything, only he hasn’t got the muscle. Well! Well! You’ve had a chance to -get in with a whole skin and with all your things.” -</p> - -<p> -“I was incredulous a little. It seemed impossible that after getting ready with -so much hurry and inconvenience I should have lost my chance of a start in life -from such a cause. I asked: -</p> - -<p> -“Does that sort of thing happen often so near the dock gates?” -</p> - -<p> -“Often! No! Of course not often. But it ain’t often either that a man comes -along with a cabload of things to join a ship at this time of night. I’ve been -in the dock police thirteen years and haven’t seen it done once.” -</p> - -<p> -“Meantime we followed my sea-chest which was being carried down a sort of deep -narrow lane, separating two high warehouses, between honest Ted and his little -devil of a pal who had to keep up a trot to the other’s stride. The skirt of -his soldier’s coat floating behind him nearly swept the ground so that he -seemed to be running on castors. At the corner of the gloomy passage a rigged -jib boom with a dolphin-striker ending in an arrow-head stuck out of the night -close to a cast iron lamp-post. It was the quay side. They set down their load -in the light and honest Ted asked hoarsely: -</p> - -<p> -“Where’s your ship, guv’nor?” -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t know. The constable was interested at my ignorance. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t know where your ship is?” he asked with curiosity. “And you the second -officer! Haven’t you been working on board of her?” -</p> - -<p> -“I couldn’t explain that the only work connected with my appointment was the -work of chance. I told him briefly that I didn’t know her at all. At this he -remarked: -</p> - -<p> -“So I see. Here she is, right before you. That’s her.” -</p> - -<p> -“At once the head-gear in the gas light inspired me with interest and respect; -the spars were big, the chains and ropes stout and the whole thing looked -powerful and trustworthy. Barely touched by the light her bows rose faintly -alongside the narrow strip of the quay; the rest of her was a black smudge in -the darkness. Here I was face to face with my start in life. We walked in a -body a few steps on a greasy pavement between her side and the towering wall of -a warehouse and I hit my shins cruelly against the end of the gangway. The -constable hailed her quietly in a bass undertone ‘<i>Ferndale</i> there!’ A -feeble and dismal sound, something in the nature of a buzzing groan, answered -from behind the bulwarks. -</p> - -<p> -“I distinguished vaguely an irregular round knob, of wood, perhaps, resting on -the rail. It did not move in the least; but as another broken-down buzz like a -still fainter echo of the first dismal sound proceeded from it I concluded it -must be the head of the ship-keeper. The stalwart constable jeered in a -mock-official manner. -</p> - -<p> -“Second officer coming to join. Move yourself a bit.” -</p> - -<p> -“The truth of the statement touched me in the pit of the stomach (you know -that’s the spot where emotion gets home on a man) for it was borne upon me that -really and truly I was nothing but a second officer of a ship just like any -other second officer, to that constable. I was moved by this solid evidence of -my new dignity. Only his tone offended me. Nevertheless I gave him the tip he -was looking for. Thereupon he lost all interest in me, humorous or otherwise, -and walked away driving sternly before him the honest Ted, who went off -grumbling to himself like a hungry ogre, and his horrible dumb little pal in -the soldier’s coat, who, from first to last, never emitted the slightest sound. -</p> - -<p> -“It was very dark on the quarter deck of the <i>Ferndale</i> between the deep -bulwarks overshadowed by the break of the poop and frowned upon by the front of -the warehouse. I plumped down on to my chest near the after hatch as if my legs -had been jerked from under me. I felt suddenly very tired and languid. The -ship-keeper, whom I could hardly make out hung over the capstan in a fit of -weak pitiful coughing. He gasped out very low ‘Oh! dear! Oh! dear!’ and -struggled for breath so long that I got up alarmed and irresolute. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve been took like this since last Christmas twelvemonth. It ain’t nothing.” -</p> - -<p> -“He seemed a hundred years old at least. I never saw him properly because he -was gone ashore and out of sight when I came on deck in the morning; but he -gave me the notion of the feeblest creature that ever breathed. His voice was -thin like the buzzing of a mosquito. As it would have been cruel to demand -assistance from such a shadowy wreck I went to work myself, dragging my chest -along a pitch-black passage under the poop deck, while he sighed and moaned -around me as if my exertions were more than his weakness could stand. At last -as I banged pretty heavily against the bulkheads he warned me in his faint -breathless wheeze to be more careful. -</p> - -<p> -“What’s the matter?” I asked rather roughly, not relishing to be admonished by -this forlorn broken-down ghost. -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing! Nothing, sir,” he protested so hastily that he lost his poor breath -again and I felt sorry for him. “Only the captain and his missus are sleeping -on board. She’s a lady that mustn’t be disturbed. They came about half-past -eight, and we had a permit to have lights in the cabin till ten to-night.” -</p> - -<p> -“This struck me as a considerable piece of news. I had never been in a ship -where the captain had his wife with him. I’d heard fellows say that captains’ -wives could work a lot of mischief on board ship if they happened to take a -dislike to anyone; especially the new wives if young and pretty. The old and -experienced wives on the other hand fancied they knew more about the ship than -the skipper himself and had an eye like a hawk’s for what went on. They were -like an extra chief mate of a particularly sharp and unfeeling sort who made -his report in the evening. The best of them were a nuisance. In the general -opinion a skipper with his wife on board was more difficult to please; but -whether to show off his authority before an admiring female or from loving -anxiety for her safety or simply from irritation at her presence—nobody I ever -heard on the subject could tell for certain. -</p> - -<p> -“After I had bundled in my things somehow I struck a match and had a dazzling -glimpse of my berth; then I pitched the roll of my bedding into the bunk but -took no trouble to spread it out. I wasn’t sleepy now, neither was I tired. And -the thought that I was done with the earth for many many months to come made me -feel very quiet and self-contained as it were. Sailors will understand what I -mean.” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow nodded. “It is a strictly professional feeling,” he commented. “But -other professions or trades know nothing of it. It is only this calling whose -primary appeal lies in the suggestion of restless adventure which holds out -that deep sensation to those who embrace it. It is difficult to define, I -admit.” -</p> - -<p> -“I should call it the peace of the sea,” said Mr. Charles Powell in an earnest -tone but looking at us as though he expected to be met by a laugh of derision -and were half prepared to salve his reputation for common sense by joining in -it. But neither of us laughed at Mr. Charles Powell in whose start in life we -had been called to take a part. He was lucky in his audience. -</p> - -<p> -“A very good name,” said Marlow looking at him approvingly. “A sailor finds a -deep feeling of security in the exercise of his calling. The exacting life of -the sea has this advantage over the life of the earth that its claims are -simple and cannot be evaded.” -</p> - -<p> -“Gospel truth,” assented Mr. Powell. “No! they cannot be evaded.” -</p> - -<p> -That an excellent understanding should have established itself between my old -friend and our new acquaintance was remarkable enough. For they were exactly -dissimilar—one individuality projecting itself in length and the other in -breadth, which is already a sufficient ground for irreconcilable difference. -Marlow who was lanky, loose, quietly composed in varied shades of brown robbed -of every vestige of gloss, had a narrow, veiled glance, the neutral bearing and -the secret irritability which go together with a predisposition to congestion -of the liver. The other, compact, broad and sturdy of limb, seemed extremely -full of sound organs functioning vigorously all the time in order to keep up -the brilliance of his colouring, the light curl of his coal-black hair and the -lustre of his eyes, which asserted themselves roundly in an open, manly face. -Between two such organisms one would not have expected to find the slightest -temperamental accord. But I have observed that profane men living in ships like -the holy men gathered together in monasteries develop traits of profound -resemblance. This must be because the service of the sea and the service of a -temple are both detached from the vanities and errors of a world which follows -no severe rule. The men of the sea understand each other very well in their -view of earthly things, for simplicity is a good counsellor and isolation not a -bad educator. A turn of mind composed of innocence and scepticism is common to -them all, with the addition of an unexpected insight into motives, as of -disinterested lookers-on at a game. Mr. Powell took me aside to say, -</p> - -<p> -“I like the things he says.” -</p> - -<p> -“You understand each other pretty well,” I observed. -</p> - -<p> -“I know his sort,” said Powell, going to the window to look at his cutter still -riding to the flood. “He’s the sort that’s always chasing some notion or other -round and round his head just for the fun of the thing.” -</p> - -<p> -“Keeps them in good condition,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -“Lively enough I dare say,” he admitted. -</p> - -<p> -“Would you like better a man who let his notions lie curled up?” -</p> - -<p> -“That I wouldn’t,” answered our new acquaintance. Clearly he was not difficult -to get on with. “I like him, very well,” he continued, “though it isn’t easy to -make him out. He seems to be up to a thing or two. What’s he doing?” -</p> - -<p> -I informed him that our friend Marlow had retired from the sea in a sort of -half-hearted fashion some years ago. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell’s comment was: “Fancied had enough of it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Fancied’s the very word to use in this connection,” I observed, remembering -the subtly provisional character of Marlow’s long sojourn amongst us. From year -to year he dwelt on land as a bird rests on the branch of a tree, so tense with -the power of brusque flight into its true element that it is incomprehensible -why it should sit still minute after minute. The sea is the sailor’s true -element, and Marlow, lingering on shore, was to me an object of incredulous -commiseration like a bird, which, secretly, should have lost its faith in the -high virtue of flying. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER TWO—THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND</h3> - -<p> -We were on our feet in the room by then, and Marlow, brown and deliberate, -approached the window where Mr. Powell and I had retired. “What was the name of -your chance again?” he asked. Mr. Powell stared for a moment. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! The <i>Ferndale</i>. A Liverpool ship. Composite built.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Ferndale</i>,” repeated Marlow thoughtfully. “<i>Ferndale</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“Know her?” -</p> - -<p> -“Our friend,” I said, “knows something of every ship. He seems to have gone -about the seas prying into things considerably.” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow smiled. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve seen her, at least once.” -</p> - -<p> -“The finest sea-boat ever launched,” declared Mr. Powell sturdily. “Without -exception.” -</p> - -<p> -“She looked a stout, comfortable ship,” assented Marlow. “Uncommonly -comfortable. Not very fast tho’.” -</p> - -<p> -“She was fast enough for any reasonable man—when I was in her,” growled Mr. -Powell with his back to us. -</p> - -<p> -“Any ship is that—for a reasonable man,” generalized Marlow in a conciliatory -tone. “A sailor isn’t a globe-trotter.” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” muttered Mr. Powell. -</p> - -<p> -“Time’s nothing to him,” advanced Marlow. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t suppose it’s much,” said Mr. Powell. “All the same a quick passage is -a feather in a man’s cap.” -</p> - -<p> -“True. But that ornament is for the use of the master only. And by the by what -was his name?” -</p> - -<p> -“The master of the <i>Ferndale</i>? Anthony. Captain Anthony.” -</p> - -<p> -“Just so. Quite right,” approved Marlow thoughtfully. Our new acquaintance -looked over his shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -“What do you mean? Why is it more right than if it had been Brown?” -</p> - -<p> -“He has known him probably,” I explained. “Marlow here appears to know -something of every soul that ever went afloat in a sailor’s body.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell seemed wonderfully amenable to verbal suggestions for looking again -out of the window, he muttered: -</p> - -<p> -“He was a good soul.” -</p> - -<p> -This clearly referred to Captain Anthony of the <i>Ferndale</i>. Marlow -addressed his protest to me. -</p> - -<p> -“I did not know him. I really didn’t. He was a good soul. That’s nothing very -much out of the way—is it? And I didn’t even know that much of him. All I knew -of him was an accident called Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -At this Mr. Powell who evidently could be rebellious too turned his back -squarely on the window. -</p> - -<p> -“What on earth do you mean?” he asked. “An—accident—called Fyne,” he repeated -separating the words with emphasis. -</p> - -<p> -Marlow was not disconcerted. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t mean accident in the sense of a mishap. Not in the least. Fyne was a -good little man in the Civil Service. By accident I mean that which happens -blindly and without intelligent design. That’s generally the way a -brother-in-law happens into a man’s life.” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow’s tone being apologetic and our new acquaintance having again turned to -the window I took it upon myself to say: -</p> - -<p> -“You are justified. There is very little intelligent design in the majority of -marriages; but they are none the worse for that. Intelligence leads people -astray as far as passion sometimes. I know you are not a cynic.” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow smiled his retrospective smile which was kind as though he bore no -grudge against people he used to know. -</p> - -<p> -“Little Fyne’s marriage was quite successful. There was no design at all in it. -Fyne, you must know, was an enthusiastic pedestrian. He spent his holidays -tramping all over our native land. His tastes were simple. He put infinite -conviction and perseverance into his holidays. At the proper season you would -meet in the fields, Fyne, a serious-faced, broad-chested, little man, with a -shabby knap-sack on his back, making for some church steeple. He had a horror -of roads. He wrote once a little book called the ‘Tramp’s Itinerary,’ and was -recognised as an authority on the footpaths of England. So one year, in his -favourite over-the-fields, back-way fashion he entered a pretty Surrey village -where he met Miss Anthony. Pure accident, you see. They came to an -understanding, across some stile, most likely. Little Fyne held very solemn -views as to the destiny of women on this earth, the nature of our sublunary -love, the obligations of this transient life and so on. He probably disclosed -them to his future wife. Miss Anthony’s views of life were very decided too but -in a different way. I don’t know the story of their wooing. I imagine it was -carried on clandestinely and, I am certain, with portentous gravity, at the -back of copses, behind hedges . . . -</p> - -<p> -“Why was it carried on clandestinely?” I inquired. -</p> - -<p> -“Because of the lady’s father. He was a savage sentimentalist who had his own -decided views of his paternal prerogatives. He was a terror; but the only -evidence of imaginative faculty about Fyne was his pride in his wife’s -parentage. It stimulated his ingenuity too. Difficult—is it not?—to introduce -one’s wife’s maiden name into general conversation. But my simple Fyne made use -of Captain Anthony for that purpose, or else I would never even have heard of -the man. “My wife’s sailor-brother” was the phrase. He trotted out the -sailor-brother in a pretty wide range of subjects: Indian and colonial affairs, -matters of trade, talk of travels, of seaside holidays and so on. Once I -remember “My wife’s sailor-brother Captain Anthony” being produced in -connection with nothing less recondite than a sunset. And little Fyne never -failed to add “The son of Carleon Anthony, the poet—you know.” He used to lower -his voice for that statement, and people were impressed or pretended to be.” -</p> - -<p> -The late Carleon Anthony, the poet, sang in his time of the domestic and social -amenities of our age with a most felicitous versification, his object being, in -his own words, “to glorify the result of six thousand years’ evolution towards -the refinement of thought, manners and feelings.” Why he fixed the term at six -thousand years I don’t know. His poems read like sentimental novels told in -verse of a really superior quality. You felt as if you were being taken out for -a delightful country drive by a charming lady in a pony carriage. But in his -domestic life that same Carleon Anthony showed traces of the primitive -cave-dweller’s temperament. He was a massive, implacable man with a handsome -face, arbitrary and exacting with his dependants, but marvellously suave in his -manner to admiring strangers. These contrasted displays must have been -particularly exasperating to his long-suffering family. After his second wife’s -death his boy, whom he persisted by a mere whim in educating at home, ran away -in conventional style and, as if disgusted with the amenities of civilization, -threw himself, figuratively speaking, into the sea. The daughter (the elder of -the two children) either from compassion or because women are naturally more -enduring, remained in bondage to the poet for several years, till she too -seized a chance of escape by throwing herself into the arms, the muscular arms, -of the pedestrian Fyne. This was either great luck or great sagacity. A civil -servant is, I should imagine, the last human being in the world to preserve -those traits of the cave-dweller from which she was fleeing. Her father would -never consent to see her after the marriage. Such unforgiving selfishness is -difficult to understand unless as a perverse sort of refinement. There were -also doubts as to Carleon Anthony’s complete sanity for some considerable time -before he died. -</p> - -<p> -Most of the above I elicited from Marlow, for all I knew of Carleon Anthony was -his unexciting but fascinating verse. Marlow assured me that the Fyne marriage -was perfectly successful and even happy, in an earnest, unplayful fashion, -being blessed besides by three healthy, active, self-reliant children, all -girls. They were all pedestrians too. Even the youngest would wander away for -miles if not restrained. Mrs. Fyne had a ruddy out-of-doors complexion and wore -blouses with a starched front like a man’s shirt, a stand-up collar and a long -necktie. Marlow had made their acquaintance one summer in the country, where -they were accustomed to take a cottage for the holidays . . . -</p> - -<p> -At this point we were interrupted by Mr. Powell who declared that he must leave -us. The tide was on the turn, he announced coming away from the window -abruptly. He wanted to be on board his cutter before she swung and of course he -would sleep on board. Never slept away from the cutter while on a cruise. He -was gone in a moment, unceremoniously, but giving us no offence and leaving -behind an impression as though we had known him for a long time. The ingenuous -way he had told us of his start in life had something to do with putting him on -that footing with us. I gave no thought to seeing him again. -</p> - -<p> -Marlow expressed a confident hope of coming across him before long. -</p> - -<p> -“He cruises about the mouth of the river all the summer. He will be easy to -find any week-end,” he remarked ringing the bell so that we might settle up -with the waiter. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Later on I asked Marlow why he wished to cultivate this chance acquaintance. He -confessed apologetically that it was the commonest sort of curiosity. I flatter -myself that I understand all sorts of curiosity. Curiosity about daily facts, -about daily things, about daily men. It is the most respectable faculty of the -human mind—in fact I cannot conceive the uses of an incurious mind. It would be -like a chamber perpetually locked up. But in this particular case Mr. Powell -seemed to have given us already a complete insight into his personality such as -it was; a personality capable of perception and with a feeling for the vagaries -of fate, but essentially simple in itself. -</p> - -<p> -Marlow agreed with me so far. He explained however that his curiosity was not -excited by Mr. Powell exclusively. It originated a good way further back in the -fact of his accidental acquaintance with the Fynes, in the country. This chance -meeting with a man who had sailed with Captain Anthony had revived it. It had -revived it to some purpose, to such purpose that to me too was given the -knowledge of its origin and of its nature. It was given to me in several -stages, at intervals which are not indicated here. On this first occasion I -remarked to Marlow with some surprise: -</p> - -<p> -“But, if I remember rightly you said you didn’t know Captain Anthony.” -</p> - -<p> -“No. I never saw the man. It’s years ago now, but I seem to hear solemn little -Fyne’s deep voice announcing the approaching visit of his wife’s brother “the -son of the poet, you know.” He had just arrived in London from a long voyage, -and, directly his occupations permitted, was coming down to stay with his -relatives for a few weeks. No doubt we two should find many things to talk -about by ourselves in reference to our common calling, added little Fyne -portentously in his grave undertones, as if the Mercantile Marine were a secret -society. -</p> - -<p> -You must understand that I cultivated the Fynes only in the country, in their -holiday time. This was the third year. Of their existence in town I knew no -more than may be inferred from analogy. I played chess with Fyne in the late -afternoon, and sometimes came over to the cottage early enough to have tea with -the whole family at a big round table. They sat about it, an unsmiling, -sunburnt company of very few words indeed. Even the children were silent and as -if contemptuous of each other and of their elders. Fyne muttered sometimes deep -down in his chest some insignificant remark. Mrs. Fyne smiled mechanically (she -had splendid teeth) while distributing tea and bread and butter. A something -which was not coldness, nor yet indifference, but a sort of peculiar -self-possession gave her the appearance of a very trustworthy, very capable and -excellent governess; as if Fyne were a widower and the children not her own but -only entrusted to her calm, efficient, unemotional care. One expected her to -address Fyne as Mr. When she called him John it surprised one like a shocking -familiarity. The atmosphere of that holiday was—if I may put it so—brightly -dull. Healthy faces, fair complexions, clear eyes, and never a frank smile in -the whole lot, unless perhaps from a girl-friend. -</p> - -<p> -The girl-friend problem exercised me greatly. How and where the Fynes got all -these pretty creatures to come and stay with them I can’t imagine. I had at -first the wild suspicion that they were obtained to amuse Fyne. But I soon -discovered that he could hardly tell one from the other, though obviously their -presence met with his solemn approval. These girls in fact came for Mrs. Fyne. -They treated her with admiring deference. She answered to some need of theirs. -They sat at her feet. They were like disciples. It was very curious. Of Fyne -they took but scanty notice. As to myself I was made to feel that I did not -exist. -</p> - -<p> -After tea we would sit down to chess and then Fyne’s everlasting gravity became -faintly tinged by an attenuated gleam of something inward which resembled sly -satisfaction. Of the divine frivolity of laughter he was only capable over a -chess-board. Certain positions of the game struck him as humorous, which -nothing else on earth could do . . . -</p> - -<p> -“He used to beat you,” I asserted with confidence. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. He used to beat me,” Marlow owned up hastily. -</p> - -<p> -So he and Fyne played two games after tea. The children romped together -outside, gravely, unplayfully, as one would expect from Fyne’s children, and -Mrs. Fyne would be gone to the bottom of the garden with the girl-friend of the -week. She always walked off directly after tea with her arm round the -girl-friend’s waist. Marlow said that there was only one girl-friend with whom -he had conversed at all. It had happened quite unexpectedly, long after he had -given up all hope of getting into touch with these reserved girl-friends. -</p> - -<p> -One day he saw a woman walking about on the edge of a high quarry, which rose a -sheer hundred feet, at least, from the road winding up the hill out of which it -had been excavated. He shouted warningly to her from below where he happened to -be passing. She was really in considerable danger. At the sound of his voice -she started back and retreated out of his sight amongst some young Scotch firs -growing near the very brink of the precipice. -</p> - -<p> -“I sat down on a bank of grass,” Marlow went on. “She had given me a turn. The -hem of her skirt seemed to float over that awful sheer drop, she was so close -to the edge. An absurd thing to do. A perfectly mad trick—for no conceivable -object! I was reflecting on the foolhardiness of the average girl and -remembering some other instances of the kind, when she came into view walking -down the steep curve of the road. She had Mrs. Fyne’s walking-stick and was -escorted by the Fyne dog. Her dead white face struck me with astonishment, so -that I forgot to raise my hat. I just sat and stared. The dog, a vivacious and -amiable animal which for some inscrutable reason had bestowed his friendship on -my unworthy self, rushed up the bank demonstratively and insinuated himself -under my arm. -</p> - -<p> -The girl-friend (it was one of them) went past some way as though she had not -seen me, then stopped and called the dog to her several times; but he only -nestled closer to my side, and when I tried to push him away developed that -remarkable power of internal resistance by which a dog makes himself -practically immovable by anything short of a kick. She looked over her shoulder -and her arched eyebrows frowned above her blanched face. It was almost a scowl. -Then the expression changed. She looked unhappy. “Come here!” she cried once -more in an angry and distressed tone. I took off my hat at last, but the dog -hanging out his tongue with that cheerfully imbecile expression some dogs know -so well how to put on when it suits their purpose, pretended to be deaf. -</p> - -<p> -She cried from the distance desperately. -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps you will take him to the cottage then. I can’t wait.” -</p> - -<p> -“I won’t be responsible for that dog,” I protested getting down the bank and -advancing towards her. She looked very hurt, apparently by the desertion of the -dog. “But if you let me walk with you he will follow us all right,” I -suggested. -</p> - -<p> -She moved on without answering me. The dog launched himself suddenly full speed -down the road receding from us in a small cloud of dust. It vanished in the -distance, and presently we came up with him lying on the grass. He panted in -the shade of the hedge with shining eyes but pretended not to see us. We had -not exchanged a word so far. The girl by my side gave him a scornful glance in -passing. -</p> - -<p> -“He offered to come with me,” she remarked bitterly. -</p> - -<p> -“And then abandoned you!” I sympathized. “It looks very unchivalrous. But -that’s merely his want of tact. I believe he meant to protest against your -reckless proceedings. What made you come so near the edge of that quarry? The -earth might have given way. Haven’t you noticed a smashed fir tree at the -bottom? Tumbled over only the other morning after a night’s rain.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t see why I shouldn’t be as reckless as I please.” -</p> - -<p> -I was nettled by her brusque manner of asserting her folly, and I told her that -neither did I as far as that went, in a tone which almost suggested that she -was welcome to break her neck for all I cared. This was considerably more than -I meant, but I don’t like rude girls. I had been introduced to her only the day -before—at the round tea-table—and she had barely acknowledged the introduction. -I had not caught her name but I had noticed her fine, arched eyebrows which, so -the physiognomists say, are a sign of courage. -</p> - -<p> -I examined her appearance quietly. Her hair was nearly black, her eyes blue, -deeply shaded by long dark eyelashes. She had a little colour now. She looked -straight before her; the corner of her lip on my side drooped a little; her -chin was fine, somewhat pointed. I went on to say that some regard for others -should stand in the way of one’s playing with danger. I urged playfully the -distress of the poor Fynes in case of accident, if nothing else. I told her -that she did not know the bucolic mind. Had she given occasion for a coroner’s -inquest the verdict would have been suicide, with the implication of unhappy -love. They would never be able to understand that she had taken the trouble to -climb over two post-and-rail fences only for the fun of being reckless. Indeed -even as I talked chaffingly I was greatly struck myself by the fact. -</p> - -<p> -She retorted that once one was dead what horrid people thought of one did not -matter. It was said with infinite contempt; but something like a suppressed -quaver in the voice made me look at her again. I perceived then that her thick -eyelashes were wet. This surprising discovery silenced me as you may guess. She -looked unhappy. And—I don’t know how to say it—well—it suited her. The clouded -brow, the pained mouth, the vague fixed glance! A victim. And this -characteristic aspect made her attractive; an individual touch—you know. -</p> - -<p> -The dog had run on ahead and now gazed at us by the side of the Fyne’s -garden-gate in a tense attitude and wagging his stumpy tail very, very slowly, -with an air of concentrated attention. The girl-friend of the Fynes bolted -violently through the aforesaid gate and into the cottage leaving me on the -road—astounded. -</p> - -<p> -A couple of hours afterwards I returned to the cottage for chess as usual. I -saw neither the girl nor Mrs. Fyne then. We had our two games and on parting I -warned Fyne that I was called to town on business and might be away for some -time. He regretted it very much. His brother-in-law was expected next day but -he didn’t know whether he was a chess-player. Captain Anthony (“the son of the -poet—you know”) was of a retiring disposition, shy with strangers, unused to -society and very much devoted to his calling, Fyne explained. All the time they -had been married he could be induced only once before to come and stay with -them for a few days. He had had a rather unhappy boyhood; and it made him a -silent man. But no doubt, concluded Fyne, as if dealing portentously with a -mystery, we two sailors should find much to say to one another. -</p> - -<p> -This point was never settled. I was detained in town from week to week till it -seemed hardly worth while to go back. But as I had kept on my rooms in the -farmhouse I concluded to go down again for a few days. -</p> - -<p> -It was late, deep dusk, when I got out at our little country station. My eyes -fell on the unmistakable broad back and the muscular legs in cycling stockings -of little Fyne. He passed along the carriages rapidly towards the rear of the -train, which presently pulled out and left him solitary at the end of the -rustic platform. When he came back to where I waited I perceived that he was -much perturbed, so perturbed as to forget the convention of the usual -greetings. He only exclaimed Oh! on recognizing me, and stopped irresolute. -When I asked him if he had been expecting somebody by that train he didn’t seem -to know. He stammered disconnectedly. I looked hard at him. To all appearances -he was perfectly sober; moreover to suspect Fyne of a lapse from the -proprieties high or low, great or small, was absurd. He was also a too serious -and deliberate person to go mad suddenly. But as he seemed to have forgotten -that he had a tongue in his head I concluded I would leave him to his mystery. -To my surprise he followed me out of the station and kept by my side, though I -did not encourage him. I did not however repulse his attempts at conversation. -He was no longer expecting me, he said. He had given me up. The weather had -been uniformly fine—and so on. I gathered also that the son of the poet had -curtailed his stay somewhat and gone back to his ship the day before. -</p> - -<p> -That information touched me but little. Believing in heredity in moderation I -knew well how sea-life fashions a man outwardly and stamps his soul with the -mark of a certain prosaic fitness—because a sailor is not an adventurer. I -expressed no regret at missing Captain Anthony and we proceeded in silence -till, on approaching the holiday cottage, Fyne suddenly and unexpectedly broke -it by the hurried declaration that he would go on with me a little farther. -</p> - -<p> -“Go with you to your door,” he mumbled and started forward to the little gate -where the shadowy figure of Mrs. Fyne hovered, clearly on the lookout for him. -She was alone. The children must have been already in bed and I saw no -attending girl-friend shadow near her vague but unmistakable form, half-lost in -the obscurity of the little garden. -</p> - -<p> -I heard Fyne exclaim “Nothing” and then Mrs. Fyne’s well-trained, responsible -voice uttered the words, “It’s what I have said,” with incisive equanimity. By -that time I had passed on, raising my hat. Almost at once Fyne caught me up and -slowed down to my strolling gait which must have been infinitely irksome to his -high pedestrian faculties. I am sure that all his muscular person must have -suffered from awful physical boredom; but he did not attempt to charm it away -by conversation. He preserved a portentous and dreary silence. And I was bored -too. Suddenly I perceived the menace of even worse boredom. Yes! He was so -silent because he had something to tell me. -</p> - -<p> -I became extremely frightened. But man, reckless animal, is so made that in him -curiosity, the paltriest curiosity, will overcome all terrors, every disgust, -and even despair itself. To my laconic invitation to come in for a drink he -answered by a deep, gravely accented: “Thanks, I will” as though it were a -response in church. His face as seen in the lamplight gave me no clue to the -character of the impending communication; as indeed from the nature of things -it couldn’t do, its normal expression being already that of the utmost possible -seriousness. It was perfect and immovable; and for a certainty if he had -something excruciatingly funny to tell me it would be all the same. -</p> - -<p> -He gazed at me earnestly and delivered himself of some weighty remarks on Mrs. -Fyne’s desire to befriend, counsel, and guide young girls of all sorts on the -path of life. It was a voluntary mission. He approved his wife’s action and -also her views and principles in general. -</p> - -<p> -All this with a solemn countenance and in deep measured tones. Yet somehow I -got an irresistible conviction that he was exasperated by something in -particular. In the unworthy hope of being amused by the misfortunes of a -fellow-creature I asked him point-blank what was wrong now. -</p> - -<p> -What was wrong was that a girl-friend was missing. She had been missing -precisely since six o’clock that morning. The woman who did the work of the -cottage saw her going out at that hour, for a walk. The pedestrian Fyne’s ideas -of a walk were extensive, but the girl did not turn up for lunch, nor yet for -tea, nor yet for dinner. She had not turned up by footpath, road or rail. He -had been reluctant to make inquiries. It would have set all the village -talking. The Fynes had expected her to reappear every moment, till the shades -of the night and the silence of slumber had stolen gradually over the wide and -peaceful rural landscape commanded by the cottage. -</p> - -<p> -After telling me that much Fyne sat helpless in unconclusive agony. Going to -bed was out of the question—neither could any steps be taken just then. What to -do with himself he did not know! -</p> - -<p> -I asked him if this was the same young lady I saw a day or two before I went to -town? He really could not remember. Was she a girl with dark hair and blue -eyes? I asked further. He really couldn’t tell what colour her eyes were. He -was very unobservant except as to the peculiarities of footpaths, on which he -was an authority. -</p> - -<p> -I thought with amazement and some admiration that Mrs. Fyne’s young disciples -were to her husband’s gravity no more than evanescent shadows. However, with -but little hesitation Fyne ventured to affirm that—yes, her hair was of some -dark shade. -</p> - -<p> -“We had a good deal to do with that girl first and last,” he explained -solemnly; then getting up as if moved by a spring he snatched his cap off the -table. “She may be back in the cottage,” he cried in his bass voice. I followed -him out on the road. -</p> - -<p> -It was one of those dewy, clear, starry nights, oppressing our spirit, crushing -our pride, by the brilliant evidence of the awful loneliness, of the hopeless -obscure insignificance of our globe lost in the splendid revelation of a -glittering, soulless universe. I hate such skies. Daylight is friendly to man -toiling under a sun which warms his heart; and cloudy soft nights are more -kindly to our littleness. I nearly ran back again to my lighted parlour; Fyne -fussing in a knicker-bocker suit before the hosts of heaven, on a shadowy -earth, about a transient, phantom-like girl, seemed too ridiculous to associate -with. On the other hand there was something fascinating in the very absurdity. -He cut along in his best pedestrian style and I found myself let in for a spell -of severe exercise at eleven o’clock at night. -</p> - -<p> -In the distance over the fields and trees smudging and blotching the vast -obscurity, one lighted window of the cottage with the blind up was like a -bright beacon kept alight to guide the lost wanderer. Inside, at the table -bearing the lamp, we saw Mrs. Fyne sitting with folded arms and not a hair of -her head out of place. She looked exactly like a governess who had put the -children to bed; and her manner to me was just the neutral manner of a -governess. To her husband, too, for that matter. -</p> - -<p> -Fyne told her that I was fully informed. Not a muscle of her ruddy smooth -handsome face moved. She had schooled herself into that sort of thing. Having -seen two successive wives of the delicate poet chivied and worried into their -graves, she had adopted that cool, detached manner to meet her gifted father’s -outbreaks of selfish temper. It had now become a second nature. I suppose she -was always like that; even in the very hour of elopement with Fyne. That -transaction when one remembered it in her presence acquired a quaintly -marvellous aspect to one’s imagination. But somehow her self-possession matched -very well little Fyne’s invariable solemnity. -</p> - -<p> -I was rather sorry for him. Wasn’t he worried! The agony of solemnity. At the -same time I was amused. I didn’t take a gloomy view of that “vanishing girl” -trick. Somehow I couldn’t. But I said nothing. None of us said anything. We sat -about that big round table as if assembled for a conference and looked at each -other in a sort of fatuous consternation. I would have ended by laughing -outright if I had not been saved from that impropriety by poor Fyne becoming -preposterous. -</p> - -<p> -He began with grave anguish to talk of going to the police in the morning, of -printing descriptive bills, of setting people to drag the ponds for miles -around. It was extremely gruesome. I murmured something about communicating -with the young lady’s relatives. It seemed to me a very natural suggestion; but -Fyne and his wife exchanged such a significant glance that I felt as though I -had made a tactless remark. -</p> - -<p> -But I really wanted to help poor Fyne; and as I could see that, manlike, he -suffered from the present inability to act, the passive waiting, I said: -“Nothing of this can be done till to-morrow. But as you have given me an -insight into the nature of your thoughts I can tell you what may be done at -once. We may go and look at the bottom of the old quarry which is on the level -of the road, about a mile from here.” -</p> - -<p> -The couple made big eyes at this, and then I told them of my meeting with the -girl. You may be surprised but I assure you I had not perceived this aspect of -it till that very moment. It was like a startling revelation; the past throwing -a sinister light on the future. Fyne opened his mouth gravely and as gravely -shut it. Nothing more. Mrs. Fyne said, “You had better go,” with an air as if -her self-possession had been pricked with a pin in some secret place. -</p> - -<p> -And I—you know how stupid I can be at times—I perceived with dismay for the -first time that by pandering to Fyne’s morbid fancies I had let myself in for -some more severe exercise. And wasn’t I sorry I spoke! You know how I hate -walking—at least on solid, rural earth; for I can walk a ship’s deck a whole -foggy night through, if necessary, and think little of it. There is some -satisfaction too in playing the vagabond in the streets of a big town till the -sky pales above the ridges of the roofs. I have done that repeatedly for -pleasure—of a sort. But to tramp the slumbering country-side in the dark is for -me a wearisome nightmare of exertion. -</p> - -<p> -With perfect detachment Mrs. Fyne watched me go out after her husband. That -woman was flint. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -The fresh night had a smell of soil, of turned-up sods like a grave—an -association particularly odious to a sailor by its idea of confinement and -narrowness; yes, even when he has given up the hope of being buried at sea; -about the last hope a sailor gives up consciously after he has been, as it does -happen, decoyed by some chance into the toils of the land. A strong grave-like -sniff. The ditch by the side of the road must have been freshly dug in front of -the cottage. -</p> - -<p> -Once clear of the garden Fyne gathered way like a racing cutter. What was a -mile to him—or twenty miles? You think he might have gone shrinkingly on such -an errand. But not a bit of it. The force of pedestrian genius I suppose. I -raced by his side in a mood of profound self-derision, and infinitely vexed -with that minx. Because dead or alive I thought of her as a minx . . .” -</p> - -<p> -I smiled incredulously at Marlow’s ferocity; but Marlow pausing with a -whimsically retrospective air, never flinched. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yes. Even dead. And now you are shocked. You see, you are such a -chivalrous masculine beggar. But there is enough of the woman in my nature to -free my judgment of women from glamorous reticency. And then, why should I -upset myself? A woman is not necessarily either a doll or an angel to me. She -is a human being, very much like myself. And I have come across too many dead -souls lying so to speak at the foot of high unscaleable places for a merely -possible dead body at the bottom of a quarry to strike my sincerity dumb. -</p> - -<p> -The cliff-like face of the quarry looked forbiddingly impressive. I will admit -that Fyne and I hung back for a moment before we made a plunge off the road -into the bushes growing in a broad space at the foot of the towering limestone -wall. These bushes were heavy with dew. There were also concealed mudholes in -there. We crept and tumbled and felt about with our hands along the ground. We -got wet, scratched, and plastered with mire all over our nether garments. Fyne -fell suddenly into a strange cavity—probably a disused lime-kiln. His voice -uplifted in grave distress sounded more than usually rich, solemn and profound. -This was the comic relief of an absurdly dramatic situation. While hauling him -out I permitted myself to laugh aloud at last. Fyne, of course, didn’t. -</p> - -<p> -I need not tell you that we found nothing after a most conscientious search. -Fyne even pushed his way into a decaying shed half-buried in dew-soaked -vegetation. He struck matches, several of them too, as if to make absolutely -sure that the vanished girl-friend of his wife was not hiding there. The short -flares illuminated his grave, immovable countenance while I let myself go -completely and laughed in peals. -</p> - -<p> -I asked him if he really and truly supposed that any sane girl would go and -hide in that shed; and if so why? -</p> - -<p> -Disdainful of my mirth he merely muttered his basso-profundo thankfulness that -we had not found her anywhere about there. Having grown extremely sensitive (an -effect of irritation) to the tonalities, I may say, of this affair, I felt that -it was only an imperfect, reserved, thankfulness, with one eye still on the -possibilities of the several ponds in the neighbourhood. And I remember I -snorted, I positively snorted, at that poor Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -What really jarred upon me was the rate of his walking. Differences in -politics, in ethics and even in aesthetics need not arouse angry antagonism. -One’s opinion may change; one’s tastes may alter—in fact they do. One’s very -conception of virtue is at the mercy of some felicitous temptation which may be -sprung on one any day. All these things are perpetually on the swing. But a -temperamental difference, temperament being immutable, is the parent of hate. -That’s why religious quarrels are the fiercest of all. My temperament, in -matters pertaining to solid land, is the temperament of leisurely movement, of -deliberate gait. And there was that little Fyne pounding along the road in a -most offensive manner; a man wedded to thick-soled, laced boots; whereas my -temperament demands thin shoes of the lightest kind. Of course there could -never have been question of friendship between us; but under the provocation of -having to keep up with his pace I began to dislike him actively. I begged -sarcastically to know whether he could tell me if we were engaged in a farce or -in a tragedy. I wanted to regulate my feelings which, I told him, were in an -unbecoming state of confusion. -</p> - -<p> -But Fyne was as impervious to sarcasm as a turtle. He tramped on, and all he -did was to ejaculate twice out of his deep chest, vaguely, doubtfully. -</p> - -<p> -“I am afraid . . . I am afraid! . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -This was tragic. The thump of his boots was the only sound in a shadowy world. -I kept by his side with a comparatively ghostly, silent tread. By a strange -illusion the road appeared to run up against a lot of low stars at no very -great distance, but as we advanced new stretches of whitey-brown ribbon seemed -to come up from under the black ground. I observed, as we went by, the lamp in -my parlour in the farmhouse still burning. But I did not leave Fyne to run in -and put it out. The impetus of his pedestrian excellence carried me past in his -wake before I could make up my mind. -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me, Fyne,” I cried, “you don’t think the girl was mad—do you?” -</p> - -<p> -He answered nothing. Soon the lighted beacon-like window of the cottage came -into view. Then Fyne uttered a solemn: “Certainly not,” with profound -assurance. But immediately after he added a “Very highly strung young person -indeed,” which unsettled me again. Was it a tragedy? -</p> - -<p> -“Nobody ever got up at six o’clock in the morning to commit suicide,” I -declared crustily. “It’s unheard of! This is a farce.” -</p> - -<p> -As a matter of fact it was neither farce nor tragedy. -</p> - -<p> -Coming up to the cottage we had a view of Mrs. Fyne inside still sitting in the -strong light at the round table with folded arms. It looked as though she had -not moved her very head by as much as an inch since we went away. She was -amazing in a sort of unsubtle way; crudely amazing—I thought. Why crudely? I -don’t know. Perhaps because I saw her then in a crude light. I mean this -materially—in the light of an unshaded lamp. Our mental conclusions depend so -much on momentary physical sensations—don’t they? If the lamp had been shaded I -should perhaps have gone home after expressing politely my concern at the -Fynes’ unpleasant predicament. -</p> - -<p> -Losing a girl-friend in that manner is unpleasant. It is also mysterious. So -mysterious that a certain mystery attaches to the people to whom such a thing -does happen. Moreover I had never really understood the Fynes; he with his -solemnity which extended to the very eating of bread and butter; she with that -air of detachment and resolution in breasting the common-place current of their -unexciting life, in which the cutting of bread and butter appeared to me, by a -long way, the most dangerous episode. Sometimes I amused myself by supposing -that to their minds this world of ours must be wearing a perfectly overwhelming -aspect, and that their heads contained respectively awfully serious and -extremely desperate thoughts—and trying to imagine what an exciting time they -must be having of it in the inscrutable depths of their being. This last was -difficult to a volatile person (I am sure that to the Fynes I was a volatile -person) and the amusement in itself was not very great; but still—in the -country—away from all mental stimulants! . . . My efforts had invested them -with a sort of amusing profundity. -</p> - -<p> -But when Fyne and I got back into the room, then in the searching, domestic, -glare of the lamp, inimical to the play of fancy, I saw these two stripped of -every vesture it had amused me to put on them for fun. Queer enough they were. -Is there a human being that isn’t that—more or less secretly? But whatever -their secret, it was manifest to me that it was neither subtle nor profound. -They were a good, stupid, earnest couple and very much bothered. They were -that—with the usual unshaded crudity of average people. There was nothing in -them that the lamplight might not touch without the slightest risk of -indiscretion. -</p> - -<p> -Directly we had entered the room Fyne announced the result by saying “Nothing” -in the same tone as at the gate on his return from the railway station. And as -then Mrs. Fyne uttered an incisive “It’s what I’ve said,” which might have been -the veriest echo of her words in the garden. We three looked at each other as -if on the brink of a disclosure. I don’t know whether she was vexed at my -presence. It could hardly be called intrusion—could it? Little Fyne began it. -It had to go on. We stood before her, plastered with the same mud (Fyne was a -sight!), scratched by the same brambles, conscious of the same experience. Yes. -Before her. And she looked at us with folded arms, with an extraordinary -fulness of assumed responsibility. I addressed her. -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t believe in an accident, Mrs. Fyne, do you?” -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head in curt negation while, caked in mud and inexpressibly -serious-faced, Fyne seemed to be backing her up with all the weight of his -solemn presence. Nothing more absurd could be conceived. It was delicious. And -I went on in deferential accents: “Am I to understand then that you entertain -the theory of suicide?” -</p> - -<p> -I don’t know that I am liable to fits of delirium but by a sudden and alarming -aberration while waiting for her answer I became mentally aware of three -trained dogs dancing on their hind legs. I don’t know why. Perhaps because of -the pervading solemnity. There’s nothing more solemn on earth than a dance of -trained dogs. -</p> - -<p> -“She has chosen to disappear. That’s all.” -</p> - -<p> -In these words Mrs. Fyne answered me. The aggressive tone was too much for my -endurance. In an instant I found myself out of the dance and down on all-fours -so to speak, with liberty to bark and bite. -</p> - -<p> -“The devil she has,” I cried. “Has chosen to . . . Like this, all at once, -anyhow, regardless . . . I’ve had the privilege of meeting that reckless and -brusque young lady and I must say that with her air of an angry victim . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Precisely,” Mrs. Fyne said very unexpectedly like a steel trap going off. I -stared at her. How provoking she was! So I went on to finish my tirade. “She -struck me at first sight as the most inconsiderate wrong-headed girl that I -ever . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Why should a girl be more considerate than anyone else? More than any man, for -instance?” inquired Mrs. Fyne with a still greater assertion of responsibility -in her bearing. -</p> - -<p> -Of course I exclaimed at this, not very loudly it is true, but forcibly. Were -then the feelings of friends, relations and even of strangers to be -disregarded? I asked Mrs. Fyne if she did not think it was a sort of duty to -show elementary consideration not only for the natural feelings but even for -the prejudices of one’s fellow-creatures. -</p> - -<p> -Her answer knocked me over. -</p> - -<p> -“Not for a woman.” -</p> - -<p> -Just like that. I confess that I went down flat. And while in that collapsed -state I learned the true nature of Mrs. Fyne’s feminist doctrine. It was not -political, it was not social. It was a knock-me-down doctrine—a practical -individualistic doctrine. You would not thank me for expounding it to you at -large. Indeed I think that she herself did not enlighten me fully. There must -have been things not fit for a man to hear. But shortly, and as far as my -bewilderment allowed me to grasp its naïve atrociousness, it was something -like this: that no consideration, no delicacy, no tenderness, no scruples -should stand in the way of a woman (who by the mere fact of her sex was the -predestined victim of conditions created by men’s selfish passions, their vices -and their abominable tyranny) from taking the shortest cut towards securing for -herself the easiest possible existence. She had even the right to go out of -existence without considering anyone’s feelings or convenience since some -women’s existences were made impossible by the shortsighted baseness of men. -</p> - -<p> -I looked at her, sitting before the lamp at one o’clock in the morning, with -her mature, smooth-cheeked face of masculine shape robbed of its freshness by -fatigue; at her eyes dimmed by this senseless vigil. I looked also at Fyne; the -mud was drying on him; he was obviously tired. The weariness of solemnity. But -he preserved an unflinching, endorsing, gravity of expression. Endorsing it all -as became a good, convinced husband. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! I see,” I said. “No consideration . . . Well I hope you like it.” -</p> - -<p> -They amused me beyond the wildest imaginings of which I was capable. After the -first shock, you understand, I recovered very quickly. The order of the world -was safe enough. He was a civil servant and she his good and faithful wife. But -when it comes to dealing with human beings anything, anything may be expected. -So even my astonishment did not last very long. How far she developed and -illustrated that conscienceless and austere doctrine to the girl-friends, who -were mere transient shadows to her husband, I could not tell. Any length I -supposed. And he looked on, acquiesced, approved, just for that very -reason—because these pretty girls were but shadows to him. O! Most virtuous -Fyne! He cast his eyes down. He didn’t like it. But I eyed him with hidden -animosity for he had got me to run after him under somewhat false pretences. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne had only smiled at me very expressively, very self-confidently. “Oh I -quite understand that you accept the fullest responsibility,” I said. “I am the -only ridiculous person in this—this—I don’t know how to call it—performance. -However, I’ve nothing more to do here, so I’ll say good-night—or good morning, -for it must be past one.” -</p> - -<p> -But before departing, in common decency, I offered to take any wires they might -write. My lodgings were nearer the post-office than the cottage and I would -send them off the first thing in the morning. I supposed they would wish to -communicate, if only as to the disposal of the luggage, with the young lady’s -relatives . . . -</p> - -<p> -Fyne, he looked rather downcast by then, thanked me and declined. -</p> - -<p> -“There is really no one,” he said, very grave. -</p> - -<p> -“No one,” I exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -“Practically,” said curt Mrs. Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -And my curiosity was aroused again. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! I see. An orphan.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne looked away weary and sombre, and Fyne said “Yes” impulsively, and -then qualified the affirmative by the quaint statement: “To a certain extent.” -</p> - -<p> -I became conscious of a languid, exhausted embarrassment, bowed to Mrs. Fyne, -and went out of the cottage to be confronted outside its door by the -bespangled, cruel revelation of the Immensity of the Universe. The night was -not sufficiently advanced for the stars to have paled; and the earth seemed to -me more profoundly asleep—perhaps because I was alone now. Not having Fyne with -me to set the pace I let myself drift, rather than walk, in the direction of -the farmhouse. To drift is the only reposeful sort of motion (ask any ship if -it isn’t) and therefore consistent with thoughtfulness. And I pondered: How is -one an orphan “to a certain extent”? -</p> - -<p> -No amount of solemnity could make such a statement other than bizarre. What a -strange condition to be in. Very likely one of the parents only was dead? But -no; it couldn’t be, since Fyne had said just before that “there was really no -one” to communicate with. No one! And then remembering Mrs. Fyne’s snappy -“Practically” my thoughts fastened upon that lady as a more tangible object of -speculation. -</p> - -<p> -I wondered—and wondering I doubted—whether she really understood herself the -theory she had propounded to me. Everything may be said—indeed ought to be -said—providing we know how to say it. She probably did not. She was not -intelligent enough for that. She had no knowledge of the world. She had got -hold of words as a child might get hold of some poisonous pills and play with -them for “dear, tiny little marbles.” No! The domestic-slave daughter of -Carleon Anthony and the little Fyne of the Civil Service (that flower of -civilization) were not intelligent people. They were commonplace, earnest, -without smiles and without guile. But he had his solemnities and she had her -reveries, her lurid, violent, crude reveries. And I thought with some sadness -that all these revolts and indignations, all these protests, revulsions of -feeling, pangs of suffering and of rage, expressed but the uneasiness of -sensual beings trying for their share in the joys of form, colour, -sensations—the only riches of our world of senses. A poet may be a simple being -but he is bound to be various and full of wiles, ingenious and irritable. I -reflected on the variety of ways the ingenuity of the late bard of civilization -would be able to invent for the tormenting of his dependants. Poets not being -generally foresighted in practical affairs, no vision of consequences would -restrain him. Yes. The Fynes were excellent people, but Mrs. Fyne wasn’t the -daughter of a domestic tyrant for nothing. There were no limits to her revolt. -But they were excellent people. It was clear that they must have been extremely -good to that girl whose position in the world seemed somewhat difficult, with -her face of a victim, her obvious lack of resignation and the bizarre status of -orphan “to a certain extent.” -</p> - -<p> -Such were my thoughts, but in truth I soon ceased to trouble about all these -people. I found that my lamp had gone out leaving behind an awful smell. I fled -from it up the stairs and went to bed in the dark. My slumbers—I suppose the -one good in pedestrian exercise, confound it, is that it helps our natural -callousness—my slumbers were deep, dreamless and refreshing. -</p> - -<p> -My appetite at breakfast was not affected by my ignorance of the facts, -motives, events and conclusions. I think that to understand everything is not -good for the intellect. A well-stocked intelligence weakens the impulse to -action; an overstocked one leads gently to idiocy. But Mrs. Fyne’s -individualist woman-doctrine, naïvely unscrupulous, flitted through my -mind. The salad of unprincipled notions she put into these girl-friends’ heads! -Good innocent creature, worthy wife, excellent mother (of the strict governess -type), she was as guileless of consequences as any determinist philosopher ever -was. -</p> - -<p> -As to honour—you know—it’s a very fine medieval inheritance which women never -got hold of. It wasn’t theirs. Since it may be laid as a general principle that -women always get what they want we must suppose they didn’t want it. In -addition they are devoid of decency. I mean masculine decency. Cautiousness too -is foreign to them—the heavy reasonable cautiousness which is our glory. And if -they had it they would make of it a thing of passion, so that its own mother—I -mean the mother of cautiousness—wouldn’t recognize it. Prudence with them is a -matter of thrill like the rest of sublunary contrivances. “Sensation at any -cost,” is their secret device. All the virtues are not enough for them; they -want also all the crimes for their own. And why? Because in such completeness -there is power—the kind of thrill they love most . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you expect me to agree to all this?” I interrupted. -</p> - -<p> -“No, it isn’t necessary,” said Marlow, feeling the check to his eloquence but -with a great effort at amiability. “You need not even understand it. I -continue: with such disposition what prevents women—to use the phrase an old -boatswain of my acquaintance applied descriptively to his captain—what prevents -them from “coming on deck and playing hell with the ship” generally, is that -something in them precise and mysterious, acting both as restraint and as -inspiration; their femininity in short which they think they can get rid of by -trying hard, but can’t, and never will. Therefore we may conclude that, for all -their enterprises, the world is and remains safe enough. Feeling, in my -character of a lover of peace, soothed by that conclusion I prepared myself to -enjoy a fine day. -</p> - -<p> -And it was a fine day; a delicious day, with the horror of the Infinite veiled -by the splendid tent of blue; a day innocently bright like a child with a -washed face, fresh like an innocent young girl, suave in welcoming one’s -respects like—like a Roman prelate. I love such days. They are perfection for -remaining indoors. And I enjoyed it temperamentally in a chair, my feet up on -the sill of the open window, a book in my hands and the murmured harmonies of -wind and sun in my heart making an accompaniment to the rhythms of my author. -Then looking up from the page I saw outside a pair of grey eyes thatched by -ragged yellowy-white eyebrows gazing at me solemnly over the toes of my -slippers. There was a grave, furrowed brow surmounting that portentous gaze, a -brown tweed cap set far back on the perspiring head. -</p> - -<p> -“Come inside,” I cried as heartily as my sinking heart would permit. -</p> - -<p> -After a short but severe scuffle with his dog at the outer door, Fyne entered. -I treated him without ceremony and only waved my hand towards a chair. Even -before he sat down he gasped out: -</p> - -<p> -“We’ve heard—midday post.” -</p> - -<p> -Gasped out! The grave, immovable Fyne of the Civil Service, gasped! This was -enough, you’ll admit, to cause me to put my feet to the ground swiftly. That -fellow was always making me do things in subtle discord with my meditative -temperament. No wonder that I had but a qualified liking for him. I said with -just a suspicion of jeering tone: -</p> - -<p> -“Of course. I told you last night on the road that it was a farce we were -engaged in.” -</p> - -<p> -He made the little parlour resound to its foundations with a note of anger -positively sepulchral in its depth of tone. “Farce be hanged! She has bolted -with my wife’s brother, Captain Anthony.” This outburst was followed by -complete subsidence. He faltered miserably as he added from force of habit: -“The son of the poet, you know.” -</p> - -<p> -A silence fell. Fyne’s several expressions were so many examples of varied -consistency. This was the discomfiture of solemnity. My interest of course was -revived. -</p> - -<p> -“But hold on,” I said. “They didn’t go together. Is it a suspicion or does she -actually say that . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“She has gone after him,” stated Fyne in comminatory tones. “By previous -arrangement. She confesses that much.” -</p> - -<p> -He added that it was very shocking. I asked him whether he should have -preferred them going off together; and on what ground he based that preference. -This was sheer fun for me in regard of the fact that Fyne’s too was a runaway -match, which even got into the papers in its time, because the late indignant -poet had no discretion and sought to avenge this outrage publicly in some -absurd way before a bewigged judge. The dejected gesture of little Fyne’s hand -disarmed my mocking mood. But I could not help expressing my surprise that Mrs. -Fyne had not detected at once what was brewing. Women were supposed to have an -unerring eye. -</p> - -<p> -He told me that his wife had been very much engaged in a certain work. I had -always wondered how she occupied her time. It was in writing. Like her husband -she too published a little book. Much later on I came upon it. It had nothing -to do with pedestrianism. It was a sort of hand-book for women with grievances -(and all women had them), a sort of compendious theory and practice of feminine -free morality. It made you laugh at its transparent simplicity. But that -authorship was revealed to me much later. I didn’t of course ask Fyne what work -his wife was engaged on; but I marvelled to myself at her complete ignorance of -the world, of her own sex and of the other kind of sinners. Yet, where could -she have got any experience? Her father had kept her strictly cloistered. -Marriage with Fyne was certainly a change but only to another kind of -claustration. You may tell me that the ordinary powers of observation ought to -have been enough. Why, yes! But, then, as she had set up for a guide and -teacher, there was nothing surprising for me in the discovery that she was -blind. That’s quite in order. She was a profoundly innocent person; only it -would not have been proper to tell her husband so. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER THREE—THRIFT—AND THE CHILD</h3> - -<p> -But there was nothing improper in my observing to Fyne that, last night, Mrs. -Fyne seemed to have some idea where that enterprising young lady had gone to. -Fyne shook his head. No; his wife had been by no means so certain as she had -pretended to be. She merely had her reasons to think, to hope, that the girl -might have taken a room somewhere in London, had buried herself in town—in -readiness or perhaps in horror of the approaching day— -</p> - -<p> -He ceased and sat solemnly dejected, in a brown study. “What day?” I asked at -last; but he did not hear me apparently. He diffused such portentous gloom into -the atmosphere that I lost patience with him. -</p> - -<p> -“What on earth are you so dismal about?” I cried, being genuinely surprised and -puzzled. “One would think the girl was a state prisoner under your care.” -</p> - -<p> -And suddenly I became still more surprised at myself, at the way I had somehow -taken for granted things which did appear queer when one thought them out. -</p> - -<p> -“But why this secrecy? Why did they elope—if it is an elopement? Was the girl -afraid of your wife? And your brother-in-law? What on earth possesses him to -make a clandestine match of it? Was he afraid of your wife too?” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne made an effort to rouse himself. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course my brother-in-law, Captain Anthony, the son of . . . ” He checked -himself as if trying to break a bad habit. “He would be persuaded by her. We -have been most friendly to the girl!” -</p> - -<p> -“She struck me as a foolish and inconsiderate little person. But why should you -and your wife take to heart so strongly mere folly—or even a want of -consideration?” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s the most unscrupulous action,” declared Fyne weightily—and sighed. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose she is poor,” I observed after a short silence. “But after all . . . -” -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t know who she is.” Fyne had regained his average solemnity. -</p> - -<p> -I confessed that I had not caught her name when his wife had introduced us to -each other. “It was something beginning with an S- wasn’t it?” And then with -the utmost coolness Fyne remarked that it did not matter. The name was not her -name. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you mean to say that you made a young lady known to me under a false name?” -I asked, with the amused feeling that the days of wonders and portents had not -passed away yet. That the eminently serious Fynes should do such an exceptional -thing was simply staggering. With a more hasty enunciation than usual little -Fyne was sure that I would not demand an apology for this irregularity if I -knew what her real name was. A sort of warmth crept into his deep tone. -</p> - -<p> -“We have tried to befriend that girl in every way. She is the daughter and only -child of de Barral.” -</p> - -<p> -Evidently he expected to produce a sensation; he kept his eyes fixed upon me -prepared for some sign of it. But I merely returned his intense, awaiting gaze. -For a time we stared at each other. Conscious of being reprehensibly dense I -groped in the darkness of my mind: De Barral, De Barral—and all at once noise -and light burst on me as if a window of my memory had been suddenly flung open -on a street in the City. De Barral! But could it be the same? Surely not! -</p> - -<p> -“The financier?” I suggested half incredulous. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” said Fyne; and in this instance his native solemnity of tone seemed to -be strangely appropriate. “The convict.” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow looked at me, significantly, and remarked in an explanatory tone: -</p> - -<p> -“One somehow never thought of de Barral as having any children, or any other -home than the offices of the “Orb”; or any other existence, associations or -interests than financial. I see you remember the crash . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“I was away in the Indian Seas at the time,” I said. “But of course—” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course,” Marlow struck in. “All the world . . . You may wonder at my -slowness in recognizing the name. But you know that my memory is merely a -mausoleum of proper names. There they lie inanimate, awaiting the magic -touch—and not very prompt in arising when called, either. The name is the first -thing I forget of a man. It is but just to add that frequently it is also the -last, and this accounts for my possession of a good many anonymous memories. In -de Barral’s case, he got put away in my mausoleum in company with so many names -of his own creation that really he had to throw off a monstrous heap of grisly -bones before he stood before me at the call of the wizard Fyne. The fellow had -a pretty fancy in names: the “Orb” Deposit Bank, the “Sceptre” Mutual Aid -Society, the “Thrift and Independence” Association. Yes, a very pretty taste in -names; and nothing else besides—absolutely nothing—no other merit. Well yes. He -had another name, but that’s pure luck—his own name of de Barral which he did -not invent. I don’t think that a mere Jones or Brown could have fished out from -the depths of the Incredible such a colossal manifestation of human folly as -that man did. But it may be that I am underestimating the alacrity of human -folly in rising to the bait. No doubt I am. The greed of that absurd monster is -incalculable, unfathomable, inconceivable. The career of de Barral demonstrates -that it will rise to a naked hook. He didn’t lure it with a fairy tale. He -hadn’t enough imagination for it . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Was he a foreigner?” I asked. “It’s clearly a French name. I suppose it -<i>was</i> his name?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, he didn’t invent it. He was born to it, in Bethnal Green, as it came out -during the proceedings. He was in the habit of alluding to his Scotch -connections. But every great man has done that. The mother, I believe, was -Scotch, right enough. The father de Barral whatever his origins retired from -the Customs Service (tide-waiter I think), and started lending money in a very, -very small way in the East End to people connected with the docks, stevedores, -minor barge-owners, ship-chandlers, tally clerks, all sorts of very small fry. -He made his living at it. He was a very decent man I believe. He had enough -influence to place his only son as junior clerk in the account department of -one of the Dock Companies. “Now, my boy,” he said to him, “I’ve given you a -fine start.” But de Barral didn’t start. He stuck. He gave perfect -satisfaction. At the end of three years he got a small rise of salary and went -out courting in the evenings. He went courting the daughter of an old -sea-captain who was a churchwarden of his parish and lived in an old badly -preserved Georgian house with a garden: one of these houses standing in a -reduced bit of “grounds” that you discover in a labyrinth of the most sordid -streets, exactly alike and composed of six-roomed hutches. -</p> - -<p> -Some of them were the vicarages of slum parishes. The old sailor had got hold -of one cheap, and de Barral got hold of his daughter—which was a good bargain -for him. The old sailor was very good to the young couple and very fond of -their little girl. Mrs. de Barral was an equable, unassuming woman, at that -time with a fund of simple gaiety, and with no ambitions; but, woman-like, she -longed for change and for something interesting to happen now and then. It was -she who encouraged de Barral to accept the offer of a post in the west-end -branch of a great bank. It appears he shrank from such a great adventure for a -long time. At last his wife’s arguments prevailed. Later on she used to say: -‘It’s the only time he ever listened to me; and I wonder now if it hadn’t been -better for me to die before I ever made him go into that bank.’ -</p> - -<p> -You may be surprised at my knowledge of these details. Well, I had them -ultimately from Mrs. Fyne. Mrs. Fyne while yet Miss Anthony, in her days of -bondage, knew Mrs. de Barral in her days of exile. Mrs. de Barral was living -then in a big stone mansion with mullioned windows in a large damp park, called -the Priory, adjoining the village where the refined poet had built himself a -house. -</p> - -<p> -These were the days of de Barral’s success. He had bought the place without -ever seeing it and had packed off his wife and child at once there to take -possession. He did not know what to do with them in London. He himself had a -suite of rooms in an hotel. He gave there dinner parties followed by cards in -the evening. He had developed the gambling passion—or else a mere card -mania—but at any rate he played heavily, for relaxation, with a lot of dubious -hangers on. -</p> - -<p> -Meantime Mrs. de Barral, expecting him every day, lived at the Priory, with a -carriage and pair, a governess for the child and many servants. The village -people would see her through the railings wandering under the trees with her -little girl lost in her strange surroundings. Nobody ever came near her. And -there she died as some faithful and delicate animals die—from neglect, -absolutely from neglect, rather unexpectedly and without any fuss. The village -was sorry for her because, though obviously worried about something, she was -good to the poor and was always ready for a chat with any of the humble folks. -Of course they knew that she wasn’t a lady—not what you would call a real lady. -And even her acquaintance with Miss Anthony was only a cottage-door, a -village-street acquaintance. Carleon Anthony was a tremendous aristocrat (his -father had been a “restoring” architect) and his daughter was not allowed to -associate with anyone but the county young ladies. Nevertheless in defiance of -the poet’s wrathful concern for undefiled refinement there were some quiet, -melancholy strolls to and fro in the great avenue of chestnuts leading to the -park-gate, during which Mrs. de Barral came to call Miss Anthony ‘my dear’—and -even ‘my poor dear.’ The lonely soul had no one to talk to but that not very -happy girl. The governess despised her. The housekeeper was distant in her -manner. Moreover Mrs. de Barral was no foolish gossiping woman. But she made -some confidences to Miss Anthony. Such wealth was a terrific thing to have -thrust upon one she affirmed. Once she went so far as to confess that she was -dying with anxiety. Mr. de Barral (so she referred to him) had been an -excellent husband and an exemplary father but “you see my dear I have had a -great experience of him. I am sure he won’t know what to do with all that money -people are giving to him to take care of for them. He’s as likely as not to do -something rash. When he comes here I must have a good long serious talk with -him, like the talks we often used to have together in the good old times of our -life.” And then one day a cry of anguish was wrung from her: ‘My dear, he will -never come here, he will never, never come!’ -</p> - -<p> -She was wrong. He came to the funeral, was extremely cut up, and holding the -child tightly by the hand wept bitterly at the side of the grave. Miss Anthony, -at the cost of a whole week of sneers and abuse from the poet, saw it all with -her own eyes. De Barral clung to the child like a drowning man. He managed, -though, to catch the half-past five fast train, travelling to town alone in a -reserved compartment, with all the blinds down . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Leaving the child?” I said interrogatively. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Leaving . . . He shirked the problem. He was born that way. He had no -idea what to do with her or for that matter with anything or anybody including -himself. He bolted back to his suite of rooms in the hotel. He was the most -helpless . . . She might have been left in the Priory to the end of time had -not the high-toned governess threatened to send in her resignation. She didn’t -care for the child a bit, and the lonely, gloomy Priory had got on her nerves. -She wasn’t going to put up with such a life and, having just come out of some -ducal family, she bullied de Barral in a very lofty fashion. To pacify her he -took a splendidly furnished house in the most expensive part of Brighton for -them, and now and then ran down for a week-end, with a trunk full of exquisite -sweets and with his hat full of money. The governess spent it for him in extra -ducal style. She was nearly forty and harboured a secret taste for patronizing -young men of sorts—of a certain sort. But of that Mrs. Fyne of course had no -personal knowledge then; she told me however that even in the Priory days she -had suspected her of being an artificial, heartless, vulgar-minded woman with -the lowest possible ideals. But de Barral did not know it. He literally did not -know anything . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“But tell me, Marlow,” I interrupted, “how do you account for this opinion? He -must have been a personality in a sense—in some one sense surely. You don’t -work the greatest material havoc of a decade at least, in a commercial -community, without having something in you.” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow shook his head. -</p> - -<p> -“He was a mere sign, a portent. There was nothing in him. Just about that time -the word Thrift was to the fore. You know the power of words. We pass through -periods dominated by this or that word—it may be development, or it may be -competition, or education, or purity or efficiency or even sanctity. It is the -word of the time. Well just then it was the word Thrift which was out in the -streets walking arm in arm with righteousness, the inseparable companion and -backer up of all such national catch-words, looking everybody in the eye as it -were. The very drabs of the pavement, poor things, didn’t escape the -fascination . . . However! . . . Well the greatest portion of the press were -screeching in all possible tones, like a confounded company of parrots -instructed by some devil with a taste for practical jokes, that the financier -de Barral was helping the great moral evolution of our character towards the -newly-discovered virtue of Thrift. He was helping it by all these great -establishments of his, which made the moral merits of Thrift manifest to the -most callous hearts, simply by promising to pay ten per cent. interest on all -deposits. And you didn’t want necessarily to belong to the well-to-do classes -in order to participate in the advantages of virtue. If you had but a spare -sixpence in the world and went and gave it to de Barral it was Thrift! It’s -quite likely that he himself believed it. He must have. It’s inconceivable that -he alone should stand out against the infatuation of the whole world. He hadn’t -enough intelligence for that. But to look at him one couldn’t tell . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“You did see him then?” I said with some curiosity. -</p> - -<p> -“I did. Strange, isn’t it? It was only once, but as I sat with the distressed -Fyne who had suddenly resuscitated his name buried in my memory with other dead -labels of the past, I may say I saw him again, I saw him with great vividness -of recollection, as he appeared in the days of his glory or splendour. No! -Neither of these words will fit his success. There was never any glory or -splendour about that figure. Well, let us say in the days when he was, -according to the majority of the daily press, a financial force working for the -improvement of the character of the people. I’ll tell you how it came about. -</p> - -<p> -At that time I used to know a podgy, wealthy, bald little man having chambers -in the Albany; a financier too, in his way, carrying out transactions of an -intimate nature and of no moral character; mostly with young men of birth and -expectations—though I dare say he didn’t withhold his ministrations from -elderly plebeians either. He was a true democrat; he would have done business -(a sharp kind of business) with the devil himself. Everything was fly that came -into his web. He received the applicants in an alert, jovial fashion which was -quite surprising. It gave relief without giving too much confidence, which was -just as well perhaps. His business was transacted in an apartment furnished -like a drawing-room, the walls hung with several brown, heavily-framed, oil -paintings. I don’t know if they were good, but they were big, and with their -elaborate, tarnished gilt-frames had a melancholy dignity. The man himself sat -at a shining, inlaid writing table which looked like a rare piece from a museum -of art; his chair had a high, oval, carved back, upholstered in faded tapestry; -and these objects made of the costly black Havana cigar, which he rolled -incessantly from the middle to the left corner of his mouth and back again, an -inexpressibly cheap and nasty object. I had to see him several times in the -interest of a poor devil so unlucky that he didn’t even have a more competent -friend than myself to speak for him at a very difficult time in his life. -</p> - -<p> -I don’t know at what hour my private financier began his day, but he used to -give one appointments at unheard of times: such as a quarter to eight in the -morning, for instance. On arriving one found him busy at that marvellous -writing table, looking very fresh and alert, exhaling a faint fragrance of -scented soap and with the cigar already well alight. You may believe that I -entered on my mission with many unpleasant forebodings; but there was in that -fat, admirably washed, little man such a profound contempt for mankind that it -amounted to a species of good nature; which, unlike the milk of genuine -kindness, was never in danger of turning sour. Then, once, during a pause in -business, while we were waiting for the production of a document for which he -had sent (perhaps to the cellar?) I happened to remark, glancing round the -room, that I had never seen so many fine things assembled together out of a -collection. Whether this was unconscious diplomacy on my part, or not, I -shouldn’t like to say—but the remark was true enough, and it pleased him -extremely. “It <i>is</i> a collection,” he said emphatically. “Only I live -right in it, which most collectors don’t. But I see that you know what you are -looking at. Not many people who come here on business do. Stable fittings are -more in their way.” -</p> - -<p> -I don’t know whether my appreciation helped to advance my friend’s business but -at any rate it helped our intercourse. He treated me with a shade of -familiarity as one of the initiated. -</p> - -<p> -The last time I called on him to conclude the transaction we were interrupted -by a person, something like a cross between a bookmaker and a private -secretary, who, entering through a door which was not the anteroom door, walked -up and stooped to whisper into his ear. -</p> - -<p> -“Eh? What? Who, did you say?” -</p> - -<p> -The nondescript person stooped and whispered again, adding a little louder: -“Says he won’t detain you a moment.” -</p> - -<p> -My little man glanced at me, said “Ah! Well,” irresolutely. I got up from my -chair and offered to come again later. He looked whimsically alarmed. “No, no. -It’s bad enough to lose my money but I don’t want to waste any more of my time -over your friend. We must be done with this to-day. Just go and have a look at -that <i>garniture de cheminée</i> yonder. There’s another, something -like it, in the castle of Laeken, but mine’s much superior in design.” -</p> - -<p> -I moved accordingly to the other side of that big room. The <i>garniture</i> -was very fine. But while pretending to examine it I watched my man going -forward to meet a tall visitor, who said, “I thought you would be disengaged so -early. It’s only a word or two”—and after a whispered confabulation of no more -than a minute, reconduct him to the door and shake hands ceremoniously. “Not at -all, not at all. Very pleased to be of use. You can depend absolutely on my -information”—“Oh thank you, thank you. I just looked in.” “Certainly, quite -right. Any time . . . Good morning.” -</p> - -<p> -I had a good look at the visitor while they were exchanging these civilities. -He was clad in black. I remember perfectly that he wore a flat, broad, black -satin tie in which was stuck a large cameo pin; and a small turn down collar. -His hair, discoloured and silky, curled slightly over his ears. His cheeks were -hairless and round, and apparently soft. He held himself very upright, walked -with small steps and spoke gently in an inward voice. Perhaps from contrast -with the magnificent polish of the room and the neatness of its owner, he -struck me as dingy, indigent, and, if not exactly humble, then much subdued by -evil fortune. -</p> - -<p> -I wondered greatly at my fat little financier’s civility to that dubious -personage when he asked me, as we resumed our respective seats, whether I knew -who it was that had just gone out. On my shaking my head negatively he smiled -queerly, said “De Barral,” and enjoyed my surprise. Then becoming grave: -“That’s a deep fellow, if you like. We all know where he started from and where -he got to; but nobody knows what he means to do.” He became thoughtful for a -moment and added as if speaking to himself, “I wonder what his game is.” -</p> - -<p> -And, you know, there was no game, no game of any sort, or shape or kind. It -came out plainly at the trial. As I’ve told you before, he was a clerk in a -bank, like thousands of others. He got that berth as a second start in life and -there he stuck again, giving perfect satisfaction. Then one day as though a -supernatural voice had whispered into his ear or some invisible fly had stung -him, he put on his hat, went out into the street and began advertising. That’s -absolutely all that there was to it. He caught in the street the word of the -time and harnessed it to his preposterous chariot. -</p> - -<p> -One remembers his first modest advertisements headed with the magic word -Thrift, Thrift, Thrift, thrice repeated; promising ten per cent. on all -deposits and giving the address of the Thrift and Independence Aid Association -in Vauxhall Bridge Road. Apparently nothing more was necessary. He didn’t even -explain what he meant to do with the money he asked the public to pour into his -lap. Of course he meant to lend it out at high rates of interest. He did so—but -he did it without system, plan, foresight or judgment. And as he frittered away -the sums that flowed in, he advertised for more—and got it. During a period of -general business prosperity he set up The Orb Bank and The Sceptre Trust, -simply, it seems for advertising purposes. They were mere names. He was totally -unable to organize anything, to promote any sort of enterprise if it were only -for the purpose of juggling with the shares. At that time he could have had for -the asking any number of Dukes, retired Generals, active M.P.’s, ex-ambassadors -and so on as Directors to sit at the wildest boards of his invention. But he -never tried. He had no real imagination. All he could do was to publish more -advertisements and open more branch offices of the Thrift and Independence, of -The Orb, of The Sceptre, for the receipt of deposits; first in this town, then -in that town, north and south—everywhere where he could find suitable premises -at a moderate rent. For this was the great characteristic of the management. -Modesty, moderation, simplicity. Neither The Orb nor The Sceptre nor yet their -parent the Thrift and Independence had built for themselves the usual palaces. -For this abstention they were praised in silly public prints as illustrating in -their management the principle of Thrift for which they were founded. The fact -is that de Barral simply didn’t think of it. Of course he had soon moved from -Vauxhall Bridge Road. He knew enough for that. What he got hold of next was an -old, enormous, rat-infested brick house in a small street off the Strand. -Strangers were taken in front of the meanest possible, begrimed, yellowy, flat -brick wall, with two rows of unadorned window-holes one above the other, and -were exhorted with bated breath to behold and admire the simplicity of the -head-quarters of the great financial force of the day. The word THRIFT perched -right up on the roof in giant gilt letters, and two enormous shield-like -brass-plates curved round the corners on each side of the doorway were the only -shining spots in de Barral’s business outfit. Nobody knew what operations were -carried on inside except this—that if you walked in and tendered your money -over the counter it would be calmly taken from you by somebody who would give -you a printed receipt. That and no more. It appears that such knowledge is -irresistible. People went in and tendered; and once it was taken from their -hands their money was more irretrievably gone from them than if they had thrown -it into the sea. This then, and nothing else was being carried on in there . . -. ” -</p> - -<p> -“Come, Marlow,” I said, “you exaggerate surely—if only by your way of putting -things. It’s too startling.” -</p> - -<p> -“I exaggerate!” he defended himself. “My way of putting things! My dear fellow -I have merely stripped the rags of business verbiage and financial jargon off -my statements. And you are startled! I am giving you the naked truth. It’s true -too that nothing lays itself open to the charge of exaggeration more than the -language of naked truth. What comes with a shock is admitted with difficulty. -But what will you say to the end of his career? -</p> - -<p> -It was of course sensational and tolerably sudden. It began with the Orb -Deposit Bank. Under the name of that institution de Barral with the frantic -obstinacy of an unimaginative man had been financing an Indian prince who was -prosecuting a claim for immense sums of money against the government. It was an -enormous number of scores of lakhs—a miserable remnant of his ancestors’ -treasures—that sort of thing. And it was all authentic enough. There was a real -prince; and the claim too was sufficiently real—only unfortunately it was not a -valid claim. So the prince lost his case on the last appeal and the beginning -of de Barral’s end became manifest to the public in the shape of a half-sheet -of note paper wafered by the four corners on the closed door of The Orb offices -notifying that payment was stopped at that establishment. -</p> - -<p> -Its consort The Sceptre collapsed within the week. I won’t say in American -parlance that suddenly the bottom fell out of the whole of de Barral concerns. -There never had been any bottom to it. It was like the cask of Danaides into -which the public had been pleased to pour its deposits. That they were gone was -clear; and the bankruptcy proceedings which followed were like a sinister -farce, bursts of laughter in a setting of mute anguish—that of the depositors; -hundreds of thousands of them. The laughter was irresistible; the accompaniment -of the bankrupt’s public examination. -</p> - -<p> -I don’t know if it was from utter lack of all imagination or from the -possession in undue proportion of a particular kind of it, or from both—and the -three alternatives are possible—but it was discovered that this man who had -been raised to such a height by the credulity of the public was himself more -gullible than any of his depositors. He had been the prey of all sorts of -swindlers, adventurers, visionaries and even lunatics. Wrapping himself up in -deep and imbecile secrecy he had gone in for the most fantastic schemes: a -harbour and docks on the coast of Patagonia, quarries in Labrador—such like -speculations. Fisheries to feed a canning Factory on the banks of the Amazon -was one of them. A principality to be bought in Madagascar was another. As the -grotesque details of these incredible transactions came out one by one ripples -of laughter ran over the closely packed court—each one a little louder than the -other. The audience ended by fairly roaring under the cumulative effect of -absurdity. The Registrar laughed, the barristers laughed, the reporters -laughed, the serried ranks of the miserable depositors watching anxiously every -word, laughed like one man. They laughed hysterically—the poor wretches—on the -verge of tears. -</p> - -<p> -There was only one person who remained unmoved. It was de Barral himself. He -preserved his serene, gentle expression, I am told (for I have not witnessed -those scenes myself), and looked around at the people with an air of placid -sufficiency which was the first hint to the world of the man’s overweening, -unmeasurable conceit, hidden hitherto under a diffident manner. It could be -seen too in his dogged assertion that if he had been given enough time and a -lot more money everything would have come right. And there were some people -(yes, amongst his very victims) who more than half believed him, even after the -criminal prosecution which soon followed. When placed in the dock he lost his -steadiness as if some sustaining illusion had gone to pieces within him -suddenly. He ceased to be himself in manner completely, and even in -disposition, in so far that his faded neutral eyes matching his discoloured -hair so well, were discovered then to be capable of expressing a sort of -underhand hate. He was at first defiant, then insolent, then broke down and -burst into tears; but it might have been from rage. Then he calmed down, -returned to his soft manner of speech and to that unassuming quiet bearing -which had been usual with him even in his greatest days. But it seemed as -though in this moment of change he had at last perceived what a power he had -been; for he remarked to one of the prosecuting counsel who had assumed a lofty -moral tone in questioning him, that—yes, he had gambled—he liked cards. But -that only a year ago a host of smart people would have been only too pleased to -take a hand at cards with him. Yes—he went on—some of the very people who were -there accommodated with seats on the bench; and turning upon the counsel “You -yourself as well,” he cried. He could have had half the town at his rooms to -fawn upon him if he had cared for that sort of thing. “Why, now I think of it, -it took me most of my time to keep people, just of your sort, off me,” he ended -with a good humoured—quite unobtrusive, contempt, as though the fact had dawned -upon him for the first time. -</p> - -<p> -This was the moment, the only moment, when he had perhaps all the audience in -Court with him, in a hush of dreary silence. And then the dreary proceedings -were resumed. For all the outside excitement it was the most dreary of all -celebrated trials. The bankruptcy proceedings had exhausted all the laughter -there was in it. Only the fact of wide-spread ruin remained, and the resentment -of a mass of people for having been fooled by means too simple to save their -self-respect from a deep wound which the cleverness of a consummate scoundrel -would not have inflicted. A shamefaced amazement attended these proceedings in -which de Barral was not being exposed alone. For himself his only cry was: -Time! Time! Time would have set everything right. In time some of these -speculations of his were certain to have succeeded. He repeated this defence, -this excuse, this confession of faith, with wearisome iteration. Everything he -had done or left undone had been to gain time. He had hypnotized himself with -the word. Sometimes, I am told, his appearance was ecstatic, his motionless -pale eyes seemed to be gazing down the vista of future ages. Time—and of -course, more money. “Ah! If only you had left me alone for a couple of years -more,” he cried once in accents of passionate belief. “The money was coming in -all right.” The deposits you understand—the savings of Thrift. Oh yes they had -been coming in to the very last moment. And he regretted them. He had arrived -to regard them as his own by a sort of mystical persuasion. And yet it was a -perfectly true cry, when he turned once more on the counsel who was beginning a -question with the words “You have had all these immense sums . . . ” with the -indignant retort “<i>What</i> have I had out of them?” -</p> - -<p> -“It was perfectly true. He had had nothing out of them—nothing of the -prestigious or the desirable things of the earth, craved for by predatory -natures. He had gratified no tastes, had known no luxury; he had built no -gorgeous palaces, had formed no splendid galleries out of these “immense sums.” -He had not even a home. He had gone into these rooms in an hotel and had stuck -there for years, giving no doubt perfect satisfaction to the management. They -had twice raised his rent to show I suppose their high sense of his -distinguished patronage. He had bought for himself out of all the wealth -streaming through his fingers neither adulation nor love, neither splendour nor -comfort. There was something perfect in his consistent mediocrity. His very -vanity seemed to miss the gratification of even the mere show of power. In the -days when he was most fully in the public eye the invincible obscurity of his -origins clung to him like a shadowy garment. He had handled millions without -ever enjoying anything of what is counted as precious in the community of men, -because he had neither the brutality of temperament nor the fineness of mind to -make him desire them with the will power of a masterful adventurer . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“You seem to have studied the man,” I observed. -</p> - -<p> -“Studied,” repeated Marlow thoughtfully. “No! Not studied. I had no -opportunities. You know that I saw him only on that one occasion I told you of. -But it may be that a glimpse and no more is the proper way of seeing an -individuality; and de Barral was that, in virtue of his very deficiencies for -they made of him something quite unlike one’s preconceived ideas. There were -also very few materials accessible to a man like me to form a judgment from. -But in such a case I verify believe that a little is as good as a feast—perhaps -better. If one has a taste for that kind of thing the merest starting-point -becomes a coign of vantage, and then by a series of logically deducted -verisimilitudes one arrives at truth—or very near the truth—as near as any -circumstantial evidence can do. I have not studied de Barral but that is how I -understand him so far as he could be understood through the din of the crash; -the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the newspaper contents bills, “The Thrift -Frauds. Cross-examination of the accused. Extra special”—blazing fiercely; the -charitable appeals for the victims, the grave tones of the dailies rumbling -with compassion as if they were the national bowels. All this lasted a whole -week of industrious sittings. A pressman whom I knew told me “He’s an idiot.” -Which was possible. Before that I overheard once somebody declaring that he had -a criminal type of face; which I knew was untrue. The sentence was pronounced -by artificial light in a stifling poisonous atmosphere. Something edifying was -said by the judge weightily, about the retribution overtaking the perpetrator -of “the most heartless frauds on an unprecedented scale.” I don’t understand -these things much, but it appears that he had juggled with accounts, cooked -balance sheets, had gathered in deposits months after he ought to have known -himself to be hopelessly insolvent, and done enough of other things, highly -reprehensible in the eyes of the law, to earn for himself seven years’ penal -servitude. The sentence making its way outside met with a good reception. A -small mob composed mainly of people who themselves did not look particularly -clever and scrupulous, leavened by a slight sprinkling of genuine pickpockets -amused itself by cheering in the most penetrating, abominable cold drizzle that -I remember. I happened to be passing there on my way from the East End where I -had spent my day about the Docks with an old chum who was looking after the -fitting out of a new ship. I am always eager, when allowed, to call on a new -ship. They interest me like charming young persons. -</p> - -<p> -I got mixed up in that crowd seething with an animosity as senseless as things -of the street always are, and it was while I was laboriously making my way out -of it that the pressman of whom I spoke was jostled against me. He did me the -justice to be surprised. “What? You here! The last person in the world . . . If -I had known I could have got you inside. Plenty of room. Interest been over for -the last three days. Got seven years. Well, I am glad.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why are you glad? Because he’s got seven years?” I asked, greatly incommoded -by the pressure of a hulking fellow who was remarking to some of his equally -oppressive friends that the “beggar ought to have been poleaxed.” I don’t know -whether he had ever confided his savings to de Barral but if so, judging from -his appearance, they must have been the proceeds of some successful burglary. -The pressman by my side said ‘No,’ to my question. He was glad because it was -all over. He had suffered greatly from the heat and the bad air of the court. -The clammy, raw, chill of the streets seemed to affect his liver instantly. He -became contemptuous and irritable and plied his elbows viciously making way for -himself and me. -</p> - -<p> -A dull affair this. All such cases were dull. No really dramatic moments. The -book-keeping of The Orb and all the rest of them was certainly a burlesque -revelation but the public did not care for revelations of that kind. Dull dog -that de Barral—he grumbled. He could not or would not take the trouble to -characterize for me the appearance of that man now officially a criminal (we -had gone across the road for a drink) but told me with a sourly, derisive -snigger that, after the sentence had been pronounced the fellow clung to the -dock long enough to make a sort of protest. ‘You haven’t given me time. If I -had been given time I would have ended by being made a peer like some of them.’ -And he had permitted himself his very first and last gesture in all these days, -raising a hard-clenched fist above his head. -</p> - -<p> -The pressman disapproved of that manifestation. It was not his business to -understand it. Is it ever the business of any pressman to understand anything? -I guess not. It would lead him too far away from the actualities which are the -daily bread of the public mind. He probably thought the display worth very -little from a picturesque point of view; the weak voice; the colourless -personality as incapable of an attitude as a bed-post, the very fatuity of the -clenched hand so ineffectual at that time and place—no, it wasn’t worth much. -And then, for him, an accomplished craftsman in his trade, thinking was -distinctly “bad business.” His business was to write a readable account. But I -who had nothing to write, I permitted myself to use my mind as we sat before -our still untouched glasses. And the disclosure which so often rewards a moment -of detachment from mere visual impressions gave me a thrill very much -approaching a shudder. I seemed to understand that, with the shock of the -agonies and perplexities of his trial, the imagination of that man, whose -moods, notions and motives wore frequently an air of grotesque mystery—that his -imagination had been at last roused into activity. And this was awful. Just try -to enter into the feelings of a man whose imagination wakes up at the very -moment he is about to enter the tomb . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“You must not think,” went on Marlow after a pause, “that on that morning with -Fyne I went consciously in my mind over all this, let us call it information; -no, better say, this fund of knowledge which I had, or rather which existed, in -me in regard to de Barral. Information is something one goes out to seek and -puts away when found as you might do a piece of lead: ponderous, useful, -unvibrating, dull. Whereas knowledge comes to one, this sort of knowledge, a -chance acquisition preserving in its repose a fine resonant quality . . . But -as such distinctions touch upon the transcendental I shall spare you the pain -of listening to them. There are limits to my cruelty. No! I didn’t reckon up -carefully in my mind all this I have been telling you. How could I have done -so, with Fyne right there in the room? He sat perfectly still, statuesque in -homely fashion, after having delivered himself of his effective assent: “Yes. -The convict,” and I, far from indulging in a reminiscent excursion into the -past, remained sufficiently in the present to muse in a vague, absent-minded -way on the respectable proportions and on the (upon the whole) comely shape of -his great pedestrian’s calves, for he had thrown one leg over his knee, -carelessly, to conceal the trouble of his mind by an air of ease. But all the -same the knowledge was in me, the awakened resonance of which I spoke just now; -I was aware of it on that beautiful day, so fresh, so warm and friendly, so -accomplished—an exquisite courtesy of the much abused English climate when it -makes up its meteorological mind to behave like a perfect gentleman. Of course -the English climate is never a rough. It suffers from spleen somewhat -frequently—but that is gentlemanly too, and I don’t mind going to meet him in -that mood. He has his days of grey, veiled, polite melancholy, in which he is -very fascinating. How seldom he lapses into a blustering manner, after all! And -then it is mostly in a season when, appropriately enough, one may go out and -kill something. But his fine days are the best for stopping at home, to read, -to think, to muse—even to dream; in fact to live fully, intensely and quietly, -in the brightness of comprehension, in that receptive glow of the mind, the -gift of the clear, luminous and serene weather. -</p> - -<p> -That day I had intended to live intensely and quietly, basking in the weather’s -glory which would have lent enchantment to the most unpromising of intellectual -prospects. For a companion I had found a book, not bemused with the cleverness -of the day—a fine-weather book, simple and sincere like the talk of an -unselfish friend. But looking at little Fyne seated in the room I understood -that nothing would come of my contemplative aspirations; that in one way or -another I should be let in for some form of severe exercise. Walking, it would -be, I feared, since, for me, that idea was inseparably associated with the -visual impression of Fyne. Where, why, how, a rapid striding rush could be -brought in helpful relation to the good Fyne’s present trouble and perplexity I -could not imagine; except on the principle that senseless pedestrianism was -Fyne’s panacea for all the ills and evils bodily and spiritual of the universe. -It could be of no use for me to say or do anything. It was bound to come. -Contemplating his muscular limb encased in a golf-stocking, and under the -strong impression of the information he had just imparted I said wondering, -rather irrationally: -</p> - -<p> -“And so de Barral had a wife and child! That girl’s his daughter. And how . . . -” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne interrupted me by stating again earnestly, as though it were something not -easy to believe, that his wife and himself had tried to befriend the girl in -every way—indeed they had! I did not doubt him for a moment, of course, but my -wonder at this was more rational. At that hour of the morning, you mustn’t -forget, I knew nothing as yet of Mrs. Fyne’s contact (it was hardly more) with -de Barral’s wife and child during their exile at the Priory, in the culminating -days of that man’s fame. -</p> - -<p> -Fyne who had come over, it was clear, solely to talk to me on that subject, -gave me the first hint of this initial, merely out of doors, connection. “The -girl was quite a child then,” he continued. “Later on she was removed out of -Mrs. Fyne’s reach in charge of a governess—a very unsatisfactory person,” he -explained. His wife had then—h’m—met him; and on her marriage she lost sight of -the child completely. But after the birth of Polly (Polly was the third Fyne -girl) she did not get on very well, and went to Brighton for some months to -recover her strength—and there, one day in the street, the child (she wore her -hair down her back still) recognized her outside a shop and rushed, actually -rushed, into Mrs. Fyne’s arms. Rather touching this. And so, disregarding the -cold impertinence of that . . . h’m . . . governess, his wife naturally -responded. -</p> - -<p> -He was solemnly fragmentary. I broke in with the observation that it must have -been before the crash. -</p> - -<p> -Fyne nodded with deepened gravity, stating in his bass tone— -</p> - -<p> -“Just before,” and indulged himself with a weighty period of solemn silence. -</p> - -<p> -De Barral, he resumed suddenly, was not coming to Brighton for week-ends -regularly, then. Must have been conscious already of the approaching disaster. -Mrs. Fyne avoided being drawn into making his acquaintance, and this suited the -views of the governess person, very jealous of any outside influence. But in -any case it would not have been an easy matter. Extraordinary, stiff-backed, -thin figure all in black, the observed of all, while walking hand-in-hand with -the girl; apparently shy, but—and here Fyne came very near showing something -like insight—probably nursing under a diffident manner a considerable amount of -secret arrogance. Mrs. Fyne pitied Flora de Barral’s fate long before the -catastrophe. Most unfortunate guidance. Very unsatisfactory surroundings. The -girl was known in the streets, was stared at in public places as if she had -been a sort of princess, but she was kept with a very ominous consistency, from -making any acquaintances—though of course there were many people no doubt who -would have been more than willing to—h’m—make themselves agreeable to Miss de -Barral. But this did not enter into the plans of the governess, an intriguing -person hatching a most sinister plot under her severe air of distant, -fashionable exclusiveness. Good little Fyne’s eyes bulged with solemn horror as -he revealed to me, in agitated speech, his wife’s more than suspicions, at the -time, of that, Mrs., Mrs. What’s her name’s perfidious conduct. She actually -seemed to have—Mrs. Fyne asserted—formed a plot already to marry eventually her -charge to an impecunious relation of her own—a young man with furtive eyes and -something impudent in his manner, whom that woman called her nephew, and whom -she was always having down to stay with her. -</p> - -<p> -“And perhaps not her nephew. No relation at all”—Fyne emitted with a convulsive -effort this, the most awful part of the suspicions Mrs. Fyne used to impart to -him piecemeal when he came down to spend his week-ends gravely with her and the -children. The Fynes, in their good-natured concern for the unlucky child of the -man busied in stirring casually so many millions, spent the moments of their -weekly reunion in wondering earnestly what could be done to defeat the most -wicked of conspiracies, trying to invent some tactful line of conduct in such -extraordinary circumstances. I could see them, simple, and scrupulous, worrying -honestly about that unprotected big girl while looking at their own little -girls playing on the sea-shore. Fyne assured me that his wife’s rest was -disturbed by the great problem of interference. -</p> - -<p> -“It was very acute of Mrs. Fyne to spot such a deep game,” I said, wondering to -myself where her acuteness had gone to now, to let her be taken unawares by a -game so much simpler and played to the end under her very nose. But then, at -that time, when her nightly rest was disturbed by the dread of the fate -preparing for de Barral’s unprotected child, she was not engaged in writing a -compendious and ruthless hand-book on the theory and practice of life, for the -use of women with a grievance. She could as yet, before the task of evolving -the philosophy of rebellious action had affected her intuitive sharpness, -perceive things which were, I suspect, moderately plain. For I am inclined to -believe that the woman whom chance had put in command of Flora de Barral’s -destiny took no very subtle pains to conceal her game. She was conscious of -being a complete master of the situation, having once for all established her -ascendancy over de Barral. She had taken all her measures against outside -observation of her conduct; and I could not help smiling at the thought what a -ghastly nuisance the serious, innocent Fynes must have been to her. How -exasperated she must have been by that couple falling into Brighton as -completely unforeseen as a bolt from the blue—if not so prompt. How she must -have hated them! -</p> - -<p> -But I conclude she would have carried out whatever plan she might have formed. -I can imagine de Barral accustomed for years to defer to her wishes and, either -through arrogance, or shyness, or simply because of his unimaginative -stupidity, remaining outside the social pale, knowing no one but some -card-playing cronies; I can picture him to myself terrified at the prospect of -having the care of a marriageable girl thrust on his hands, forcing on him a -complete change of habits and the necessity of another kind of existence which -he would not even have known how to begin. It is evident to me that Mrs. What’s -her name would have had her atrocious way with very little trouble even if the -excellent Fynes had been able to do something. She would simply have bullied de -Barral in a lofty style. There’s nothing more subservient than an arrogant man -when his arrogance has once been broken in some particular instance. -</p> - -<p> -However there was no time and no necessity for any one to do anything. The -situation itself vanished in the financial crash as a building vanishes in an -earthquake—here one moment and gone the next with only an ill-omened, slight, -preliminary rumble. Well, to say ‘in a moment’ is an exaggeration perhaps; but -that everything was over in just twenty-four hours is an exact statement. Fyne -was able to tell me all about it; and the phrase that would depict the nature -of the change best is: an instant and complete destitution. I don’t understand -these matters very well, but from Fyne’s narrative it seemed as if the -creditors or the depositors, or the competent authorities, had got hold in the -twinkling of an eye of everything de Barral possessed in the world, down to his -watch and chain, the money in his trousers’ pocket, his spare suits of clothes, -and I suppose the cameo pin out of his black satin cravat. Everything! I -believe he gave up the very wedding ring of his late wife. The gloomy Priory -with its damp park and a couple of farms had been made over to Mrs. de Barral; -but when she died (without making a will) it reverted to him, I imagine. They -got that of course; but it was a mere crumb in a Sahara of starvation, a drop -in the thirsty ocean. I dare say that not a single soul in the world got the -comfort of as much as a recovered threepenny bit out of the estate. Then, less -than crumbs, less than drops, there were to be grabbed, the lease of the big -Brighton house, the furniture therein, the carriage and pair, the girl’s riding -horse, her costly trinkets; down to the heavily gold-mounted collar of her -pedigree St. Bernard. The dog too went: the most noble-looking item in the -beggarly assets. -</p> - -<p> -What however went first of all or rather vanished was nothing in the nature of -an asset. It was that plotting governess with the trick of a “perfect lady” -manner (severely conventional) and the soul of a remorseless brigand. When a -woman takes to any sort of unlawful man-trade, there’s nothing to beat her in -the way of thoroughness. It’s true that you will find people who’ll tell you -that this terrific virulence in breaking through all established things, is -altogether the fault of men. Such people will ask you with a clever air why the -servile wars were always the most fierce, desperate and atrocious of all wars. -And you may make such answer as you can—even the eminently feminine one, if you -choose, so typical of the women’s literal mind “I don’t see what this has to do -with it!” How many arguments have been knocked over (I won’t say knocked down) -by these few words! For if we men try to put the spaciousness of all -experiences into our reasoning and would fain put the Infinite itself into our -love, it isn’t, as some writer has remarked, “It isn’t women’s doing.” Oh no. -They don’t care for these things. That sort of aspiration is not much in their -way; and it shall be a funny world, the world of their arranging, where the -Irrelevant would fantastically step in to take the place of the sober humdrum -Imaginative . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -I raised my hand to stop my friend Marlow. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you really believe what you have said?” I asked, meaning no offence, -because with Marlow one never could be sure. -</p> - -<p> -“Only on certain days of the year,” said Marlow readily with a malicious smile. -“To-day I have been simply trying to be spacious and I perceive I’ve managed to -hurt your susceptibilities which are consecrated to women. When you sit alone -and silent you are defending in your mind the poor women from attacks which -cannot possibly touch them. I wonder what can touch them? But to soothe your -uneasiness I will point out again that an Irrelevant world would be very -amusing, if the women take care to make it as charming as they alone can, by -preserving for us certain well-known, well-established, I’ll almost say -hackneyed, illusions, without which the average male creature cannot get on. -And that condition is very important. For there is nothing more provoking than -the Irrelevant when it has ceased to amuse and charm; and then the danger would -be of the subjugated masculinity in its exasperation, making some brusque, -unguarded movement and accidentally putting its elbow through the fine tissue -of the world of which I speak. And that would be fatal to it. For nothing looks -more irretrievably deplorable than fine tissue which has been damaged. The -women themselves would be the first to become disgusted with their own -creation. -</p> - -<p> -There was something of women’s highly practical sanity and also of their -irrelevancy in the conduct of Miss de Barral’s amazing governess. It appeared -from Fyne’s narrative that the day before the first rumble of the cataclysm the -questionable young man arrived unexpectedly in Brighton to stay with his -“Aunt.” To all outward appearance everything was going on normally; the fellow -went out riding with the girl in the afternoon as he often used to do—a sight -which never failed to fill Mrs. Fyne with indignation. Fyne himself was down -there with his family for a whole week and was called to the window to behold -the iniquity in its progress and to share in his wife’s feelings. There was not -even a groom with them. And Mrs. Fyne’s distress was so strong at this glimpse -of the unlucky girl all unconscious of her danger riding smilingly by, that -Fyne began to consider seriously whether it wasn’t their plain duty to -interfere at all risks—simply by writing a letter to de Barral. He said to his -wife with a solemnity I can easily imagine “You ought to undertake that task, -my dear. You have known his wife after all. That’s something at any rate.” On -the other hand the fear of exposing Mrs. Fyne to some nasty rebuff worried him -exceedingly. Mrs. Fyne on her side gave way to despondency. Success seemed -impossible. Here was a woman for more than five years in charge of the girl and -apparently enjoying the complete confidence of the father. What, that would be -effective, could one say, without proofs, without . . . This Mr. de Barral must -be, Mrs. Fyne pronounced, either a very stupid or a downright bad man, to -neglect his child so. -</p> - -<p> -You will notice that perhaps because of Fyne’s solemn view of our transient -life and Mrs. Fyne’s natural capacity for responsibility, it had never occurred -to them that the simplest way out of the difficulty was to do nothing and -dismiss the matter as no concern of theirs. Which in a strict worldly sense it -certainly was not. But they spent, Fyne told me, a most disturbed afternoon, -considering the ways and means of dealing with the danger hanging over the head -of the girl out for a ride (and no doubt enjoying herself) with an abominable -scamp. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER FOUR—THE GOVERNESS</h3> - -<p> -And the best of it was that the danger was all over already. There was no -danger any more. The supposed nephew’s appearance had a purpose. He had come, -full, full to trembling—with the bigness of his news. There must have been -rumours already as to the shaky position of the de Barral’s concerns; but only -amongst those in the very inmost know. No rumour or echo of rumour had reached -the profane in the West-End—let alone in the guileless marine suburb of Hove. -The Fynes had no suspicion; the governess, playing with cold, distinguished -exclusiveness the part of mother to the fabulously wealthy Miss de Barral, had -no suspicion; the masters of music, of drawing, of dancing to Miss de Barral, -had no idea; the minds of her medical man, of her dentist, of the servants in -the house, of the tradesmen proud of having the name of de Barral on their -books, were in a state of absolute serenity. Thus, that fellow, who had -unexpectedly received a most alarming straight tip from somebody in the City -arrived in Brighton, at about lunch-time, with something very much in the -nature of a deadly bomb in his possession. But he knew better than to throw it -on the public pavement. He ate his lunch impenetrably, sitting opposite Flora -de Barral, and then, on some excuse, closeted himself with the woman whom -little Fyne’s charity described (with a slight hesitation of speech however) as -his “Aunt.” -</p> - -<p> -What they said to each other in private we can imagine. She came out of her own -sitting-room with red spots on her cheek-bones, which having provoked a -question from her “beloved” charge, were accounted for by a curt “I have a -headache coming on.” But we may be certain that the talk being over she must -have said to that young blackguard: “You had better take her out for a ride as -usual.” We have proof positive of this in Fyne and Mrs. Fyne observing them -mount at the door and pass under the windows of their sitting-room, talking -together, and the poor girl all smiles; because she enjoyed in all innocence -the company of Charley. She made no secret of it whatever to Mrs. Fyne; in -fact, she had confided to her, long before, that she liked him very much: a -confidence which had filled Mrs. Fyne with desolation and that sense of -powerless anguish which is experienced in certain kinds of nightmare. For how -could she warn the girl? She did venture to tell her once that she didn’t like -Mr. Charley. Miss de Barral heard her with astonishment. How was it possible -not to like Charley? Afterwards with naïve loyalty she told Mrs. Fyne -that, immensely as she was fond of her she could not hear a word against -Charley—the wonderful Charley. -</p> - -<p> -The daughter of de Barral probably enjoyed her jolly ride with the jolly -Charley (infinitely more jolly than going out with a stupid old riding-master), -very much indeed, because the Fynes saw them coming back at a later hour than -usual. In fact it was getting nearly dark. On dismounting, helped off by the -delightful Charley, she patted the neck of her horse and went up the steps. Her -last ride. She was then within a few days of her sixteenth birthday, a slight -figure in a riding habit, rather shorter than the average height for her age, -in a black bowler hat from under which her fine rippling dark hair cut square -at the ends was hanging well down her back. The delightful Charley mounted -again to take the two horses round to the mews. Mrs. Fyne remaining at the -window saw the house door close on Miss de Barral returning from her last ride. -</p> - -<p> -And meantime what had the governess (out of a nobleman’s family) so judiciously -selected (a lady, and connected with well-known county people as she said) to -direct the studies, guard the health, form the mind, polish the manners, and -generally play the perfect mother to that luckless child—what had she been -doing? Well, having got rid of her charge by the most natural device possible, -which proved her practical sense, she started packing her belongings, an act -which showed her clear view of the situation. She had worked methodically, -rapidly, and well, emptying the drawers, clearing the tables in her special -apartment of that big house, with something silently passionate in her -thoroughness; taking everything belonging to her and some things of less -unquestionable ownership, a jewelled penholder, an ivory and gold paper knife -(the house was full of common, costly objects), some chased silver boxes -presented by de Barral and other trifles; but the photograph of Flora de -Barral, with the loving inscription, which stood on her writing desk, of the -most modern and expensive style, in a silver-gilt frame, she neglected to take. -Having accidentally, in the course of the operations, knocked it off on the -floor she let it lie there after a downward glance. Thus it, or the frame at -least, became, I suppose, part of the assets in the de Barral bankruptcy. -</p> - -<p> -At dinner that evening the child found her company dull and brusque. It was -uncommonly slow. She could get nothing from her governess but monosyllables, -and the jolly Charley actually snubbed the various cheery openings of his -“little chum”—as he used to call her at times,—but not at that time. No doubt -the couple were nervous and preoccupied. For all this we have evidence, and for -the fact that Flora being offended with the delightful nephew of her profoundly -respected governess sulked through the rest of the evening and was glad to -retire early. Mrs., Mrs.—I’ve really forgotten her name—the governess, invited -her nephew to her sitting-room, mentioning aloud that it was to talk over some -family matters. This was meant for Flora to hear, and she heard it—without the -slightest interest. In fact there was nothing sufficiently unusual in such an -invitation to arouse in her mind even a passing wonder. She went bored to bed -and being tired with her long ride slept soundly all night. Her last sleep, I -won’t say of innocence—that word would not render my exact meaning, because it -has a special meaning of its own—but I will say: of that ignorance, or better -still, of that unconsciousness of the world’s ways, the unconsciousness of -danger, of pain, of humiliation, of bitterness, of falsehood. An -unconsciousness which in the case of other beings like herself is removed by a -gradual process of experience and information, often only partial at that, with -saving reserves, softening doubts, veiling theories. Her unconsciousness of the -evil which lives in the secret thoughts and therefore in the open acts of -mankind, whenever it happens that evil thought meets evil courage; her -unconsciousness was to be broken into with profane violence with desecrating -circumstances, like a temple violated by a mad, vengeful impiety. Yes, that -very young girl, almost no more than a child—this was what was going to happen -to her. And if you ask me, how, wherefore, for what reason? I will answer you: -Why, by chance! By the merest chance, as things do happen, lucky and unlucky, -terrible or tender, important or unimportant; and even things which are -neither, things so completely neutral in character that you would wonder why -they do happen at all if you didn’t know that they, too, carry in their -insignificance the seeds of further incalculable chances. -</p> - -<p> -Of course, all the chances were that de Barral should have fallen upon a -perfectly harmless, naïve, usual, inefficient specimen of respectable -governess for his daughter; or on a commonplace silly adventuress who would -have tried, say, to marry him or work some other sort of common mischief in a -small way. Or again he might have chanced on a model of all the virtues, or the -repository of all knowledge, or anything equally harmless, conventional, and -middle class. All calculations were in his favour; but, chance being -incalculable, he fell upon an individuality whom it is much easier to define by -opprobrious names than to classify in a calm and scientific spirit—but an -individuality certainly, and a temperament as well. Rare? No. There is a -certain amount of what I would politely call unscrupulousness in all of us. -Think for instance of the excellent Mrs. Fyne, who herself, and in the bosom of -her family, resembled a governess of a conventional type. Only, her mental -excesses were theoretical, hedged in by so much humane feeling and conventional -reserves, that they amounted to no more than mere libertinage of thought; -whereas the other woman, the governess of Flora de Barral, was, as you may have -noticed, severely practical—terribly practical. No! Hers was not a rare -temperament, except in its fierce resentment of repression; a feeling which -like genius or lunacy is apt to drive people into sudden irrelevancy. Hers was -feminine irrelevancy. A male genius, a male ruffian, or even a male lunatic, -would not have behaved exactly as she did behave. There is a softness in -masculine nature, even the most brutal, which acts as a check. -</p> - -<p> -While the girl slept those two, the woman of forty, an age in itself terrible, -and that hopeless young “wrong ’un” of twenty-three (also well connected I -believe) had some sort of subdued row in the cleared rooms: wardrobes open, -drawers half pulled out and empty, trunks locked and strapped, furniture in -idle disarray, and not so much as a single scrap of paper left behind on the -tables. The maid, whom the governess and the pupil shared between them, after -finishing with Flora, came to the door as usual, but was not admitted. She -heard the two voices in dispute before she knocked, and then being sent away -retreated at once—the only person in the house convinced at that time that -there was “something up.” -</p> - -<p> -Dark and, so to speak, inscrutable spaces being met with in life there must be -such places in any statement dealing with life. In what I am telling you of -now—an episode of one of my humdrum holidays in the green country, recalled -quite naturally after all the years by our meeting a man who has been a -blue-water sailor—this evening confabulation is a dark, inscrutable spot. And -we may conjecture what we like. I have no difficulty in imagining that the -woman—of forty, and the chief of the enterprise—must have raged at large. And -perhaps the other did not rage enough. Youth feels deeply it is true, but it -has not the same vivid sense of lost opportunities. It believes in the absolute -reality of time. And then, in that abominable scamp with his youth already -soiled, withered like a plucked flower ready to be flung on some rotting heap -of rubbish, no very genuine feeling about anything could exist—not even about -the hazards of his own unclean existence. A sneering half-laugh with some such -remark as: “We are properly sold and no mistake” would have been enough to make -trouble in that way. And then another sneer, “Waste time enough over it too,” -followed perhaps by the bitter retort from the other party “You seemed to like -it well enough though, playing the fool with that chit of a girl.” Something of -that sort. Don’t you see it—eh . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow looked at me with his dark penetrating glance. I was struck by the -absolute verisimilitude of this suggestion. But we were always tilting at each -other. I saw an opening and pushed my uncandid thrust. -</p> - -<p> -“You have a ghastly imagination,” I said with a cheerfully sceptical smile. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, and if I have,” he returned unabashed. “But let me remind you that this -situation came to me unasked. I am like a puzzle-headed chief-mate we had once -in the dear old <i>Samarcand</i> when I was a youngster. The fellow went -gravely about trying to “account to himself”—his favourite expression—for a lot -of things no one would care to bother one’s head about. He was an old idiot but -he was also an accomplished practical seaman. I was quite a boy and he -impressed me. I must have caught the disposition from him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well—go on with your accounting then,” I said, assuming an air of resignation. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s just it.” Marlow fell into his stride at once. “That’s just it. Mere -disappointed cupidity cannot account for the proceedings of the next morning; -proceedings which I shall not describe to you—but which I shall tell you of -presently, not as a matter of conjecture but of actual fact. Meantime returning -to that evening altercation in deadened tones within the private apartment of -Miss de Barral’s governess, what if I were to tell you that disappointment had -most likely made them touchy with each other, but that perhaps the secret of -his careless, railing behaviour, was in the thought, springing up within him -with an emphatic oath of relief “Now there’s nothing to prevent me from -breaking away from that old woman.” And that the secret of her envenomed rage, -not against this miserable and attractive wretch, but against fate, accident -and the whole course of human life, concentrating its venom on de Barral and -including the innocent girl herself, was in the thought, in the fear crying -within her “Now I have nothing to hold him with . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -I couldn’t refuse Marlow the tribute of a prolonged whistle “Phew! So you -suppose that . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -He waved his hand impatiently. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t suppose. It was so. And anyhow why shouldn’t you accept the -supposition. Do you look upon governesses as creatures above suspicion or -necessarily of moral perfection? I suppose their hearts would not stand looking -into much better than other people’s. Why shouldn’t a governess have passions, -all the passions, even that of libertinage, and even ungovernable passions; yet -suppressed by the very same means which keep the rest of us in order: early -training—necessity—circumstances—fear of consequences; till there comes an age, -a time when the restraint of years becomes intolerable—and infatuation -irresistible . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“But if infatuation—quite possible I admit,” I argued, “how do you account for -the nature of the conspiracy.” -</p> - -<p> -“You expect a cogency of conduct not usual in women,” said Marlow. “The -subterfuges of a menaced passion are not to be fathomed. You think it is going -on the way it looks, whereas it is capable, for its own ends, of walking -backwards into a precipice. -</p> - -<p> -When one once acknowledges that she was not a common woman, then all this is -easily understood. She was abominable but she was not common. She had suffered -in her life not from its constant inferiority but from constant -self-repression. A common woman finding herself placed in a commanding position -might have formed the design to become the second Mrs. de Barral. Which would -have been impracticable. De Barral would not have known what to do with a wife. -But even if by some impossible chance he had made advances, this governess -would have repulsed him with scorn. She had treated him always as an inferior -being with an assured, distant politeness. In her composed, schooled manner she -despised and disliked both father and daughter exceedingly. I have a notion -that she had always disliked intensely all her charges including the two ducal -(if they were ducal) little girls with whom she had dazzled de Barral. What an -odious, ungratified existence it must have been for a woman as avid of all the -sensuous emotions which life can give as most of her betters. -</p> - -<p> -She had seen her youth vanish, her freshness disappear, her hopes die, and now -she felt her flaming middle-age slipping away from her. No wonder that with her -admirably dressed, abundant hair, thickly sprinkled with white threads and -adding to her elegant aspect the piquant distinction of a powdered coiffure—no -wonder, I say, that she clung desperately to her last infatuation for that -graceless young scamp, even to the extent of hatching for him that amazing -plot. He was not so far gone in degradation as to make him utterly hopeless for -such an attempt. She hoped to keep him straight with that enormous bribe. She -was clearly a woman uncommon enough to live without illusions—which, of course, -does not mean that she was reasonable. She had said to herself, perhaps with a -fury of self-contempt “In a few years I shall be too old for anybody. Meantime -I shall have him—and I shall hold him by throwing to him the money of that -ordinary, silly, little girl of no account.” Well, it was a desperate -expedient—but she thought it worth while. And besides there is hardly a woman -in the world, no matter how hard, depraved or frantic, in whom something of the -maternal instinct does not survive, unconsumed like a salamander, in the fires -of the most abandoned passion. Yes there might have been that sentiment for him -too. There <i>was</i> no doubt. So I say again: No wonder! No wonder that she -raged at everything—and perhaps even at him, with contradictory reproaches: for -regretting the girl, a little fool who would never in her life be worth -anybody’s attention, and for taking the disaster itself with a cynical levity -in which she perceived a flavour of revolt. -</p> - -<p> -And so the altercation in the night went on, over the irremediable. He arguing -“What’s the hurry? Why clear out like this?” perhaps a little sorry for the -girl and as usual without a penny in his pocket, appreciating the comfortable -quarters, wishing to linger on as long as possible in the shameless enjoyment -of this already doomed luxury. There was really no hurry for a few days. Always -time enough to vanish. And, with that, a touch of masculine softness, a sort of -regard for appearances surviving his degradation: “You might behave decently at -the last, Eliza.” But there was no softness in the sallow face under the gala -effect of powdered hair, its formal calmness gone, the dark-ringed eyes glaring -at him with a sort of hunger. “No! No! If it is as you say then not a day, not -an hour, not a moment.” She stuck to it, very determined that there should be -no more of that boy and girl philandering since the object of it was gone; -angry with herself for having suffered from it so much in the past, furious at -its having been all in vain. -</p> - -<p> -But she was reasonable enough not to quarrel with him finally. What was the -good? She found means to placate him. The only means. As long as there was some -money to be got she had hold of him. “Now go away. We shall do no good by any -more of this sort of talk. I want to be alone for a bit.” He went away, sulkily -acquiescent. There was a room always kept ready for him on the same floor, at -the further end of a short thickly carpeted passage. -</p> - -<p> -How she passed the night, this woman with no illusions to help her through the -hours which must have been sleepless I shouldn’t like to say. It ended at last; -and this strange victim of the de Barral failure, whose name would never be -known to the Official Receiver, came down to breakfast, impenetrable in her -everyday perfection. From the very first, somehow, she had accepted the fatal -news for true. All her life she had never believed in her luck, with that -pessimism of the passionate who at bottom feel themselves to be the outcasts of -a morally restrained universe. But this did not make it any easier, on opening -the morning paper feverishly, to see the thing confirmed. Oh yes! It was there. -The Orb had suspended payment—the first growl of the storm faint as yet, but to -the initiated the forerunner of a deluge. As an item of news it was not -indecently displayed. It was not displayed at all in a sense. The serious -paper, the only one of the great dailies which had always maintained an -attitude of reserve towards the de Barral group of banks, had its “manner.” -Yes! a modest item of news! But there was also, on another page, a special -financial article in a hostile tone beginning with the words “We have always -feared” and a guarded, half-column leader, opening with the phrase: “It is a -deplorable sign of the times” what was, in effect, an austere, general rebuke -to the absurd infatuations of the investing public. She glanced through these -articles, a line here and a line there—no more was necessary to catch beyond -doubt the murmur of the oncoming flood. Several slighting references by name to -de Barral revived her animosity against the man, suddenly, as by the effect of -unforeseen moral support. The miserable wretch! . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“—You understand,” Marlow interrupted the current of his narrative, “that in -order to be consecutive in my relation of this affair I am telling you at once -the details which I heard from Mrs. Fyne later in the day, as well as what -little Fyne imparted to me with his usual solemnity during that morning call. -As you may easily guess the Fynes, in their apartments, had read the news at -the same time, and, as a matter of fact, in the same august and highly moral -newspaper, as the governess in the luxurious mansion a few doors down on the -opposite side of the street. But they read them with different feelings. They -were thunderstruck. Fyne had to explain the full purport of the intelligence to -Mrs. Fyne whose first cry was that of relief. Then that poor child would be -safe from these designing, horrid people. Mrs. Fyne did not know what it might -mean to be suddenly reduced from riches to absolute penury. Fyne with his -masculine imagination was less inclined to rejoice extravagantly at the girl’s -escape from the moral dangers which had been menacing her defenceless -existence. It was a confoundedly big price to pay. What an unfortunate little -thing she was! “We might be able to do something to comfort that poor child at -any rate for the time she is here,” said Mrs. Fyne. She felt under a sort of -moral obligation not to be indifferent. But no comfort for anyone could be got -by rushing out into the street at this early hour; and so, following the advice -of Fyne not to act hastily, they both sat down at the window and stared -feelingly at the great house, awful to their eyes in its stolid, prosperous, -expensive respectability with ruin absolutely standing at the door. -</p> - -<p> -By that time, or very soon after, all Brighton had the information and formed a -more or less just appreciation of its gravity. The butler in Miss de Barral’s -big house had seen the news, perhaps earlier than anybody within a mile of the -Parade, in the course of his morning duties of which one was to dry the freshly -delivered paper before the fire—an occasion to glance at it which no -intelligent man could have neglected. He communicated to the rest of the -household his vaguely forcible impression that something had gone d---bly wrong -with the affairs of “her father in London.” -</p> - -<p> -This brought an atmosphere of constraint through the house, which Flora de -Barral coming down somewhat later than usual could not help noticing in her own -way. Everybody seemed to stare so stupidly somehow; she feared a dull day. -</p> - -<p> -In the dining-room the governess in her place, a newspaper half-concealed under -the cloth on her lap, after a few words exchanged with lips that seemed hardly -to move, remaining motionless, her eyes fixed before her in an enduring -silence; and presently Charley coming in to whom she did not even give a -glance. He hardly said good morning, though he had a half-hearted try to smile -at the girl, and sitting opposite her with his eyes on his plate and slight -quivers passing along the line of his clean-shaven jaw, he too had nothing to -say. It was dull, horribly dull to begin one’s day like this; but she knew what -it was. These never-ending family affairs! It was not for the first time that -she had suffered from their depressing after-effects on these two. It was a -shame that the delightful Charley should be made dull by these stupid talks, -and it was perfectly stupid of him to let himself be upset like this by his -aunt. -</p> - -<p> -When after a period of still, as if calculating, immobility, her governess got -up abruptly and went out with the paper in her hand, almost immediately -afterwards followed by Charley who left his breakfast half eaten, the girl was -positively relieved. They would have it out that morning whatever it was, and -be themselves again in the afternoon. At least Charley would be. To the moods -of her governess she did not attach so much importance. -</p> - -<p> -For the first time that morning the Fynes saw the front door of the awful house -open and the objectionable young man issue forth, his rascality visible to -their prejudiced eyes in his very bowler hat and in the smart cut of his short -fawn overcoat. He walked away rapidly like a man hurrying to catch a train, -glancing from side to side as though he were carrying something off. Could he -be departing for good? Undoubtedly, undoubtedly! But Mrs. Fyne’s fervent “thank -goodness” turned out to be a bit, as the Americans—some Americans—say -“previous.” In a very short time the odious fellow appeared again, strolling, -absolutely strolling back, his hat now tilted a little on one side, with an air -of leisure and satisfaction. Mrs. Fyne groaned not only in the spirit, at this -sight, but in the flesh, audibly; and asked her husband what it might mean. -Fyne naturally couldn’t say. Mrs. Fyne believed that there was something horrid -in progress and meantime the object of her detestation had gone up the steps -and had knocked at the door which at once opened to admit him. -</p> - -<p> -He had been only as far as the bank. -</p> - -<p> -His reason for leaving his breakfast unfinished to run after Miss de Barral’s -governess, was to speak to her in reference to that very errand possessing the -utmost possible importance in his eyes. He shrugged his shoulders at the -nervousness of her eyes and hands, at the half-strangled whisper “I had to go -out. I could hardly contain myself.” That was her affair. He was, with a young -man’s squeamishness, rather sick of her ferocity. He did not understand it. Men -do not accumulate hate against each other in tiny amounts, treasuring every -pinch carefully till it grows at last into a monstrous and explosive hoard. He -had run out after her to remind her of the balance at the bank. What about -lifting that money without wasting any more time? She had promised him to leave -nothing behind. -</p> - -<p> -An account opened in her name for the expenses of the establishment in -Brighton, had been fed by de Barral with deferential lavishness. The governess -crossed the wide hall into a little room at the side where she sat down to -write the cheque, which he hastened out to go and cash as if it were stolen or -a forgery. As observed by the Fynes, his uneasy appearance on leaving the house -arose from the fact that his first trouble having been caused by a cheque of -doubtful authenticity, the possession of a document of the sort made him -unreasonably uncomfortable till this one was safely cashed. And after all, you -know it was stealing of an indirect sort; for the money was de Barral’s money -if the account was in the name of the accomplished lady. At any rate the cheque -was cashed. On getting hold of the notes and gold he recovered his jaunty -bearing, it being well known that with certain natures the presence of money -(even stolen) in the pocket, acts as a tonic, or at least as a stimulant. He -cocked his hat a little on one side as though he had had a drink or two—which -indeed he might have had in reality, to celebrate the occasion. -</p> - -<p> -The governess had been waiting for his return in the hall, disregarding the -side-glances of the butler as he went in and out of the dining-room clearing -away the breakfast things. It was she, herself, who had opened the door so -promptly. “It’s all right,” he said touching his breast-pocket; and she did not -dare, the miserable wretch without illusions, she did not dare ask him to hand -it over. They looked at each other in silence. He nodded significantly: “Where -is she now?” and she whispered “Gone into the drawing-room. Want to see her -again?” with an archly black look which he acknowledged by a muttered, surly: -“I am damned if I do. Well, as you want to bolt like this, why don’t we go -now?” -</p> - -<p> -She set her lips with cruel obstinacy and shook her head. She had her idea, her -completed plan. At that moment the Fynes, still at the window and watching like -a pair of private detectives, saw a man with a long grey beard and a jovial -face go up the steps helping himself with a thick stick, and knock at the door. -Who could he be? -</p> - -<p> -He was one of Miss de Barral’s masters. She had lately taken up painting in -water-colours, having read in a high-class woman’s weekly paper that a great -many princesses of the European royal houses were cultivating that art. This -was the water-colour morning; and the teacher, a veteran of many exhibitions, -of a venerable and jovial aspect, had turned up with his usual punctuality. He -was no great reader of morning papers, and even had he seen the news it is very -likely he would not have understood its real purport. At any rate he turned up, -as the governess expected him to do, and the Fynes saw him pass through the -fateful door. -</p> - -<p> -He bowed cordially to the lady in charge of Miss de Barral’s education, whom he -saw in the hall engaged in conversation with a very good-looking but somewhat -raffish young gentleman. She turned to him graciously: “Flora is already -waiting for you in the drawing-room.” -</p> - -<p> -The cultivation of the art said to be patronized by princesses was pursued in -the drawing-room from considerations of the right kind of light. The governess -preceded the master up the stairs and into the room where Miss de Barral was -found arrayed in a holland pinafore (also of the right kind for the pursuit of -the art) and smilingly expectant. The water-colour lesson enlivened by the -jocular conversation of the kindly, humorous, old man was always great fun; and -she felt she would be compensated for the tiresome beginning of the day. -</p> - -<p> -Her governess generally was present at the lesson; but on this occasion she -only sat down till the master and pupil had gone to work in earnest, and then -as though she had suddenly remembered some order to give, rose quietly and went -out of the room. -</p> - -<p> -Once outside, the servants summoned by the passing maid without a bell being -rung, and quick, quick, let all this luggage be taken down into the hall, and -let one of you call a cab. She stood outside the drawing-room door on the -landing, looking at each piece, trunk, leather cases, portmanteaus, being -carried past her, her brows knitted and her aspect so sombre and absorbed that -it took some little time for the butler to muster courage enough to speak to -her. But he reflected that he was a free-born Briton and had his rights. He -spoke straight to the point but in the usual respectful manner. -</p> - -<p> -“Beg you pardon, ma’am—but are you going away for good?” -</p> - -<p> -He was startled by her tone. Its unexpected, unlady-like harshness fell on his -trained ear with the disagreeable effect of a false note. “Yes. I am going -away. And the best thing for all of you is to go away too, as soon as you like. -You can go now, to-day, this moment. You had your wages paid you only last -week. The longer you stay the greater your loss. But I have nothing to do with -it now. You are the servants of Mr. de Barral—you know.” -</p> - -<p> -The butler was astounded by the manner of this advice, and as his eyes wandered -to the drawing-room door the governess extended her arm as if to bar the way. -“Nobody goes in there.” And that was said still in another tone, such a tone -that all trace of the trained respectfulness vanished from the butler’s -bearing. He stared at her with a frank wondering gaze. “Not till I am gone,” -she added, and there was such an expression on her face that the man was -daunted by the mystery of it. He shrugged his shoulders slightly and without -another word went down the stairs on his way to the basement, brushing in the -hall past Mr. Charles who hat on head and both hands rammed deep into his -overcoat pockets paced up and down as though on sentry duty there. -</p> - -<p> -The ladies’ maid was the only servant upstairs, hovering in the passage on the -first floor, curious and as if fascinated by the woman who stood there guarding -the door. Being beckoned closer imperiously and asked by the governess to bring -out of the now empty rooms the hat and veil, the only objects besides the -furniture still to be found there, she did so in silence but inwardly -fluttered. And while waiting uneasily, with the veil, before that woman who, -without moving a step away from the drawing-room door was pinning with careless -haste her hat on her head, she heard within a sudden burst of laughter from -Miss de Barral enjoying the fun of the water-colour lesson given her for the -last time by the cheery old man. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. and Mrs. Fyne ambushed at their window—a most incredible occupation for -people of their kind—saw with renewed anxiety a cab come to the door, and -watched some luggage being carried out and put on its roof. The butler appeared -for a moment, then went in again. What did it mean? Was Flora going to be taken -to her father; or were these people, that woman and her horrible nephew, about -to carry her off somewhere? Fyne couldn’t tell. He doubted the last, Flora -having now, he judged, no value, either positive or speculative. Though no -great reader of character he did not credit the governess with humane -intentions. He confessed to me naïvely that he was excited as if watching -some action on the stage. Then the thought struck him that the girl might have -had some money settled on her, be possessed of some means, of some little -fortune of her own and therefore— -</p> - -<p> -He imparted this theory to his wife who shared fully his consternation. “I -can’t believe the child will go away without running in to say good-bye to us,” -she murmured. “We must find out! I shall ask her.” But at that very moment the -cab rolled away, empty inside, and the door of the house which had been -standing slightly ajar till then was pushed to. -</p> - -<p> -They remained silent staring at it till Mrs. Fyne whispered doubtfully “I -really think I must go over.” Fyne didn’t answer for a while (his is a -reflective mind, you know), and then as if Mrs. Fyne’s whispers had an occult -power over that door it opened wide again and the white-bearded man issued, -astonishingly active in his movements, using his stick almost like a -leaping-pole to get down the steps; and hobbled away briskly along the -pavement. Naturally the Fynes were too far off to make out the expression of -his face. But it would not have helped them very much to a guess at the -conditions inside the house. The expression was humorously puzzled—nothing -more. -</p> - -<p> -For, at the end of his lesson, seizing his trusty stick and coming out with his -habitual vivacity, he very nearly cannoned just outside the drawing-room door -into the back of Miss de Barral’s governess. He stopped himself in time and she -turned round swiftly. It was embarrassing; he apologised; but her face was not -startled; it was not aware of him; it wore a singular expression of resolution. -A very singular expression which, as it were, detained him for a moment. In -order to cover his embarrassment, he made some inane remark on the weather, -upon which, instead of returning another inane remark according to the tacit -rules of the game, she only gave him a smile of unfathomable meaning. Nothing -could have been more singular. The good-looking young gentleman of questionable -appearance took not the slightest notice of him in the hall. No servant was to -be seen. He let himself out pulling the door to behind him with a crash as, in -a manner, he was forced to do to get it shut at all. -</p> - -<p> -When the echo of it had died away the woman on the landing leaned over the -banister and called out bitterly to the man below “Don’t you want to come up -and say good-bye.” He had an impatient movement of the shoulders and went on -pacing to and fro as though he had not heard. But suddenly he checked himself, -stood still for a moment, then with a gloomy face and without taking his hands -out of his pockets ran smartly up the stairs. Already facing the door she -turned her head for a whispered taunt: “Come! Confess you were dying to see her -stupid little face once more,”—to which he disdained to answer. -</p> - -<p> -Flora de Barral, still seated before the table at which she had been wording on -her sketch, raised her head at the noise of the opening door. The invading -manner of their entrance gave her the sense of something she had never seen -before. She knew them well. She knew the woman better than she knew her father. -There had been between them an intimacy of relation as great as it can possibly -be without the final closeness of affection. The delightful Charley walked in, -with his eyes fixed on the back of her governess whose raised veil hid her -forehead like a brown band above the black line of the eyebrows. The girl was -astounded and alarmed by the altogether unknown expression in the woman’s face. -The stress of passion often discloses an aspect of the personality completely -ignored till then by its closest intimates. There was something like an -emanation of evil from her eyes and from the face of the other, who, exactly -behind her and overtopping her by half a head, kept his eyelids lowered in a -sinister fashion—which in the poor girl, reached, stirred, set free that -faculty of unreasoning explosive terror lying locked up at the bottom of all -human hearts and of the hearts of animals as well. With suddenly enlarged -pupils and a movement as instinctive almost as the bounding of a startled fawn, -she jumped up and found herself in the middle of the big room, exclaiming at -those amazing and familiar strangers. -</p> - -<p> -“What do you want?” -</p> - -<p> -You will note that she cried: What do you want? Not: What has happened? She -told Mrs. Fyne that she had received suddenly the feeling of being personally -attacked. And that must have been very terrifying. The woman before her had -been the wisdom, the authority, the protection of life, security embodied and -visible and undisputed. -</p> - -<p> -You may imagine then the force of the shock in the intuitive perception not -merely of danger, for she did not know what was alarming her, but in the sense -of the security being gone. And not only security. I don’t know how to explain -it clearly. Look! Even a small child lives, plays and suffers in terms of its -conception of its own existence. Imagine, if you can, a fact coming in suddenly -with a force capable of shattering that very conception itself. It was only -because of the girl being still so much of a child that she escaped mental -destruction; that, in other words she got over it. Could one conceive of her -more mature, while still as ignorant as she was, one must conclude that she -would have become an idiot on the spot—long before the end of that experience. -Luckily, people, whether mature or not mature (and who really is ever mature?) -are for the most part quite incapable of understanding what is happening to -them: a merciful provision of nature to preserve an average amount of sanity -for working purposes in this world . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“But we, my dear Marlow, have the inestimable advantage of understanding what -is happening to others,” I struck in. “Or at least some of us seem to. Is that -too a provision of nature? And what is it for? Is it that we may amuse -ourselves gossiping about each other’s affairs? You for instance seem—” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know what I seem,” Marlow silenced me, “and surely life must be amused -somehow. It would be still a very respectable provision if it were only for -that end. But from that same provision of understanding, there springs in us -compassion, charity, indignation, the sense of solidarity; and in minds of any -largeness an inclination to that indulgence which is next door to affection. I -don’t mean to say that I am inclined to an indulgent view of the precious -couple which broke in upon an unsuspecting girl. They came marching in (it’s -the very expression she used later on to Mrs. Fyne) but at her cry they -stopped. It must have been startling enough to them. It was like having the -mask torn off when you don’t expect it. The man stopped for good; he didn’t -offer to move a step further. But, though the governess had come in there for -the very purpose of taking the mask off for the first time in her life, she -seemed to look upon the frightened cry as a fresh provocation. “What are you -screaming for, you little fool?” she said advancing alone close to the girl who -was affected exactly as if she had seen Medusa’s head with serpentine locks set -mysteriously on the shoulders of that familiar person, in that brown dress, -under that hat she knew so well. It made her lose all her hold on reality. She -told Mrs. Fyne: “I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t even know that I was -frightened. If she had told me it was a joke I would have laughed. If she had -told me to put on my hat and go out with her I would have gone to put on my hat -and gone out with her and never said a single word; I should have been -convinced I had been mad for a minute or so, and I would have worried myself to -death rather than breathe a hint of it to her or anyone. But the wretch put her -face close to mine and I could not move. Directly I had looked into her eyes I -felt grown on to the carpet.” -</p> - -<p> -It was years afterwards that she used to talk like this to Mrs. Fyne—and to -Mrs. Fyne alone. Nobody else ever heard the story from her lips. But it was -never forgotten. It was always felt; it remained like a mark on her soul, a -sort of mystic wound, to be contemplated, to be meditated over. And she said -further to Mrs. Fyne, in the course of many confidences provoked by that -contemplation, that, as long as that woman called her names, it was almost -soothing, it was in a manner reassuring. Her imagination had, like her body, -gone off in a wild bound to meet the unknown; and then to hear after all -something which more in its tone than in its substance was mere venomous abuse, -had steadied the inward flutter of all her being. -</p> - -<p> -“She called me a little fool more times than I can remember. I! A fool! Why, -Mrs. Fyne! I do assure you I had never yet thought at all; never of anything in -the world, till then. I just went on living. And one can’t be a fool without -one has at least tried to think. But what had I ever to think about?” -</p> - -<p> -“And no doubt,” commented Marlow, “her life had been a mere life of -sensations—the response to which can neither be foolish nor wise. It can only -be temperamental; and I believe that she was of a generally happy disposition, -a child of the average kind. Even when she was asked violently whether she -imagined that there was anything in her, apart from her money, to induce any -intelligent person to take any sort of interest in her existence, she only -caught her breath in one dry sob and said nothing, made no other sound, made no -movement. When she was viciously assured that she was in heart, mind, manner -and appearance, an utterly common and insipid creature, she remained still, -without indignation, without anger. She stood, a frail and passive vessel into -which the other went on pouring all the accumulated dislike for all her pupils, -her scorn of all her employers (the ducal one included), the accumulated -resentment, the infinite hatred of all these unrelieved years of—I won’t say -hypocrisy. The practice of perfect hypocrisy is a relief in itself, a secret -triumph of the vilest sort, no doubt, but still a way of getting even with the -common morality from which some of us appear to suffer so much. No! I will say -the years, the passionate, bitter years, of restraint, the iron, admirably -mannered restraint at every moment, in a never-failing perfect correctness of -speech, glances, movements, smiles, gestures, establishing for her a high -reputation, an impressive record of success in her sphere. It had been like -living half strangled for years. -</p> - -<p> -And all this torture for nothing, in the end! What looked at last like a -possible prize (oh, without illusions! but still a prize) broken in her hands, -fallen in the dust, the bitter dust, of disappointment, she revelled in the -miserable revenge—pretty safe too—only regretting the unworthiness of the -girlish figure which stood for so much she had longed to be able to spit venom -at, if only once, in perfect liberty. The presence of the young man at her back -increased both her satisfaction and her rage. But the very violence of the -attack seemed to defeat its end by rendering the representative victim as it -were insensible. The cause of this outrage naturally escaping the girl’s -imagination her attitude was in effect that of dense, hopeless stupidity. And -it is a fact that the worst shocks of life are often received without outcries, -without gestures, without a flow of tears and the convulsions of sobbing. The -insatiable governess missed these signs exceedingly. This pitiful stolidity was -only a fresh provocation. Yet the poor girl was deadly pale. -</p> - -<p> -“I was cold,” she used to explain to Mrs. Fyne. “I had had time to get -terrified. She had pushed her face so near mine and her teeth looked as though -she wanted to bite me. Her eyes seemed to have become quite dry, hard and small -in a lot of horrible wrinkles. I was too afraid of her to shudder, too afraid -of her to put my fingers to my ears. I didn’t know what I expected her to call -me next, but when she told me I was no better than a beggar—that there would be -no more masters, no more servants, no more horses for me—I said to myself: Is -that all? I should have laughed if I hadn’t been too afraid of her to make the -least little sound.” -</p> - -<p> -It seemed that poor Flora had to know all the possible phases of that sort of -anguish, beginning with instinctive panic, through the bewildered stage, the -frozen stage and the stage of blanched apprehension, down to the instinctive -prudence of extreme terror—the stillness of the mouse. But when she heard -herself called the child of a cheat and a swindler, the very monstrous -unexpectedness of this caused in her a revulsion towards letting herself go. -She screamed out all at once “You mustn’t speak like this of Papa!” -</p> - -<p> -The effort of it uprooted her from that spot where her little feet seemed dug -deep into the thick luxurious carpet, and she retreated backwards to a distant -part of the room, hearing herself repeat “You mustn’t, you mustn’t” as if it -were somebody else screaming. She came to a chair and flung herself into it. -Thereupon the somebody else ceased screaming and she lolled, exhausted, -sightless, in a silent room, as if indifferent to everything and without a -single thought in her head. -</p> - -<p> -The next few seconds seemed to last for ever so long; a black abyss of time -separating what was past and gone from the reappearance of the governess and -the reawakening of fear. And that woman was forcing the words through her set -teeth: “You say I mustn’t, I mustn’t. All the world will be speaking of him -like this to-morrow. They will say it, and they’ll print it. You shall hear it -and you shall read it—and then you shall know whose daughter you are.” -</p> - -<p> -Her face lighted up with an atrocious satisfaction. “He’s nothing but a thief,” -she cried, “this father of yours. As to you I have never been deceived in you -for a moment. I have been growing more and more sick of you for years. You are -a vulgar, silly nonentity, and you shall go back to where you belong, whatever -low place you have sprung from, and beg your bread—that is if anybody’s charity -will have anything to do with you, which I doubt—” -</p> - -<p> -She would have gone on regardless of the enormous eyes, of the open mouth of -the girl who sat up suddenly with the wild staring expression of being choked -by invisible fingers on her throat, and yet horribly pale. The effect on her -constitution was so profound, Mrs. Fyne told me, that she who as a child had a -rather pretty delicate colouring, showed a white bloodless face for a couple of -years afterwards, and remained always liable at the slightest emotion to an -extraordinary ghost-like whiteness. The end came in the abomination of -desolation of the poor child’s miserable cry for help: “Charley! Charley!” -coming from her throat in hidden gasping efforts. Her enlarged eyes had -discovered him where he stood motionless and dumb. -</p> - -<p> -He started from his immobility, a hand withdrawn brusquely from the pocket of -his overcoat, strode up to the woman, seized her by the arm from behind, saying -in a rough commanding tone: “Come away, Eliza.” In an instant the child saw -them close together and remote, near the door, gone through the door, which she -neither heard nor saw being opened or shut. But it was shut. Oh yes, it was -shut. Her slow unseeing glance wandered all over the room. For some time longer -she remained leaning forward, collecting her strength, doubting if she would be -able to stand. She stood up at last. Everything about her spun round in an -oppressive silence. She remembered perfectly—as she told Mrs. Fyne—that -clinging to the arm of the chair she called out twice “Papa! Papa!” At the -thought that he was far away in London everything about her became quite still. -Then, frightened suddenly by the solitude of that empty room, she rushed out of -it blindly. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -With that fatal diffidence in well doing, inherent in the present condition of -humanity, the Fynes continued to watch at their window. “It’s always so -difficult to know what to do for the best,” Fyne assured me. It is. Good -intentions stand in their own way so much. Whereas if you want to do harm to -anyone you needn’t hesitate. You have only to go on. No one will reproach you -with your mistakes or call you a confounded, clumsy meddler. The Fynes watched -the door, the closed street door inimical somehow to their benevolent thoughts, -the face of the house cruelly impenetrable. It was just as on any other day. -The unchanged daily aspect of inanimate things is so impressive that Fyne went -back into the room for a moment, picked up the paper again, and ran his eyes -over the item of news. No doubt of it. It looked very bad. He came back to the -window and Mrs. Fyne. Tired out as she was she sat there resolute and ready for -responsibility. But she had no suggestion to offer. People do fear a rebuff -wonderfully, and all her audacity was in her thoughts. She shrank from the -incomparably insolent manner of the governess. Fyne stood by her side, as in -those old-fashioned photographs of married couples where you see a husband with -his hand on the back of his wife’s chair. And they were about as efficient as -an old photograph, and as still, till Mrs. Fyne started slightly. The street -door had swung open, and, bursting out, appeared the young man, his hat (Mrs. -Fyne observed) tilted forward over his eyes. After him the governess slipped -through, turning round at once to shut the door behind her with care. Meantime -the man went down the white steps and strode along the pavement, his hands -rammed deep into the pockets of his fawn overcoat. The woman, that woman of -composed movements, of deliberate superior manner, took a little run to catch -up with him, and directly she had caught up with him tried to introduce her -hand under his arm. Mrs. Fyne saw the brusque half turn of the fellow’s body as -one avoids an importunate contact, defeating her attempt rudely. She did not -try again but kept pace with his stride, and Mrs. Fyne watched them, walking -independently, turn the corner of the street side by side, disappear for ever. -</p> - -<p> -The Fynes looked at each other eloquently, doubtfully: What do you think of -this? Then with common accord turned their eyes back to the street door, -closed, massive, dark; the great, clear-brass knocker shining in a quiet slant -of sunshine cut by a diagonal line of heavy shade filling the further end of -the street. Could the girl be already gone? Sent away to her father? Had she -any relations? Nobody but de Barral himself ever came to see her, Mrs. Fyne -remembered; and she had the instantaneous, profound, maternal perception of the -child’s loneliness—and a girl too! It was irresistible. And, besides, the -departure of the governess was not without its encouraging influence. “I am -going over at once to find out,” she declared resolutely but still staring -across the street. Her intention was arrested by the sight of that awful, -sombrely glistening door, swinging back suddenly on the yawning darkness of the -hall, out of which literally flew out, right out on the pavement, almost -without touching the white steps, a little figure swathed in a holland pinafore -up to the chin, its hair streaming back from its head, darting past a -lamp-post, past the red pillar-box . . . “Here,” cried Mrs. Fyne; “she’s coming -here! Run, John! Run!” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne bounded out of the room. This is his own word. Bounded! He assured me with -intensified solemnity that he bounded; and the sight of the short and muscular -Fyne bounding gravely about the circumscribed passages and staircases of a -small, very high class, private hotel, would have been worth any amount of -money to a man greedy of memorable impressions. But as I looked at him, the -desire of laughter at my very lips, I asked myself: how many men could be found -ready to compromise their cherished gravity for the sake of the unimportant -child of a ruined financier with an ugly, black cloud already wreathing his -head. I didn’t laugh at little Fyne. I encouraged him: “You did!—very good . . -. Well?” -</p> - -<p> -His main thought was to save the child from some unpleasant interference. There -was a porter downstairs, page boys; some people going away with their trunks in -the passage; a railway omnibus at the door, white-breasted waiters dodging -about the entrance. -</p> - -<p> -He was in time. He was at the door before she reached it in her blind course. -She did not recognize him; perhaps she did not see him. He caught her by the -arm as she ran past and, very sensibly, without trying to check her, simply -darted in with her and up the stairs, causing no end of consternation amongst -the people in his way. They scattered. What might have been their thoughts at -the spectacle of a shameless middle-aged man abducting headlong into the upper -regions of a respectable hotel a terrified young girl obviously under age, I -don’t know. And Fyne (he told me so) did not care for what people might think. -All he wanted was to reach his wife before the girl collapsed. For a time she -ran with him but at the last flight of stairs he had to seize and half drag, -half carry her to his wife. Mrs. Fyne waited at the door with her quite unmoved -physiognomy and her readiness to confront any sort of responsibility, which -already characterized her, long before she became a ruthless theorist. -Relieved, his mission accomplished, Fyne closed hastily the door of the -sitting-room. -</p> - -<p> -But before long both Fynes became frightened. After a period of immobility in -the arms of Mrs. Fyne, the girl, who had not said a word, tore herself out from -that slightly rigid embrace. She struggled dumbly between them, they did not -know why, soundless and ghastly, till she sank exhausted on a couch. Luckily -the children were out with the two nurses. The hotel housemaid helped Mrs. Fyne -to put Flora de Barral to bed. She was as if gone speechless and insane. She -lay on her back, her face white like a piece of paper, her dark eyes staring at -the ceiling, her awful immobility broken by sudden shivering fits with a loud -chattering of teeth in the shadowy silence of the room, the blinds pulled down, -Mrs. Fyne sitting by patiently, her arms folded, yet inwardly moved by the -riddle of that distress of which she could not guess the word, and saying to -herself: “That child is too emotional—much too emotional to be ever really -sound!” As if anyone not made of stone could be perfectly sound in this world. -And then how sound? In what sense—to resist what? Force or corruption? And even -in the best armour of steel there are joints a treacherous stroke can always -find if chance gives the opportunity. -</p> - -<p> -General considerations never had the power to trouble Mrs. Fyne much. The girl -not being in a state to be questioned she waited by the bedside. Fyne had -crossed over to the house, his scruples overcome by his anxiety to discover -what really had happened. He did not have to lift the knocker; the door stood -open on the inside gloom of the hall; he walked into it and saw no one about, -the servants having assembled for a fatuous consultation in the basement. -Fyne’s uplifted bass voice startled them down there, the butler coming up, -staring and in his shirt sleeves, very suspicious at first, and then, on Fyne’s -explanation that he was the husband of a lady who had called several times at -the house—Miss de Barral’s mother’s friend—becoming humanely concerned and -communicative, in a man to man tone, but preserving his trained high-class -servant’s voice: “Oh bless you, sir, no! She does not mean to come back. She -told me so herself”—he assured Fyne with a faint shade of contempt creeping -into his tone. -</p> - -<p> -As regards their young lady nobody downstairs had any idea that she had run out -of the house. He dared say they all would have been willing to do their very -best for her, for the time being; but since she was now with her mother’s -friends . . . -</p> - -<p> -He fidgeted. He murmured that all this was very unexpected. He wanted to know -what he had better do with letters or telegrams which might arrive in the -course of the day. -</p> - -<p> -“Letters addressed to Miss de Barral, you had better bring over to my hotel -over there,” said Fyne beginning to feel extremely worried about the future. -The man said “Yes, sir,” adding, “and if a letter comes addressed to Mrs. . . . -” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne stopped him by a gesture. “I don’t know . . . Anything you like.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -The butler did not shut the street door after Fyne, but remained on the -doorstep for a while, looking up and down the street in the spirit of -independent expectation like a man who is again his own master. Mrs. Fyne -hearing her husband return came out of the room where the girl was lying in -bed. “No change,” she whispered; and Fyne could only make a hopeless sign of -ignorance as to what all this meant and how it would end. -</p> - -<p> -He feared future complications—naturally; a man of limited means, in a public -position, his time not his own. Yes. He owned to me in the parlour of my -farmhouse that he had been very much concerned then at the possible -consequences. But as he was making this artless confession I said to myself -that, whatever consequences and complications he might have imagined, the -complication from which he was suffering now could never, never have presented -itself to his mind. Slow but sure (for I conceive that the Book of Destiny has -been written up from the beginning to the last page) it had been coming for -something like six years—and now it had come. The complication was there! I -looked at his unshaken solemnity with the amused pity we give the victim of a -funny if somewhat ill-natured practical joke. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh hang it,” he exclaimed—in no logical connection with what he had been -relating to me. Nevertheless the exclamation was intelligible enough. -</p> - -<p> -However at first there were, he admitted, no untoward complications, no -embarrassing consequences. To a telegram in guarded terms dispatched to de -Barral no answer was received for more than twenty-four hours. This certainly -caused the Fynes some anxiety. When the answer arrived late on the evening of -next day it was in the shape of an elderly man. An unexpected sort of man. Fyne -explained to me with precision that he evidently belonged to what is most -respectable in the lower middle classes. He was calm and slow in his speech. He -was wearing a frock-coat, had grey whiskers meeting under his chin, and -declared on entering that Mr. de Barral was his cousin. He hastened to add that -he had not seen his cousin for many years, while he looked upon Fyne (who -received him alone) with so much distrust that Fyne felt hurt (the person -actually refusing at first the chair offered to him) and retorted tartly that -he, for his part, had <i>never</i> seen Mr. de Barral, in his life, and that, -since the visitor did not want to sit down, he, Fyne, begged him to state his -business as shortly as possible. The man in black sat down then with a faint -superior smile. -</p> - -<p> -He had come for the girl. His cousin had asked him in a note delivered by a -messenger to go to Brighton at once and take “his girl” over from a gentleman -named Fyne and give her house-room for a time in his family. And there he was. -His business had not allowed him to come sooner. His business was the -manufacture on a large scale of cardboard boxes. He had two grown-up girls of -his own. He had consulted his wife and so that was all right. The girl would -get a welcome in his home. His home most likely was not what she had been used -to but, etc. etc. -</p> - -<p> -All the time Fyne felt subtly in that man’s manner a derisive disapproval of -everything that was not lower middle class, a profound respect for money, a -mean sort of contempt for speculators that fail, and a conceited satisfaction -with his own respectable vulgarity. -</p> - -<p> -With Mrs. Fyne the manner of the obscure cousin of de Barral was but little -less offensive. He looked at her rather slyly but her cold, decided demeanour -impressed him. Mrs. Fyne on her side was simply appalled by the personage, but -did not show it outwardly. Not even when the man remarked with false simplicity -that Florrie—her name was Florrie wasn’t it? would probably miss at first all -her grand friends. And when he was informed that the girl was in bed, not -feeling well at all he showed an unsympathetic alarm. She wasn’t an invalid was -she? No. What was the matter with her then? -</p> - -<p> -An extreme distaste for that respectable member of society was depicted in -Fyne’s face even as he was telling me of him after all these years. He was a -specimen of precisely the class of which people like the Fynes have the least -experience; and I imagine he jarred on them painfully. He possessed all the -civic virtues in their very meanest form, and the finishing touch was given by -a low sort of consciousness he manifested of possessing them. His industry was -exemplary. He wished to catch the earliest possible train next morning. It -seems that for seven and twenty years he had never missed being seated on his -office-stool at the factory punctually at ten o’clock every day. He listened to -Mrs. Fyne’s objections with undisguised impatience. Why couldn’t Florrie get up -and have her breakfast at eight like other people? In his house the breakfast -was at eight sharp. Mrs. Fyne’s polite stoicism overcame him at last. He had -come down at a very great personal inconvenience, he assured her with -displeasure, but he gave up the early train. -</p> - -<p> -The good Fynes didn’t dare to look at each other before this unforeseen but -perfectly authorized guardian, the same thought springing up in their minds: -Poor girl! Poor girl! If the women of the family were like this too! . . . And -of course they would be. Poor girl! But what could they have done even if they -had been prepared to raise objections. The person in the frock-coat had the -father’s note; he had shown it to Fyne. Just a request to take care of the -girl—as her nearest relative—without any explanation or a single allusion to -the financial catastrophe, its tone strangely detached and in its very silence -on the point giving occasion to think that the writer was not uneasy as to the -child’s future. Probably it was that very idea which had set the cousin so -readily in motion. Men had come before out of commercial crashes with estates -in the country and a comfortable income, if not for themselves then for their -wives. And if a wife could be made comfortable by a little dexterous management -then why not a daughter? Yes. This possibility might have been discussed in the -person’s household and judged worth acting upon. -</p> - -<p> -The man actually hinted broadly that such was his belief and in face of Fyne’s -guarded replies gave him to understand that he was not the dupe of such -reticences. Obviously he looked upon the Fynes as being disappointed because -the girl was taken away from them. They, by a diplomatic sacrifice in the -interests of poor Flora, had asked the man to dinner. He accepted ungraciously, -remarking that he was not used to late hours. He had generally a bit of supper -about half-past eight or nine. However . . . -</p> - -<p> -He gazed contemptuously round the prettily decorated dining-room. He wrinkled -his nose in a puzzled way at the dishes offered to him by the waiter but -refused none, devouring the food with a great appetite and drinking (“swilling” -Fyne called it) gallons of ginger beer, which was procured for him (in stone -bottles) at his request. The difficulty of keeping up a conversation with that -being exhausted Mrs. Fyne herself, who had come to the table armed with -adamantine resolution. The only memorable thing he said was when, in a pause of -gorging himself “with these French dishes” he deliberately let his eyes roam -over the little tables occupied by parties of diners, and remarked that his -wife did for a moment think of coming down with him, but that he was glad she -didn’t do so. “She wouldn’t have been at all happy seeing all this alcohol -about. Not at all happy,” he declared weightily. -</p> - -<p> -“You must have had a charming evening,” I said to Fyne, “if I may judge from -the way you have kept the memory green.” -</p> - -<p> -“Delightful,” he growled with, positively, a flash of anger at the -recollection, but lapsed back into his solemnity at once. After we had been -silent for a while I asked whether the man took away the girl next day. -</p> - -<p> -Fyne said that he did; in the afternoon, in a fly, with a few clothes the maid -had got together and brought across from the big house. He only saw Flora again -ten minutes before they left for the railway station, in the Fynes’ -sitting-room at the hotel. It was a most painful ten minutes for the Fynes. The -respectable citizen addressed Miss de Barral as “Florrie” and “my dear,” -remarking to her that she was not very big “there’s not much of you my dear” in -a familiarly disparaging tone. Then turning to Mrs. Fyne, and quite loud “She’s -very white in the face. Why’s that?” To this Mrs. Fyne made no reply. She had -put the girl’s hair up that morning with her own hands. It changed her very -much, observed Fyne. He, naturally, played a subordinate, merely approving -part. All he could do for Miss de Barral personally was to go downstairs and -put her into the fly himself, while Miss de Barral’s nearest relation, having -been shouldered out of the way, stood by, with an umbrella and a little black -bag, watching this proceeding with grim amusement, as it seemed. It was -difficult to guess what the girl thought or what she felt. She no longer looked -a child. She whispered to Fyne a faint “Thank you,” from the fly, and he said -to her in very distinct tones and while still holding her hand: “Pray don’t -forget to write fully to my wife in a day or two, Miss de Barral.” Then Fyne -stepped back and the cousin climbed into the fly muttering quite audibly: “I -don’t think you’ll be troubled much with her in the future;” without however -looking at Fyne on whom he did not even bestow a nod. The fly drove away. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER FIVE—THE TEA-PARTY</h3> - -<p> -“Amiable personality,” I observed seeing Fyne on the point of falling into a -brown study. But I could not help adding with meaning: “He hadn’t the gift of -prophecy though.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne got up suddenly with a muttered “No, evidently not.” He was gloomy, -hesitating. I supposed that he would not wish to play chess that afternoon. -This would dispense me from leaving my rooms on a day much too fine to be -wasted in walking exercise. And I was disappointed when picking up his cap he -intimated to me his hope of seeing me at the cottage about four o’clock—as -usual. -</p> - -<p> -“It wouldn’t be as usual.” I put a particular stress on that remark. He -admitted, after a short reflection, that it would not be. No. Not as usual. In -fact it was his wife who hoped, rather, for my presence. She had formed a very -favourable opinion of my practical sagacity. -</p> - -<p> -This was the first I ever heard of it. I had never suspected that Mrs. Fyne had -taken the trouble to distinguish in me the signs of sagacity or folly. The few -words we had exchanged last night in the excitement—or the bother—of the girl’s -disappearance, were the first moderately significant words which had ever -passed between us. I had felt myself always to be in Mrs. Fyne’s view her -husband’s chess-player and nothing else—a convenience—almost an implement. -</p> - -<p> -“I am highly flattered,” I said. “I have always heard that there are no limits -to feminine intuition; and now I am half inclined to believe it is so. But -still I fail to see in what way my sagacity, practical or otherwise, can be of -any service to Mrs. Fyne. One man’s sagacity is very much like any other man’s -sagacity. And with you at hand—” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne, manifestly not attending to what I was saying, directed straight at me -his worried solemn eyes and struck in: -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yes. Very likely. But you will come—won’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -I had made up my mind that no Fyne of either sex would make me walk three miles -(there and back to their cottage) on this fine day. If the Fynes had been an -average sociable couple one knows only because leisure must be got through -somehow, I would have made short work of that special invitation. But they were -not that. Their undeniable humanity had to be acknowledged. At the same time I -wanted to have my own way. So I proposed that I should be allowed the pleasure -of offering them a cup of tea at my rooms. -</p> - -<p> -A short reflective pause—and Fyne accepted eagerly in his own and his wife’s -name. A moment after I heard the click of the gate-latch and then in an ecstasy -of barking from his demonstrative dog his serious head went past my window on -the other side of the hedge, its troubled gaze fixed forward, and the mind -inside obviously employed in earnest speculation of an intricate nature. One at -least of his wife’s girl-friends had become more than a mere shadow for him. I -surmised however that it was not of the girl-friend but of his wife that Fyne -was thinking. He was an excellent husband. -</p> - -<p> -I prepared myself for the afternoon’s hospitalities, calling in the farmer’s -wife and reviewing with her the resources of the house and the village. She was -a helpful woman. But the resources of my sagacity I did not review. Except in -the gross material sense of the afternoon tea I made no preparations for Mrs. -Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -It was impossible for me to make any such preparations. I could not tell what -sort of sustenance she would look for from my sagacity. And as to taking stock -of the wares of my mind no one I imagine is anxious to do that sort of thing if -it can be avoided. A vaguely grandiose state of mental self-confidence is much -too agreeable to be disturbed recklessly by such a delicate investigation. -Perhaps if I had had a helpful woman at my elbow, a dear, flattering acute, -devoted woman . . . There are in life moments when one positively regrets not -being married. No! I don’t exaggerate. I have said—moments, not years or even -days. Moments. The farmer’s wife obviously could not be asked to assist. She -could not have been expected to possess the necessary insight and I doubt -whether she would have known how to be flattering enough. She was being helpful -in her own way, with an extraordinary black bonnet on her head, a good mile off -by that time, trying to discover in the village shops a piece of eatable cake. -The pluck of women! The optimism of the dear creatures! -</p> - -<p> -And she managed to find something which looked eatable. That’s all I know as I -had no opportunity to observe the more intimate effects of that comestible. I -myself never eat cake, and Mrs. Fyne, when she arrived punctually, brought with -her no appetite for cake. She had no appetite for anything. But she had a -thirst—the sign of deep, of tormenting emotion. Yes it was emotion, not the -brilliant sunshine—more brilliant than warm as is the way of our discreet -self-repressed, distinguished, insular sun, which would not turn a real lady -scarlet—not on any account. Mrs. Fyne looked even cool. She wore a white skirt -and coat; a white hat with a large brim reposed on her smoothly arranged hair. -The coat was cut something like an army mess-jacket and the style suited her. I -dare say there are many youthful subalterns, and not the worst-looking too, who -resemble Mrs. Fyne in the type of face, in the sunburnt complexion, down to -that something alert in bearing. But not many would have had that aspect -breathing a readiness to assume any responsibility under Heaven. This is the -sort of courage which ripens late in life and of course Mrs. Fyne was of mature -years for all her unwrinkled face. -</p> - -<p> -She looked round the room, told me positively that I was very comfortable -there; to which I assented, humbly, acknowledging my undeserved good fortune. -</p> - -<p> -“Why undeserved?” she wanted to know. -</p> - -<p> -“I engaged these rooms by letter without asking any questions. It might have -been an abominable hole,” I explained to her. “I always do things like that. I -don’t like to be bothered. This is no great proof of sagacity—is it? Sagacious -people I believe like to exercise that faculty. I have heard that they can’t -even help showing it in the veriest trifles. It must be very delightful. But I -know nothing of it. I think that I have no sagacity—no practical sagacity.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne made an inarticulate bass murmur of protest. I asked after the children -whom I had not seen yet since my return from town. They had been very well. -They were always well. Both Fyne and Mrs. Fyne spoke of the rude health of -their children as if it were a result of moral excellence; in a peculiar tone -which seemed to imply some contempt for people whose children were liable to be -unwell at times. One almost felt inclined to apologize for the inquiry. And -this annoyed me; unreasonably, I admit, because the assumption of superior -merit is not a very exceptional weakness. Anxious to make myself disagreeable -by way of retaliation I observed in accents of interested civility that the -dear girls must have been wondering at the sudden disappearance of their -mother’s young friend. Had they been putting any awkward questions about Miss -Smith. Wasn’t it as Miss Smith that Miss de Barral had been introduced to me? -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne, staring fixedly but also colouring deeper under her tan, told me -that the children had never liked Flora very much. She hadn’t the high spirits -which endear grown-ups to healthy children, Mrs. Fyne explained unflinchingly. -Flora had been staying at the cottage several times before. Mrs. Fyne assured -me that she often found it very difficult to have her in the house. -</p> - -<p> -“But what else could we do?” she exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -That little cry of distress quite genuine in its inexpressiveness, altered my -feeling towards Mrs. Fyne. It would have been so easy to have done nothing and -to have thought no more about it. My liking for her began while she was trying -to tell me of the night she spent by the girl’s bedside, the night before her -departure with her unprepossessing relative. That Mrs. Fyne found means to -comfort the child I doubt very much. She had not the genius for the task of -undoing that which the hate of an infuriated woman had planned so well. -</p> - -<p> -You will tell me perhaps that children’s impressions are not durable. That’s -true enough. But here, child is only a manner of speaking. The girl was within -a few days of her sixteenth birthday; she was old enough to be matured by the -shock. The very effort she had to make in conveying the impression to Mrs. -Fyne, in remembering the details, in finding adequate words—or any words at -all—was in itself a terribly enlightening, an ageing process. She had talked a -long time, uninterrupted by Mrs. Fyne, childlike enough in her wonder and pain, -pausing now and then to interject the pitiful query: “It was cruel of her. -Wasn’t it cruel, Mrs. Fyne?” -</p> - -<p> -For Charley she found excuses. He at any rate had not said anything, while he -had looked very gloomy and miserable. He couldn’t have taken part against his -aunt—could he? But after all he did, when she called upon him, take “that cruel -woman away.” He had dragged her out by the arm. She had seen that plainly. She -remembered it. That was it! The woman was mad. “Oh! Mrs. Fyne, don’t tell me -she wasn’t mad. If you had only seen her face . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -But Mrs. Fyne was unflinching in her idea that as much truth as could be told -was due in the way of kindness to the girl, whose fate she feared would be to -live exposed to the hardest realities of unprivileged existences. She explained -to her that there were in the world evil-minded, selfish people. Unscrupulous -people . . . These two persons had been after her father’s money. The best -thing she could do was to forget all about them. -</p> - -<p> -“After papa’s money? I don’t understand,” poor Flora de Barral had murmured, -and lay still as if trying to think it out in the silence and shadows of the -room where only a night-light was burning. Then she had a long shivering fit -while holding tight the hand of Mrs. Fyne whose patient immobility by the -bedside of that brutally murdered childhood did infinite honour to her -humanity. That vigil must have been the more trying because I could see very -well that at no time did she think the victim particularly charming or -sympathetic. It was a manifestation of pure compassion, of compassion in -itself, so to speak, not many women would have been capable of displaying with -that unflinching steadiness. The shivering fit over, the girl’s next words in -an outburst of sobs were, “Oh! Mrs. Fyne, am I really such a horrid thing as -she has made me out to be?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, no!” protested Mrs. Fyne. “It is your former governess who is horrid and -odious. She is a vile woman. I cannot tell you that she was mad but I think she -must have been beside herself with rage and full of evil thoughts. You must try -not to think of these abominations, my dear child.” -</p> - -<p> -They were not fit for anyone to think of much, Mrs. Fyne commented to me in a -curt positive tone. All that had been very trying. The girl was like a creature -struggling under a net. -</p> - -<p> -“But how can I forget? she called my father a cheat and a swindler! Do tell me -Mrs. Fyne that it isn’t true. It can’t be true. How can it be true?” -</p> - -<p> -She sat up in bed with a sudden wild motion as if to jump out and flee away -from the sound of the words which had just passed her own lips. Mrs. Fyne -restrained her, soothed her, induced her at last to lay her head on her pillow -again, assuring her all the time that nothing this woman had had the cruelty to -say deserved to be taken to heart. The girl, exhausted, cried quietly for a -time. It may be she had noticed something evasive in Mrs. Fyne’s assurances. -After a while, without stirring, she whispered brokenly: -</p> - -<p> -“That awful woman told me that all the world would call papa these awful names. -Is it possible? Is it possible?” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne kept silent. -</p> - -<p> -“Do say something to me, Mrs. Fyne,” the daughter of de Barral insisted in the -same feeble whisper. -</p> - -<p> -Again Mrs. Fyne assured me that it had been very trying. Terribly trying. “Yes, -thanks, I will.” She leaned back in the chair with folded arms while I poured -another cup of tea for her, and Fyne went out to pacify the dog which, tied up -under the porch, had become suddenly very indignant at somebody having the -audacity to walk along the lane. Mrs. Fyne stirred her tea for a long time, -drank a little, put the cup down and said with that air of accepting all the -consequences: -</p> - -<p> -“Silence would have been unfair. I don’t think it would have been kind either. -I told her that she must be prepared for the world passing a very severe -judgment on her father . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“Wasn’t it admirable,” cried Marlow interrupting his narrative. “Admirable!” -And as I looked dubiously at this unexpected enthusiasm he started justifying -it after his own manner. -</p> - -<p> -“I say admirable because it was so characteristic. It was perfect. Nothing -short of genius could have found better. And this was nature! As they say of an -artist’s work: this was a perfect Fyne. Compassion—judiciousness—something -correctly measured. None of your dishevelled sentiment. And right! You must -confess that nothing could have been more right. I had a mind to shout “Brava! -Brava!” but I did not do that. I took a piece of cake and went out to bribe the -Fyne dog into some sort of self-control. His sharp comical yapping was -unbearable, like stabs through one’s brain, and Fyne’s deeply modulated -remonstrances abashed the vivacious animal no more than the deep, patient -murmur of the sea abashes a nigger minstrel on a popular beach. Fyne was -beginning to swear at him in low, sepulchral tones when I appeared. The dog -became at once wildly demonstrative, half strangling himself in his collar, his -eyes and tongue hanging out in the excess of his incomprehensible affection for -me. This was before he caught sight of the cake in my hand. A series of -vertical springs high up in the air followed, and then, when he got the cake, -he instantly lost his interest in everything else. -</p> - -<p> -Fyne was slightly vexed with me. As kind a master as any dog could wish to -have, he yet did not approve of cake being given to dogs. The Fyne dog was -supposed to lead a Spartan existence on a diet of repulsive biscuits with an -occasional dry, hygienic, bone thrown in. Fyne looked down gloomily at the -appeased animal, I too looked at that fool-dog; and (you know how one’s memory -gets suddenly stimulated) I was reminded visually, with an almost painful -distinctness, of the ghostly white face of the girl I saw last accompanied by -that dog—deserted by that dog. I almost heard her distressed voice as if on the -verge of resentful tears calling to the dog, the unsympathetic dog. Perhaps she -had not the power of evoking sympathy, that personal gift of direct appeal to -the feelings. I said to Fyne, mistrusting the supine attitude of the dog: -</p> - -<p> -“Why don’t you let him come inside?” -</p> - -<p> -Oh dear no! He couldn’t think of it! I might indeed have saved my breath, I -knew it was one of the Fynes’ rules of life, part of their solemnity and -responsibility, one of those things that were part of their unassertive but -ever present superiority, that their dog must not be allowed in. It was most -improper to intrude the dog into the houses of the people they were calling -on—if it were only a careless bachelor in farmhouse lodgings and a personal -friend of the dog. It was out of the question. But they would let him bark -one’s sanity away outside one’s window. They were strangely consistent in their -lack of imaginative sympathy. I didn’t insist but simply led the way back to -the parlour, hoping that no wayfarer would happen along the lane for the next -hour or so to disturb the dog’s composure. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne seated immovable before the table charged with plates, cups, jugs, a -cold teapot, crumbs, and the general litter of the entertainment turned her -head towards us. -</p> - -<p> -“You see, Mr. Marlow,” she said in an unexpectedly confidential tone: “they are -so utterly unsuited for each other.” -</p> - -<p> -At the moment I did not know how to apply this remark. I thought at first of -Fyne and the dog. Then I adjusted it to the matter in hand which was neither -more nor less than an elopement. Yes, by Jove! It was something very much like -an elopement—with certain unusual characteristics of its own which made it in a -sense equivocal. With amused wonder I remembered that my sagacity was -requisitioned in such a connection. How unexpected! But we never know what -tests our gifts may be put to. Sagacity dictated caution first of all. I -believe caution to be the first duty of sagacity. Fyne sat down as if preparing -himself to witness a joust, I thought. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you think so, Mrs. Fyne?” I said sagaciously. “Of course you are in a -position . . . ” I was continuing with caution when she struck out vivaciously -for immediate assent. -</p> - -<p> -“Obviously! Clearly! You yourself must admit . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“But, Mrs. Fyne,” I remonstrated, “you forget that I don’t know your brother.” -</p> - -<p> -This argument which was not only sagacious but true, overwhelmingly true, -unanswerably true, seemed to surprise her. -</p> - -<p> -I wondered why. I did not know enough of her brother for the remotest guess at -what he might be like. I had never set eyes on the man. I didn’t know him so -completely that by contrast I seemed to have known Miss de Barral—whom I had -seen twice (altogether about sixty minutes) and with whom I had exchanged about -sixty words—from the cradle so to speak. And perhaps, I thought, looking down -at Mrs. Fyne (I had remained standing) perhaps she thinks that this ought to be -enough for a sagacious assent. -</p> - -<p> -She kept silent; and I looking at her with polite expectation, went on -addressing her mentally in a mood of familiar approval which would have -astonished her had it been audible: You my dear at any rate are a sincere woman -. . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“I call a woman sincere,” Marlow began again after giving me a cigar and -lighting one himself, “I call a woman sincere when she volunteers a statement -resembling remotely in form what she really would like to say, what she really -thinks ought to be said if it were not for the necessity to spare the stupid -sensitiveness of men. The women’s rougher, simpler, more upright judgment, -embraces the whole truth, which their tact, their mistrust of masculine -idealism, ever prevents them from speaking in its entirety. And their tact is -unerring. We could not stand women speaking the truth. We could not bear it. It -would cause infinite misery and bring about most awful disturbances in this -rather mediocre, but still idealistic fool’s paradise in which each of us lives -his own little life—the unit in the great sum of existence. And they know it. -They are merciful. This generalization does not apply exactly to Mrs. Fyne’s -outburst of sincerity in a matter in which neither my affections nor my vanity -were engaged. That’s why, may be, she ventured so far. For a woman she chose to -be as open as the day with me. There was not only the form but almost the whole -substance of her thought in what she said. She believed she could risk it. She -had reasoned somewhat in this way; there’s a man, possessing a certain amount -of sagacity . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow paused with a whimsical look at me. The last few words he had spoken -with the cigar in his teeth. He took it out now by an ample movement of his arm -and blew a thin cloud. -</p> - -<p> -“You smile? It would have been more kind to spare my blushes. But as a matter -of fact I need not blush. This is not vanity; it is analysis. We’ll let -sagacity stand. But we must also note what sagacity in this connection stands -for. When you see this you shall see also that there was nothing in it to alarm -my modesty. I don’t think Mrs. Fyne credited me with the possession of wisdom -tempered by common sense. And had I had the wisdom of the Seven Sages of -Antiquity, she would not have been moved to confidence or admiration. The -secret scorn of women for the capacity to consider judiciously and to express -profoundly a meditated conclusion is unbounded. They have no use for these -lofty exercises which they look upon as a sort of purely masculine game—game -meaning a respectable occupation devised to kill time in this man-arranged life -which must be got through somehow. What women’s acuteness really respects are -the inept “ideas” and the sheeplike impulses by which our actions and opinions -are determined in matters of real importance. For if women are not rational -they are indeed acute. Even Mrs. Fyne was acute. The good woman was making up -to her husband’s chess-player simply because she had scented in him that small -portion of ‘femininity,’ that drop of superior essence of which I am myself -aware; which, I gratefully acknowledge, has saved me from one or two -misadventures in my life either ridiculous or lamentable, I am not very certain -which. It matters very little. Anyhow misadventures. Observe that I say -‘femininity,’ a privilege—not ‘feminism,’ an attitude. I am not a feminist. It -was Fyne who on certain solemn grounds had adopted that mental attitude; but it -was enough to glance at him sitting on one side, to see that he was purely -masculine to his finger-tips, masculine solidly, densely, -amusingly,—hopelessly. -</p> - -<p> -I did glance at him. You don’t get your sagacity recognized by a man’s wife -without feeling the propriety and even the need to glance at the man now and -again. So I glanced at him. Very masculine. So much so that “hopelessly” was -not the last word of it. He was helpless. He was bound and delivered by it. And -if by the obscure promptings of my composite temperament I beheld him with -malicious amusement, yet being in fact, by definition and especially from -profound conviction, a man, I could not help sympathizing with him largely. -Seeing him thus disarmed, so completely captive by the very nature of things I -was moved to speak to him kindly. -</p> - -<p> -“Well. And what do you think of it?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know. How’s one to tell? But I say that the thing is done now and -there’s an end of it,” said the masculine creature as bluntly as his innate -solemnity permitted. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne moved a little in her chair. I turned to her and remarked gently that -this was a charge, a criticism, which was often made. Some people always ask: -What could he see in her? Others wonder what she could have seen in him? -Expressions of unsuitability. -</p> - -<p> -She said with all the emphasis of her quietly folded arms: -</p> - -<p> -“I know perfectly well what Flora has seen in my brother.” -</p> - -<p> -I bowed my head to the gust but pursued my point. -</p> - -<p> -“And then the marriage in most cases turns out no worse than the average, to -say the least of it.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne was disappointed by the optimistic turn of my sagacity. She rested -her eyes on my face as though in doubt whether I had enough femininity in my -composition to understand the case. -</p> - -<p> -I waited for her to speak. She seemed to be asking herself; Is it after all, -worth while to talk to that man? You understand how provoking this was. I -looked in my mind for something appallingly stupid to say, with the object of -distressing and teasing Mrs. Fyne. It is humiliating to confess a failure. One -would think that a man of average intelligence could command stupidity at will. -But it isn’t so. I suppose it’s a special gift or else the difficulty consists -in being relevant. Discovering that I could find no really telling stupidity, I -turned to the next best thing; a platitude. I advanced, in a common-sense tone, -that, surely, in the matter of marriage a man had only himself to please. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne received this without the flutter of an eyelid. Fyne’s masculine -breast, as might have been expected, was pierced by that old, regulation shaft. -He grunted most feelingly. I turned to him with false simplicity. “Don’t you -agree with me?” -</p> - -<p> -“The very thing I’ve been telling my wife,” he exclaimed in his extra-manly -bass. “We have been discussing—” -</p> - -<p> -A discussion in the Fyne ménage! How portentous! Perhaps the very first -difference they had ever had: Mrs. Fyne unflinching and ready for any -responsibility, Fyne solemn and shrinking—the children in bed upstairs; and -outside the dark fields, the shadowy contours of the land on the starry -background of the universe, with the crude light of the open window like a -beacon for the truant who would never come back now; a truant no longer but a -downright fugitive. Yet a fugitive carrying off spoils. It was the flight of a -raider—or a traitor? This affair of the purloined brother, as I had named it to -myself, had a very puzzling physiognomy. The girl must have been desperate, I -thought, hearing the grave voice of Fyne well enough but catching the sense of -his words not at all, except the very last words which were: -</p> - -<p> -“Of course, it’s extremely distressing.” -</p> - -<p> -I looked at him inquisitively. What was distressing him? The purloining of the -son of the poet-tyrant by the daughter of the financier-convict. Or only, if I -may say so, the wind of their flight disturbing the solemn placidity of the -Fynes’ domestic atmosphere. My incertitude did not last long, for he added: -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Fyne urges me to go to London at once.” -</p> - -<p> -One could guess at, almost see, his profound distaste for the journey, his -distress at a difference of feeling with his wife. With his serious view of the -sublunary comedy Fyne suffered from not being able to agree solemnly with her -sentiment as he was accustomed to do, in recognition of having had his way in -one supreme instance; when he made her elope with him—the most momentous step -imaginable in a young lady’s life. He had been really trying to acknowledge it -by taking the rightness of her feeling for granted on every other occasion. It -had become a sort of habit at last. And it is never pleasant to break a habit. -The man was deeply troubled. I said: “Really! To go to London!” -</p> - -<p> -He looked dumbly into my eyes. It was pathetic and funny. “And you of course -feel it would be useless,” I pursued. -</p> - -<p> -He evidently felt that, though he said nothing. He only went on blinking at me -with a solemn and comical slowness. “Unless it be to carry there the family’s -blessing,” I went on, indulging my chaffing humour steadily, in a rather -sneaking fashion, for I dared not look at Mrs. Fyne, to my right. No sound or -movement came from that direction. “You think very naturally that to match mere -good, sound reasons, against the passionate conclusions of love is a waste of -intellect bordering on the absurd.” -</p> - -<p> -He looked surprised as if I had discovered something very clever. He, dear man, -had thought of nothing at all. -</p> - -<p> -He simply knew that he did not want to go to London on that mission. Mere -masculine delicacy. In a moment he became enthusiastic. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes! Yes! Exactly. A man in love . . . You hear, my dear? Here you have an -independent opinion—” -</p> - -<p> -“Can anything be more hopeless,” I insisted to the fascinated little Fyne, -“than to pit reason against love. I must confess however that in this case when -I think of that poor girl’s sharp chin I wonder if . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -My levity was too much for Mrs. Fyne. Still leaning back in her chair she -exclaimed: -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Marlow!” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -As if mysteriously affected by her indignation the absurd Fyne dog began to -bark in the porch. It might have been at a trespassing bumble-bee however. That -animal was capable of any eccentricity. Fyne got up quickly and went out to -him. I think he was glad to leave us alone to discuss that matter of his -journey to London. A sort of anti-sentimental journey. He, too, apparently, had -confidence in my sagacity. It was touching, this confidence. It was at any rate -more genuine than the confidence his wife pretended to have in her husband’s -chess-player, of three successive holidays. Confidence be hanged! -Sagacity—indeed! She had simply marched in without a shadow of misgiving to -make me back her up. But she had delivered herself into my hands . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Interrupting his narrative Marlow addressed me in his tone between grim jest -and grim earnest: -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps you didn’t know that my character is upon the whole rather -vindictive.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I didn’t know,” I said with a grin. “That’s rather unusual for a sailor. -They always seemed to me the least vindictive body of men in the world.” -</p> - -<p> -“H’m! Simple souls,” Marlow muttered moodily. “Want of opportunity. The world -leaves them alone for the most part. For myself it’s towards women that I feel -vindictive mostly, in my small way. I admit that it is small. But then the -occasions in themselves are not great. Mainly I resent that pretence of winding -us round their dear little fingers, as of right. Not that the result ever -amounts to much generally. There are so very few momentous opportunities. It is -the assumption that each of us is a combination of a kid and an imbecile which -I find provoking—in a small way; in a very small way. You needn’t stare as -though I were breathing fire and smoke out of my nostrils. I am not a -women-devouring monster. I am not even what is technically called “a brute.” I -hope there’s enough of a kid and an imbecile in me to answer the requirements -of some really good woman eventually—some day . . . Some day. Why do you gasp? -You don’t suppose I should be afraid of getting married? That supposition would -be offensive . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“I wouldn’t dream of offending you,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well. But meantime please remember that I was not married to Mrs. Fyne. -That lady’s little finger was none of my legal property. I had not run off with -it. It was Fyne who had done that thing. Let him be wound round as much as his -backbone could stand—or even more, for all I cared. His rushing away from the -discussion on the transparent pretence of quieting the dog confirmed my notion -of there being a considerable strain on his elasticity. I confronted Mrs. Fyne -resolved not to assist her in her eminently feminine occupation of thrusting a -stick in the spokes of another woman’s wheel. -</p> - -<p> -She tried to preserve her calm-eyed superiority. She was familiar and olympian, -fenced in by the tea-table, that excellent symbol of domestic life in its -lighter hour and its perfect security. In a few severely unadorned words she -gave me to understand that she had ventured to hope for some really helpful -suggestion from me. To this almost chiding declaration—because my -vindictiveness seldom goes further than a bit of teasing—I said that I was -really doing my best. And being a physiognomist . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Being what?” she interrupted me. -</p> - -<p> -“A physiognomist,” I repeated raising my voice a little. “A physiognomist, Mrs. -Fyne. And on the principles of that science a pointed little chin is a -sufficient ground for interference. You want to interfere—do you not?” -</p> - -<p> -Her eyes grew distinctly bigger. She had never been bantered before in her -life. The late subtle poet’s method of making himself unpleasant was merely -savage and abusive. Fyne had been always solemnly subservient. What other men -she knew I cannot tell but I assume they must have been gentlemanly creatures. -The girl-friends sat at her feet. How could she recognize my intention. She -didn’t know what to make of my tone. -</p> - -<p> -“Are you serious in what you say?” she asked slowly. And it was touching. It -was as if a very young, confiding girl had spoken. I felt myself relenting. -</p> - -<p> -“No. I am not, Mrs. Fyne,” I said. “I didn’t know I was expected to be serious -as well as sagacious. No. That science is farcical and therefore I am not -serious. It’s true that most sciences are farcical except those which teach us -how to put things together.” -</p> - -<p> -“The question is how to keep these two people apart,” she struck in. She had -recovered. I admired the quickness of women’s wit. Mental agility is a rare -perfection. And aren’t they agile! Aren’t they—just! And tenacious! When they -once get hold you may uproot the tree but you won’t shake them off the branch. -In fact the more you shake . . . But only look at the charm of contradictory -perfections! No wonder men give in—generally. I won’t say I was actually -charmed by Mrs. Fyne. I was not delighted with her. What affected me was not -what she displayed but something which she could not conceal. And that was -emotion—nothing less. The form of her declaration was dry, almost -peremptory—but not its tone. Her voice faltered just the least bit, she smiled -faintly; and as we were looking straight at each other I observed that her eyes -were glistening in a peculiar manner. She was distressed. And indeed that Mrs. -Fyne should have appealed to me at all was in itself the evidence of her -profound distress. “By Jove she’s desperate too,” I thought. This discovery was -followed by a movement of instinctive shrinking from this unreasonable and -unmasculine affair. They were all alike, with their supreme interest aroused -only by fighting with each other about some man: a lover, a son, a brother. -</p> - -<p> -“But do you think there’s time yet to do anything?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -She had an impatient movement of her shoulders without detaching herself from -the back of the chair. Time! Of course? It was less than forty-eight hours -since she had followed him to London . . . I am no great clerk at those matters -but I murmured vaguely an allusion to special licences. We couldn’t tell what -might have happened to-day already. But she knew better, scornfully. Nothing -had happened. -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing’s likely to happen before next Friday week,—if then.” -</p> - -<p> -This was wonderfully precise. Then after a pause she added that she should -never forgive herself if some effort were not made, an appeal. -</p> - -<p> -“To your brother?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. John ought to go to-morrow. Nine o’clock train.” -</p> - -<p> -“So early as that!” I said. But I could not find it in my heart to pursue this -discussion in a jocular tone. I submitted to her several obvious arguments, -dictated apparently by common sense but in reality by my secret compassion. -Mrs. Fyne brushed them aside, with the semi-conscious egoism of all safe, -established, existences. They had known each other so little. Just three weeks. -And of that time, too short for the birth of any serious sentiment, the first -week had to be deducted. They would hardly look at each other to begin with. -Flora barely consented to acknowledge Captain Anthony’s presence. Good -morning—good night—that was all—absolutely the whole extent of their -intercourse. Captain Anthony was a silent man, completely unused to the society -of girls of any sort and so shy in fact that he avoided raising his eyes to her -face at the table. It was perfectly absurd. It was even inconvenient, -embarrassing to her—Mrs. Fyne. After breakfast Flora would go off by herself -for a long walk and Captain Anthony (Mrs. Fyne referred to him at times also as -Roderick) joined the children. But he was actually too shy to get on terms with -his own nieces. -</p> - -<p> -This would have sounded pathetic if I hadn’t known the Fyne children who were -at the same time solemn and malicious, and nursed a secret contempt for all the -world. No one could get on terms with those fresh and comely young monsters! -They just tolerated their parents and seemed to have a sort of mocking -understanding among themselves against all outsiders, yet with no visible -affection for each other. They had the habit of exchanging derisive glances -which to a shy man must have been very trying. They thought their uncle no -doubt a bore and perhaps an ass. -</p> - -<p> -I was not surprised to hear that very soon Anthony formed the habit of crossing -the two neighbouring fields to seek the shade of a clump of elms at a good -distance from the cottage. He lay on the grass and smoked his pipe all the -morning. Mrs. Fyne wondered at her brother’s indolent habits. He had asked for -books it is true but there were but few in the cottage. He read them through in -three days and then continued to lie contentedly on his back with no other -companion but his pipe. Amazing indolence! The live-long morning, Mrs. Fyne, -busy writing upstairs in the cottage, could see him out of the window. She had -a very long sight, and these elms were grouped on a rise of the ground. His -indolence was plainly exposed to her criticism on a gentle green slope. Mrs. -Fyne wondered at it; she was disgusted too. But having just then ‘commenced -author,’ as you know, she could not tear herself away from the fascinating -novelty. She let him wallow in his vice. I imagine Captain Anthony must have -had a rather pleasant time in a quiet way. It was, I remember, a hot dry -summer, favourable to contemplative life out of doors. And Mrs. Fyne was -scandalized. Women don’t understand the force of a contemplative temperament. -It simply shocks them. They feel instinctively that it is the one which escapes -best the domination of feminine influences. The dear girls were exchanging -jeering remarks about “lazy uncle Roderick” openly, in her indulgent hearing. -And it was so strange, she told me, because as a boy he was anything but -indolent. On the contrary. Always active. -</p> - -<p> -I remarked that a man of thirty-five was no longer a boy. It was an obvious -remark but she received it without favour. She told me positively that the -best, the nicest men remained boys all their lives. She was disappointed not to -be able to detect anything boyish in her brother. Very, very sorry. She had not -seen him for fifteen years or thereabouts, except on three or four occasions -for a few hours at a time. No. Not a trace of the boy, he used to be, left in -him. -</p> - -<p> -She fell silent for a moment and I mused idly on the boyhood of little Fyne. I -could not imagine what it might have been like. His dominant trait was clearly -the remnant of still earlier days, because I’ve never seen such staring -solemnity as Fyne’s except in a very young baby. But where was he all that -time? Didn’t he suffer contamination from the indolence of Captain Anthony, I -inquired. I was told that Mr. Fyne was very little at the cottage at the time. -Some colleague of his was convalescing after a severe illness in a little -seaside village in the neighbourhood and Fyne went off every morning by train -to spend the day with the elderly invalid who had no one to look after him. It -was a very praiseworthy excuse for neglecting his brother-in-law “the son of -the poet, you know,” with whom he had nothing in common even in the remotest -degree. If Captain Anthony (Roderick) had been a pedestrian it would have been -sufficient; but he was not. Still, in the afternoon, he went sometimes for a -slow casual stroll, by himself of course, the children having definitely -cold-shouldered him, and his only sister being busy with that inflammatory book -which was to blaze upon the world a year or more afterwards. It seems however -that she was capable of detaching her eyes from her task now and then, if only -for a moment, because it was from that garret fitted out for a study that one -afternoon she observed her brother and Flora de Barral coming down the road -side by side. They had met somewhere accidentally (which of them crossed the -other’s path, as the saying is, I don’t know), and were returning to tea -together. She noticed that they appeared to be conversing without constraint. -</p> - -<p> -“I had the simplicity to be pleased,” Mrs. Fyne commented with a dry little -laugh. “Pleased for both their sakes.” Captain Anthony shook off his indolence -from that day forth, and accompanied Miss Flora frequently on her morning -walks. Mrs. Fyne remained pleased. She could now forget them comfortably and -give herself up to the delights of audacious thought and literary composition. -Only a week before the blow fell she, happening to raise her eyes from the -paper, saw two figures seated on the grass under the shade of the elms. She -could make out the white blouse. There could be no mistake. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose they imagined themselves concealed by the hedge. They forgot no -doubt I was working in the garret,” she said bitterly. “Or perhaps they didn’t -care. They were right. I am rather a simple person . . . ” She laughed again . -. . “I was incapable of suspecting such duplicity.” -</p> - -<p> -“Duplicity is a strong word, Mrs. Fyne—isn’t it?” I expostulated. “And -considering that Captain Anthony himself . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh well—perhaps,” she interrupted me. Her eyes which never strayed away from -mine, her set features, her whole immovable figure, how well I knew those -appearances of a person who has “made up her mind.” A very hopeless condition -that, specially in women. I mistrusted her concession so easily, so stonily -made. She reflected a moment. “Yes. I ought to have said—ingratitude, perhaps.” -</p> - -<p> -After having thus disengaged her brother and pushed the poor girl a little -further off as it were—isn’t women’s cleverness perfectly diabolic when they -are really put on their mettle?—after having done these things and also made me -feel that I was no match for her, she went on scrupulously: “One doesn’t like -to use that word either. The claim is very small. It’s so little one could do -for her. Still . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“I dare say,” I exclaimed, throwing diplomacy to the winds. “But really, Mrs. -Fyne, it’s impossible to dismiss your brother like this out of the business . . -. ” -</p> - -<p> -“She threw herself at his head,” Mrs. Fyne uttered firmly. -</p> - -<p> -“He had no business to put his head in the way, then,” I retorted with an angry -laugh. I didn’t restrain myself because her fixed stare seemed to express the -purpose to daunt me. I was not afraid of her, but it occurred to me that I was -within an ace of drifting into a downright quarrel with a lady and, besides, my -guest. There was the cold teapot, the emptied cups, emblems of hospitality. It -could not be. I cut short my angry laugh while Mrs. Fyne murmured with a slight -movement of her shoulders, “He! Poor man! Oh come . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -By a great effort of will I found myself able to smile amiably, to speak with -proper softness. -</p> - -<p> -“My dear Mrs. Fyne, you forget that I don’t know him—not even by sight. It’s -difficult to imagine a victim as passive as all that; but granting you the (I -very nearly said: imbecility, but checked myself in time) innocence of Captain -Anthony, don’t you think now, frankly, that there is a little of your own fault -in what has happened. You bring them together, you leave your brother to -himself!” -</p> - -<p> -She sat up and leaning her elbow on the table sustained her head in her open -palm casting down her eyes. Compunction? It was indeed a very off-hand way of -treating a brother come to stay for the first time in fifteen years. I suppose -she discovered very soon that she had nothing in common with that sailor, that -stranger, fashioned and marked by the sea of long voyages. In her strong-minded -way she had scorned pretences, had gone to her writing which interested her -immensely. A very praiseworthy thing your sincere conduct,—if it didn’t at -times resemble brutality so much. But I don’t think it was compunction. That -sentiment is rare in women . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Is it?” I interrupted indignantly. -</p> - -<p> -“You know more women than I do,” retorted the unabashed Marlow. “You make it -your business to know them—don’t you? You go about a lot amongst all sorts of -people. You are a tolerably honest observer. Well, just try to remember how -many instances of compunction you have seen. I am ready to take your bare word -for it. Compunction! Have you ever seen as much as its shadow? Have you ever? -Just a shadow—a passing shadow! I tell you it is so rare that you may call it -non-existent. They are too passionate. Too pedantic. Too courageous with -themselves—perhaps. No I don’t think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne felt the -slightest compunction at her treatment of her sea-going brother. What <i>he</i> -thought of it who can tell? It is possible that he wondered why he had been so -insistently urged to come. It is possible that he wondered bitterly—or -contemptuously—or humbly. And it may be that he was only surprised and bored. -Had he been as sincere in his conduct as his only sister he would have probably -taken himself off at the end of the second day. But perhaps he was afraid of -appearing brutal. I am not far removed from the conviction that between the -sincerities of his sister and of his dear nieces, Captain Anthony of the -<i>Ferndale</i> must have had his loneliness brought home to his bosom for the -first time of his life, at an age, thirty-five or thereabouts, when one is -mature enough to feel the pang of such a discovery. Angry or simply sad but -certainly disillusioned he wanders about and meets the girl one afternoon and -under the sway of a strong feeling forgets his shyness. This is no supposition. -It is a fact. There was such a meeting in which the shyness must have perished -before we don’t know what encouragement, or in the community of mood made -apparent by some casual word. You remember that Mrs. Fyne saw them one -afternoon coming back to the cottage together. Don’t you think that I have hit -on the psychology of the situation? . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Doubtless . . . ” I began to ponder. -</p> - -<p> -“I was very certain of my conclusions at the time,” Marlow went on impatiently. -“But don’t think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne in her new attitude and toying -thoughtfully with a teaspoon was about to surrender. She murmured: -</p> - -<p> -“It’s the last thing I should have thought could happen.” -</p> - -<p> -“You didn’t suppose they were romantic enough,” I suggested dryly. -</p> - -<p> -She let it pass and with great decision but as if speaking to herself, -</p> - -<p> -“Roderick really must be warned.” -</p> - -<p> -She didn’t give me the time to ask of what precisely. She raised her head and -addressed me. -</p> - -<p> -“I am surprised and grieved more than I can tell you at Mr. Fyne’s resistance. -We have been always completely at one on every question. And that we should -differ now on a point touching my brother so closely is a most painful surprise -to me.” Her hand rattled the teaspoon brusquely by an involuntary movement. “It -is intolerable,” she added tempestuously—for Mrs. Fyne that is. I suppose she -had nerves of her own like any other woman. -</p> - -<p> -Under the porch where Fyne had sought refuge with the dog there was silence. I -took it for a proof of deep sagacity. I don’t mean on the part of the dog. He -was a confirmed fool. -</p> - -<p> -I said: -</p> - -<p> -“You want absolutely to interfere . . . ?” Mrs. Fyne nodded just perceptibly . -. . “Well—for my part . . . but I don’t really know how matters stand at the -present time. You have had a letter from Miss de Barral. What does that letter -say?” -</p> - -<p> -“She asks for her valise to be sent to her town address,” Mrs. Fyne uttered -reluctantly and stopped. I waited a bit—then exploded. -</p> - -<p> -“Well! What’s the matter? Where’s the difficulty? Does your husband object to -that? You don’t mean to say that he wants you to appropriate the girl’s -clothes?” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Marlow!” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, but you talk of a painful difference of opinion with your husband, and -then, when I ask for information on the point, you bring out a valise. And only -a few moments ago you reproached me for not being serious. I wonder who is the -serious person of us two now.” -</p> - -<p> -She smiled faintly and in a friendly tone, from which I concluded at once that -she did not mean to show me the girl’s letter, she said that undoubtedly the -letter disclosed an understanding between Captain Anthony and Flora de Barral. -</p> - -<p> -“What understanding?” I pressed her. “An engagement is an understanding.” -</p> - -<p> -“There is no engagement—not yet,” she said decisively. “That letter, Mr. -Marlow, is couched in very vague terms. That is why—” -</p> - -<p> -I interrupted her without ceremony. -</p> - -<p> -“You still hope to interfere to some purpose. Isn’t it so? Yes? But how should -you have liked it if anybody had tried to interfere between you and Mr. Fyne at -the time when your understanding with each other could still have been -described in vague terms?” -</p> - -<p> -She had a genuine movement of astonished indignation. It is with the accent of -perfect sincerity that she cried out at me: -</p> - -<p> -“But it isn’t at all the same thing! How can you!” -</p> - -<p> -Indeed how could I! The daughter of a poet and the daughter of a convict are -not comparable in the consequences of their conduct if their necessity may wear -at times a similar aspect. Amongst these consequences I could perceive -undesirable cousins for these dear healthy girls, and such like, possible -causes of embarrassment in the future. -</p> - -<p> -“No! You can’t be serious,” Mrs. Fyne’s smouldering resentment broke out again. -“You haven’t thought—” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes, Mrs. Fyne! I have thought. I am still thinking. I am even trying to -think like you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Marlow,” she said earnestly. “Believe me that I really am thinking of my -brother in all this . . . ” I assured her that I quite believed she was. For -there is no law of nature making it impossible to think of more than one person -at a time. Then I said: -</p> - -<p> -“She has told him all about herself of course.” -</p> - -<p> -“All about her life,” assented Mrs. Fyne with an air, however, of making some -mental reservation which I did not pause to investigate. “Her life!” I -repeated. “That girl must have had a mighty bad time of it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Horrible,” Mrs. Fyne admitted with a ready frankness very creditable under the -circumstances, and a warmth of tone which made me look at her with a friendly -eye. “Horrible! No! You can’t imagine the sort of vulgar people she became -dependent on . . . You know her father never attempted to see her while he was -still at large. After his arrest he instructed that relative of his—the odious -person who took her away from Brighton—not to let his daughter come to the -court during the trial. He refused to hold any communication with her -whatever.” -</p> - -<p> -I remembered what Mrs. Fyne had told me before of the view she had years ago of -de Barral clinging to the child at the side of his wife’s grave and later on of -these two walking hand in hand the observed of all eyes by the sea. Pictures -from Dickens—pregnant with pathos. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER SIX—FLORA</h3> - -<p> -“A very singular prohibition,” remarked Mrs. Fyne after a short silence. “He -seemed to love the child.” -</p> - -<p> -She was puzzled. But I surmised that it might have been the sullenness of a man -unconscious of guilt and standing at bay to fight his “persecutors,” as he -called them; or else the fear of a softer emotion weakening his defiant -attitude; perhaps, even, it was a self-denying ordinance, in order to spare the -girl the sight of her father in the dock, accused of cheating, sentenced as a -swindler—proving the possession of a certain moral delicacy. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne didn’t know what to think. She supposed it might have been mere -callousness. But the people amongst whom the girl had fallen had positively not -a grain of moral delicacy. Of that she was certain. Mrs. Fyne could not -undertake to give me an idea of their abominable vulgarity. Flora used to tell -her something of her life in that household, over there, down Limehouse way. It -was incredible. It passed Mrs. Fyne’s comprehension. It was a sort of moral -savagery which she could not have thought possible. -</p> - -<p> -I, on the contrary, thought it very possible. I could imagine easily how the -poor girl must have been bewildered and hurt at her reception in that -household—envied for her past while delivered defenceless to the tender mercies -of people without any fineness either of feeling or mind, unable to understand -her misery, grossly curious, mistaking her manner for disdain, her silent -shrinking for pride. The wife of the “odious person” was witless and fatuously -conceited. Of the two girls of the house one was pious and the other a romp; -both were coarse-minded—if they may be credited with any mind at all. The -rather numerous men of the family were dense and grumpy, or dense and jocose. -None in that grubbing lot had enough humanity to leave her alone. At first she -was made much of, in an offensively patronising manner. The connection with the -great de Barral gratified their vanity even in the moment of the smash. They -dragged her to their place of worship, whatever it might have been, where the -congregation stared at her, and they gave parties to other beings like -themselves at which they exhibited her with ignoble self-satisfaction. She did -not know how to defend herself from their importunities, insolence and -exigencies. She lived amongst them, a passive victim, quivering in every nerve, -as if she were flayed. After the trial her position became still worse. On the -least occasion and even on no occasions at all she was scolded, or else taunted -with her dependence. The pious girl lectured her on her defects, the romping -girl teased her with contemptuous references to her accomplishments, and was -always trying to pick insensate quarrels with her about some “fellow” or other. -The mother backed up her girls invariably, adding her own silly, wounding -remarks. I must say they were probably not aware of the ugliness of their -conduct. They were nasty amongst themselves as a matter of course; their -disputes were nauseating in origin, in manner, in the spirit of mean -selfishness. These women, too, seemed to enjoy greatly any sort of row and were -always ready to combine together to make awful scenes to the luckless girl on -incredibly flimsy pretences. Thus Flora on one occasion had been reduced to -rage and despair, had her most secret feelings lacerated, had obtained a view -of the utmost baseness to which common human nature can descend—I won’t say -<i>à propos de bottes</i> as the French would excellently put it, but -literally <i>à propos</i> of some mislaid cheap lace trimmings for a -nightgown the romping one was making for herself. Yes, that was the origin of -one of the grossest scenes which, in their repetition, must have had a -deplorable effect on the unformed character of the most pitiful of de Barral’s -victims. I have it from Mrs. Fyne. The girl turned up at the Fynes’ house at -half-past nine on a cold, drizzly evening. She had walked bareheaded, I -believe, just as she ran out of the house, from somewhere in Poplar to the -neighbourhood of Sloane Square—without stopping, without drawing breath, if -only for a sob. -</p> - -<p> -“We were having some people to dinner,” said the anxious sister of Captain -Anthony. -</p> - -<p> -She had heard the front door bell and wondered what it might mean. The -parlourmaid managed to whisper to her without attracting attention. The -servants had been frightened by the invasion of that wild girl in a muddy skirt -and with wisps of damp hair sticking to her pale cheeks. But they had seen her -before. This was not the first occasion, nor yet the last. -</p> - -<p> -Directly she could slip away from her guests Mrs. Fyne ran upstairs. -</p> - -<p> -“I found her in the night nursery crouching on the floor, her head resting on -the cot of the youngest of my girls. The eldest was sitting up in bed looking -at her across the room.” -</p> - -<p> -Only a nightlight was burning there. Mrs. Fyne raised her up, took her over to -Mr. Fyne’s little dressing-room on the other side of the landing, to a fire by -which she could dry herself, and left her there. She had to go back to her -guests. -</p> - -<p> -A most disagreeable surprise it must have been to the Fynes. Afterwards they -both went up and interviewed the girl. She jumped up at their entrance. She had -shaken her damp hair loose; her eyes were dry—with the heat of rage. -</p> - -<p> -I can imagine little Fyne solemnly sympathetic, solemnly listening, solemnly -retreating to the marital bedroom. Mrs. Fyne pacified the girl, and, -fortunately, there was a bed which could be made up for her in the -dressing-room. -</p> - -<p> -“But—what could one do after all!” concluded Mrs. Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -And this stereotyped exclamation, expressing the difficulty of the problem and -the readiness (at any rate) of good intentions, made me, as usual, feel more -kindly towards her. -</p> - -<p> -Next morning, very early, long before Fyne had to start for his office, the -“odious personage” turned up, not exactly unexpected perhaps, but startling all -the same, if only by the promptness of his action. From what Flora herself -related to Mrs. Fyne, it seems that without being very perceptibly less -“odious” than his family he had in a rather mysterious fashion interposed his -authority for the protection of the girl. “Not that he cares,” explained Flora. -“I am sure he does not. I could not stand being liked by any of these people. -If I thought he liked me I would drown myself rather than go back with him.” -</p> - -<p> -For of course he had come to take “Florrie” home. The scene was the -dining-room—breakfast interrupted, dishes growing cold, little Fyne’s toast -growing leathery, Fyne out of his chair with his back to the fire, the -newspaper on the carpet, servants shut out, Mrs. Fyne rigid in her place with -the girl sitting beside her—the “odious person,” who had bustled in with hardly -a greeting, looking from Fyne to Mrs. Fyne as though he were inwardly amused at -something he knew of them; and then beginning ironically his discourse. He did -not apologize for disturbing Fyne and his “good lady” at breakfast, because he -knew they did not want (with a nod at the girl) to have more of her than could -be helped. He came the first possible moment because he had his business to -attend to. He wasn’t drawing a tip-top salary (this staring at Fyne) in a -luxuriously furnished office. Not he. He had risen to be an employer of labour -and was bound to give a good example. -</p> - -<p> -I believe the fellow was aware of, and enjoyed quietly, the consternation his -presence brought to the bosom of Mr. and Mrs. Fyne. He turned briskly to the -girl. Mrs. Fyne confessed to me that they had remained all three silent and -inanimate. He turned to the girl: “What’s this game, Florrie? You had better -give it up. If you expect me to run all over London looking for you every time -you happen to have a tiff with your auntie and cousins you are mistaken. I -can’t afford it.” -</p> - -<p> -Tiff—was the sort of definition to take one’s breath away, having regard to the -fact that both the word convict and the word pauper had been used a moment -before Flora de Barral ran away from the quarrel about the lace trimmings. Yes, -these very words! So at least the girl had told Mrs. Fyne the evening before. -The word tiff in connection with her tale had a peculiar savour, a paralysing -effect. Nobody made a sound. The relative of de Barral proceeded uninterrupted -to a display of magnanimity. “Auntie told me to tell you she’s sorry—there! And -Amelia (the romping sister) shan’t worry you again. I’ll see to that. You ought -to be satisfied. Remember your position.” -</p> - -<p> -Emboldened by the utter stillness pervading the room he addressed himself to -Mrs. Fyne with stolid effrontery: -</p> - -<p> -“What I say is that people should be good-natured. She can’t stand being -chaffed. She puts on her grand airs. She won’t take a bit of a joke from people -as good as herself anyway. We are a plain lot. We don’t like it. And that’s how -trouble begins.” -</p> - -<p> -Insensible to the stony stare of three pairs of eyes, which, if the stories of -our childhood as to the power of the human eye are true, ought to have been -enough to daunt a tiger, that unabashed manufacturer from the East End fastened -his fangs, figuratively speaking, into the poor girl and prepared to drag her -away for a prey to his cubs of both sexes. “Auntie has thought of sending you -your hat and coat. I’ve got them outside in the cab.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne looked mechanically out of the window. A four-wheeler stood before -the gate under the weeping sky. The driver in his conical cape and tarpaulin -hat, streamed with water. The drooping horse looked as though it had been -fished out, half unconscious, from a pond. Mrs. Fyne found some relief in -looking at that miserable sight, away from the room in which the voice of the -amiable visitor resounded with a vulgar intonation exhorting the strayed sheep -to return to the delightful fold. “Come, Florrie, make a move. I can’t wait on -you all day here.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne heard all this without turning her head away from the window. Fyne on -the hearthrug had to listen and to look on too. I shall not try to form a -surmise as to the real nature of the suspense. Their very goodness must have -made it very anxious. The girl’s hands were lying in her lap; her head was -lowered as if in deep thought; and the other went on delivering a sort of -homily. Ingratitude was condemned in it, the sinfulness of pride was pointed -out—together with the proverbial fact that it “goes before a fall.” There were -also some sound remarks as to the danger of nonsensical notions and the -disadvantages of a quick temper. It sets one’s best friends against one. “And -if anybody ever wanted friends in the world it’s you, my girl.” Even respect -for parental authority was invoked. “In the first hour of his trouble your -father wrote to me to take care of you—don’t forget it. Yes, to me, just a -plain man, rather than to any of his fine West-End friends. You can’t get over -that. And a father’s a father no matter what a mess he’s got himself into. You -ain’t going to throw over your own father—are you?” -</p> - -<p> -It was difficult to say whether he was more absurd than cruel or more cruel -than absurd. Mrs. Fyne, with the fine ear of a woman, seemed to detect a -jeering intention in his meanly unctuous tone, something more vile than mere -cruelty. She glanced quickly over her shoulder and saw the girl raise her two -hands to her head, then let them fall again on her lap. Fyne in front of the -fire was like the victim of an unholy spell—bereft of motion and speech but -obviously in pain. It was a short pause of perfect silence, and then that -“odious creature” (he must have been really a remarkable individual in his way) -struck out into sarcasm. -</p> - -<p> -“Well? . . . ” Again a silence. “If you have fixed it up with the lady and -gentleman present here for your board and lodging you had better say so. I -don’t want to interfere in a bargain I know nothing of. But I wonder how your -father will take it when he comes out . . . or don’t you expect him ever to -come out?” -</p> - -<p> -At that moment, Mrs. Fyne told me she met the girl’s eyes. There was that in -them which made her shut her own. She also felt as though she would have liked -to put her fingers in her ears. She restrained herself, however; and the “plain -man” passed in his appalling versatility from sarcasm to veiled menace. -</p> - -<p> -“You have—eh? Well and good. But before I go home let me ask you, my girl, to -think if by any chance you throwing us over like this won’t be rather bad for -your father later on? Just think it over.” -</p> - -<p> -He looked at his victim with an air of cunning mystery. She jumped up so -suddenly that he started back. Mrs. Fyne rose too, and even the spell was -removed from her husband. But the girl dropped again into the chair and turned -her head to look at Mrs. Fyne. This time it was no accidental meeting of -fugitive glances. It was a deliberate communication. To my question as to its -nature Mrs. Fyne said she did not know. “Was it appealing?” I suggested. “No,” -she said. “Was it frightened, angry, crushed, resigned?” “No! No! Nothing of -these.” But it had frightened her. She remembered it to this day. She had been -ever since fancying she could detect the lingering reflection of that look in -all the girl’s glances. In the attentive, in the casual—even in the grateful -glances—in the expression of the softest moods. -</p> - -<p> -“Has she her soft moods, then?” I asked with interest. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs Fyne, much moved by her recollections, heeded not my inquiry. All her -mental energy was concentrated on the nature of that memorable glance. The -general tradition of mankind teaches us that glances occupy a considerable -place in the self-expression of women. Mrs. Fyne was trying honestly to give me -some idea, as much perhaps to satisfy her own uneasiness as my curiosity. She -was frowning in the effort as you see sometimes a child do (what is delightful -in women is that they so often resemble intelligent children—I mean the -crustiest, the sourest, the most battered of them do—at times). She was -frowning, I say, and I was beginning to smile faintly at her when all at once -she came out with something totally unexpected. -</p> - -<p> -“It was horribly merry,” she said. -</p> - -<p> -I suppose she must have been satisfied by my sudden gravity because she looked -at me in a friendly manner. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Mrs. Fyne,” I said, smiling no longer. “I see. It would have been -horrible even on the stage.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” she interrupted me—and I really believe her change of attitude back to -folded arms was meant to check a shudder. “But it wasn’t on the stage, and it -was not with her lips that she laughed.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. It must have been horrible,” I assented. “And then she had to go away -ultimately—I suppose. You didn’t say anything?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said Mrs. Fyne. “I rang the bell and told one of the maids to go and -bring the hat and coat out of the cab. And then we waited.” -</p> - -<p> -I don’t think that there ever was such waiting unless possibly in a jail at -some moment or other on the morning of an execution. The servant appeared with -the hat and coat, and then, still as on the morning of an execution, when the -condemned, I believe, is offered a breakfast, Mrs. Fyne, anxious that the -white-faced girl should swallow something warm (if she could) before leaving -her house for an interminable drive through raw cold air in a damp -four-wheeler—Mrs. Fyne broke the awful silence: “You really must try to eat -something,” in her best resolute manner. She turned to the “odious person” with -the same determination. “Perhaps you will sit down and have a cup of coffee, -too.” -</p> - -<p> -The worthy “employer of labour” sat down. He might have been awed by Mrs. -Fyne’s peremptory manner—for she did not think of conciliating him then. He sat -down, provisionally, like a man who finds himself much against his will in -doubtful company. He accepted ungraciously the cup handed to him by Mrs. Fyne, -took an unwilling sip or two and put it down as if there were some moral -contamination in the coffee of these “swells.” Between whiles he directed -mysteriously inexpressive glances at little Fyne, who, I gather, had no -breakfast that morning at all. Neither had the girl. She never moved her hands -from her lap till her appointed guardian got up, leaving his cup half full. -</p> - -<p> -“Well. If you don’t mean to take advantage of this lady’s kind offer I may just -as well take you home at once. I want to begin my day—I do.” -</p> - -<p> -After a few more dumb, leaden-footed minutes while Flora was putting on her hat -and jacket, the Fynes without moving, without saying anything, saw these two -leave the room. -</p> - -<p> -“She never looked back at us,” said Mrs. Fyne. “She just followed him out. I’ve -never had such a crushing impression of the miserable dependence of girls—of -women. This was an extreme case. But a young man—any man—could have gone to -break stones on the roads or something of that kind—or enlisted—or—” -</p> - -<p> -It was very true. Women can’t go forth on the high roads and by-ways to pick up -a living even when dignity, independence, or existence itself are at stake. But -what made me interrupt Mrs. Fyne’s tirade was my profound surprise at the fact -of that respectable citizen being so willing to keep in his home the poor girl -for whom it seemed there was no place in the world. And not only willing but -anxious. I couldn’t credit him with generous impulses. For it seemed obvious to -me from what I had learned that, to put it mildly, he was not an impulsive -person. -</p> - -<p> -“I confess that I can’t understand his motive,” I exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -“This is exactly what John wondered at, at first,” said Mrs. Fyne. By that time -an intimacy—if not exactly confidence—had sprung up between us which permitted -her in this discussion to refer to her husband as John. “You know he had not -opened his lips all that time,” she pursued. “I don’t blame his restraint. On -the contrary. What could he have said? I could see he was observing the man -very thoughtfully.” -</p> - -<p> -“And so, Mr. Fyne listened, observed and meditated,” I said. “That’s an -excellent way of coming to a conclusion. And may I ask at what conclusion he -had managed to arrive? On what ground did he cease to wonder at the -inexplicable? For I can’t admit humanity to be the explanation. It would be too -monstrous.” -</p> - -<p> -It was nothing of the sort, Mrs. Fyne assured me with some resentment, as -though I had aspersed little Fyne’s sanity. Fyne very sensibly had set himself -the mental task of discovering the self-interest. I should not have thought him -capable of so much cynicism. He said to himself that for people of that sort -(religious fears or the vanity of righteousness put aside) money—not great -wealth, but money, just a little money—is the measure of virtue, of expediency, -of wisdom—of pretty well everything. But the girl was absolutely destitute. The -father was in prison after the most terribly complete and disgraceful smash of -modern times. And then it dawned upon Fyne that this was just it. The great -smash, in the great dust of vanishing millions! Was it possible that they all -had vanished to the last penny? Wasn’t there, somewhere, something palpable; -some fragment of the fabric left? -</p> - -<p> -“That’s it,” had exclaimed Fyne, startling his wife by this explosive unseating -of his lips less than half an hour after the departure of de Barral’s cousin -with de Barral’s daughter. It was still in the dining-room, very near the time -for him to go forth affronting the elements in order to put in another day’s -work in his country’s service. All he could say at the moment in elucidation of -this breakdown from his usual placid solemnity was: -</p> - -<p> -“The fellow imagines that de Barral has got some plunder put away somewhere.” -</p> - -<p> -This being the theory arrived at by Fyne, his comment on it was that a good -many bankrupts had been known to have taken such a precaution. It was possible -in de Barral’s case. Fyne went so far in his display of cynical pessimism as to -say that it was extremely probable. -</p> - -<p> -He explained at length to Mrs. Fyne that de Barral certainly did not take -anyone into his confidence. But the beastly relative had made up his low mind -that it was so. He was selfish and pitiless in his stupidity, but he had -clearly conceived the notion of making a claim on de Barral when de Barral came -out of prison on the strength of having “looked after” (as he would have -himself expressed it) his daughter. He nursed his hopes, such as they were, in -secret, and it is to be supposed kept them even from his wife. -</p> - -<p> -I could see it very well. That belief accounted for his mysterious air while he -interfered in favour of the girl. He was the only protector she had. It was as -though Flora had been fated to be always surrounded by treachery and lies -stifling every better impulse, every instinctive aspiration of her soul to -trust and to love. It would have been enough to drive a fine nature into the -madness of universal suspicion—into any sort of madness. I don’t know how far a -sense of humour will stand by one. To the foot of the gallows, perhaps. But -from my recollection of Flora de Barral I feared that she hadn’t much sense of -humour. She had cried at the desertion of the absurd Fyne dog. That animal was -certainly free from duplicity. He was frank and simple and ridiculous. The -indignation of the girl at his unhypocritical behaviour had been funny but not -humorous. -</p> - -<p> -As you may imagine I was not very anxious to resume the discussion on the -justice, expediency, effectiveness or what not, of Fyne’s journey to London. It -isn’t that I was unfaithful to little Fyne out in the porch with the dog. (They -kept amazingly quiet there. Could they have gone to sleep?) What I felt was -that either my sagacity or my conscience would come out damaged from that -campaign. And no man will willingly put himself in the way of moral damage. I -did not want a war with Mrs. Fyne. I much preferred to hear something more of -the girl. I said: -</p> - -<p> -“And so she went away with that respectable ruffian.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders slightly—“What else could she have done?” I -agreed with her by another hopeless gesture. It isn’t so easy for a girl like -Flora de Barral to become a factory hand, a pathetic seamstress or even a -barmaid. She wouldn’t have known how to begin. She was the captive of the -meanest conceivable fate. And she wasn’t mean enough for it. It is to be -remarked that a good many people are born curiously unfitted for the fate -awaiting them on this earth. As I don’t want you to think that I am unduly -partial to the girl we shall say that she failed decidedly to endear herself to -that simple, virtuous and, I believe, teetotal household. It’s my conviction -that an angel would have failed likewise. It’s no use going into details; -suffice it to state that before the year was out she was again at the Fynes’ -door. -</p> - -<p> -This time she was escorted by a stout youth. His large pale face wore a smile -of inane cunning soured by annoyance. His clothes were new and the -indescribable smartness of their cut, a <i>genre</i> which had never been -obtruded on her notice before, astonished Mrs. Fyne, who came out into the hall -with her hat on; for she was about to go out to hear a new pianist (a girl) in -a friend’s house. The youth addressing Mrs. Fyne easily begged her not to let -“that silly thing go back to us any more.” There had been, he said, nothing but -“ructions” at home about her for the last three weeks. Everybody in the family -was heartily sick of quarrelling. His governor had charged him to bring her to -this address and say that the lady and gentleman were quite welcome to all -there was in it. She hadn’t enough sense to appreciate a plain, honest English -home and she was better out of it. -</p> - -<p> -The young, pimply-faced fellow was vexed by this job his governor had sprung on -him. It was the cause of his missing an appointment for that afternoon with a -certain young lady. The lady he was engaged to. But he meant to dash back and -try for a sight of her that evening yet “if he were to burst over it.” -“Good-bye, Florrie. Good luck to you—and I hope I’ll never see your face -again.” -</p> - -<p> -With that he ran out in lover-like haste leaving the hall-door wide open. Mrs. -Fyne had not found a word to say. She had been too much taken aback even to -gasp freely. But she had the presence of mind to grab the girl’s arm just as -she, too, was running out into the street—with the haste, I suppose, of despair -and to keep I don’t know what tragic tryst. -</p> - -<p> -“You stopped her with your own hand, Mrs. Fyne,” I said. “I presume she meant -to get away. That girl is no comedian—if I am any judge.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes! I had to use some force to drag her in.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne had no difficulty in stating the truth. “You see I was in the very -act of letting myself out when these two appeared. So that, when that -unpleasant young man ran off, I found myself alone with Flora. It was all I -could do to hold her in the hall while I called to the servants to come and -shut the door.” -</p> - -<p> -As is my habit, or my weakness, or my gift, I don’t know which, I visualized -the story for myself. I really can’t help it. And the vision of Mrs. Fyne -dressed for a rather special afternoon function, engaged in wrestling with a -wild-eyed, white-faced girl had a certain dramatic fascination. -</p> - -<p> -“Really!” I murmured. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! There’s no doubt that she struggled,” said Mrs. Fyne. She compressed her -lips for a moment and then added: “As to her being a comedian that’s another -question.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne had returned to her attitude of folded arms. I saw before me the -daughter of the refined poet accepting life whole with its unavoidable -conditions of which one of the first is the instinct of self-preservation and -the egoism of every living creature. “The fact remains nevertheless that -you—yourself—have, in your own words, pulled her in,” I insisted in a jocular -tone, with a serious intention. -</p> - -<p> -“What was one to do,” exclaimed Mrs. Fyne with almost comic exasperation. “Are -you reproaching me with being too impulsive?” -</p> - -<p> -And she went on telling me that she was not that in the least. One of the -recommendations she always insisted on (to the girl-friends, I imagine) was to -be on guard against impulse. Always! But I had not been there to see the face -of Flora at the time. If I had it would be haunting me to this day. Nobody -unless made of iron would have allowed a human being with a face like that to -rush out alone into the streets. -</p> - -<p> -“And doesn’t it haunt you, Mrs. Fyne?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -“No, not now,” she said implacably. “Perhaps if I had let her go it might have -done . . . Don’t conclude, though, that I think she was playing a comedy then, -because after struggling at first she ended by remaining. She gave up very -suddenly. She collapsed in our arms, mine and the maid’s who came running up in -response to my calls, and . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“And the door was then shut,” I completed the phrase in my own way. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, the door was shut,” Mrs. Fyne lowered and raised her head slowly. -</p> - -<p> -I did not ask her for details. Of one thing I am certain, and that is that Mrs. -Fyne did not go out to the musical function that afternoon. She was no doubt -considerably annoyed at missing the privilege of hearing privately an -interesting young pianist (a girl) who, since, had become one of the recognized -performers. Mrs. Fyne did not dare leave her house. As to the feelings of -little Fyne when he came home from the office, via his club, just half an hour -before dinner, I have no information. But I venture to affirm that in the main -they were kindly, though it is quite possible that in the first moment of -surprise he had to keep down a swear-word or two. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -The long and the short of it all is that next day the Fynes made up their minds -to take into their confidence a certain wealthy old lady. With certain old -ladies the passing years bring back a sort of mellowed youthfulness of feeling, -an optimistic outlook, liking for novelty, readiness for experiment. The old -lady was very much interested: “Do let me see the poor thing!” She was -accordingly allowed to see Flora de Barral in Mrs. Fyne’s drawing-room on a day -when there was no one else there, and she preached to her with charming, -sympathetic authority: “The only way to deal with our troubles, my dear child, -is to forget them. You must forget yours. It’s very simple. Look at me. I -always forget mine. At your age one ought to be cheerful.” -</p> - -<p> -Later on when left alone with Mrs. Fyne she said to that lady: “I do hope the -child will manage to be cheerful. I can’t have sad faces near me. At my age one -needs cheerful companions.” -</p> - -<p> -And in this hope she carried off Flora de Barral to Bournemouth for the winter -months in the quality of reader and companion. She had said to her with kindly -jocularity: “We shall have a good time together. I am not a grumpy old woman.” -But on their return to London she sought Mrs. Fyne at once. She had discovered -that Flora was not naturally cheerful. When she made efforts to be it was still -worse. The old lady couldn’t stand the strain of that. And then, to have the -whole thing out, she could not bear to have for a companion anyone who did not -love her. She was certain that Flora did not love her. Why? She couldn’t say. -Moreover, she had caught the girl looking at her in a peculiar way at times. Oh -no!—it was not an evil look—it was an unusual expression which one could not -understand. And when one remembered that her father was in prison shut up -together with a lot of criminals and so on—it made one uncomfortable. If the -child had only tried to forget her troubles! But she obviously was incapable or -unwilling to do so. And that was somewhat perverse—wasn’t it? Upon the whole, -she thought it would be better perhaps— -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne assented hurriedly to the unspoken conclusion: “Oh certainly! -Certainly,” wondering to herself what was to be done with Flora next; but she -was not very much surprised at the change in the old lady’s view of Flora de -Barral. She almost understood it. -</p> - -<p> -What came next was a German family, the continental acquaintances of the wife -of one of Fyne’s colleagues in the Home Office. Flora of the enigmatical -glances was dispatched to them without much reflection. As it was not -considered absolutely necessary to take them into full confidence, they neither -expected the girl to be specially cheerful nor were they discomposed unduly by -the indescribable quality of her glances. The German woman was quite ordinary; -there were two boys to look after; they were ordinary, too, I presume; and -Flora, I understand, was very attentive to them. If she taught them anything it -must have been by inspiration alone, for she certainly knew nothing of -teaching. But it was mostly “conversation” which was demanded from her. Flora -de Barral conversing with two small German boys, regularly, industriously, -conscientiously, in order to keep herself alive in the world which held for her -the past we know and the future of an even more undesirable quality—seems to me -a very fantastic combination. But I believe it was not so bad. She was being, -she wrote, mercifully drugged by her task. She had learned to “converse” all -day long, mechanically, absently, as if in a trance. An uneasy trance it must -have been! Her worst moments were when off duty—alone in the evening, shut up -in her own little room, her dulled thoughts waking up slowly till she started -into the full consciousness of her position, like a person waking up in contact -with something venomous—a snake, for instance—experiencing a mad impulse to -fling the thing away and run off screaming to hide somewhere. -</p> - -<p> -At this period of her existence Flora de Barral used to write to Mrs. Fyne not -regularly but fairly often. I don’t know how long she would have gone on -“conversing” and, incidentally, helping to supervise the beautifully stocked -linen closets of that well-to-do German household, if the man of it had not -developed in the intervals of his avocations (he was a merchant and a -thoroughly domesticated character) a psychological resemblance to the -Bournemouth old lady. It appeared that he, too, wanted to be loved. -</p> - -<p> -He was not, however, of a conquering temperament—a kiss-snatching, -door-bursting type of libertine. In the very act of straying from the path of -virtue he remained a respectable merchant. It would have been perhaps better -for Flora if he had been a mere brute. But he set about his sinister enterprise -in a sentimental, cautious, almost paternal manner; and thought he would be -safe with a pretty orphan. The girl for all her experience was still too -innocent, and indeed not yet sufficiently aware of herself as a woman, to -mistrust these masked approaches. She did not see them, in fact. She thought -him sympathetic—the first expressively sympathetic person she had ever met. She -was so innocent that she could not understand the fury of the German woman. -For, as you may imagine, the wifely penetration was not to be deceived for any -great length of time—the more so that the wife was older than the husband. The -man with the peculiar cowardice of respectability never said a word in Flora’s -defence. He stood by and heard her reviled in the most abusive terms, only -nodding and frowning vaguely from time to time. It will give you the idea of -the girl’s innocence when I say that at first she actually thought this storm -of indignant reproaches was caused by the discovery of her real name and her -relation to a convict. She had been sent out under an assumed name—a highly -recommended orphan of honourable parentage. Her distress, her burning cheeks, -her endeavours to express her regret for this deception were taken for a -confession of guilt. “You attempted to bring dishonour to my home,” the German -woman screamed at her. -</p> - -<p> -Here’s a misunderstanding for you! Flora de Barral, who felt the shame but did -not believe in the guilt of her father, retorted fiercely, “Nevertheless I am -as honourable as you are.” And then the German woman nearly went into a fit -from rage. “I shall have you thrown out into the street.” -</p> - -<p> -Flora was not exactly thrown out into the street, I believe, but she was -bundled bag and baggage on board a steamer for London. Did I tell you these -people lived in Hamburg? Well yes—sent to the docks late on a rainy winter -evening in charge of some sneering lackey or other who behaved to her -insolently and left her on deck burning with indignation, her hair half down, -shaking with excitement and, truth to say, scared as near as possible into -hysterics. If it had not been for the stewardess who, without asking questions, -good soul, took charge of her quietly in the ladies’ saloon (luckily it was -empty) it is by no means certain she would ever have reached England. I can’t -tell if a straw ever saved a drowning man, but I know that a mere glance is -enough to make despair pause. For in truth we who are creatures of impulse are -not creatures of despair. Suicide, I suspect, is very often the outcome of mere -mental weariness—not an act of savage energy but the final symptom of complete -collapse. The quiet, matter-of-fact attentions of a ship’s stewardess, who did -not seem aware of other human agonies than sea-sickness, who talked of the -probable weather of the passage—it would be a rough night, she thought—and who -insisted in a professionally busy manner, “Let me make you comfortable down -below at once, miss,” as though she were thinking of nothing else but her -tip—was enough to dissipate the shades of death gathering round the mortal -weariness of bewildered thinking which makes the idea of non-existence welcome -so often to the young. Flora de Barral did lie down, and it may be presumed she -slept. At any rate she survived the voyage across the North Sea and told Mrs. -Fyne all about it, concealing nothing and receiving no rebuke—for Mrs. Fyne’s -opinions had a large freedom in their pedantry. She held, I suppose, that a -woman holds an absolute right—or possesses a perfect excuse—to escape in her -own way from a man-mismanaged world. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -What is to be noted is that even in London, having had time to take a -reflective view, poor Flora was far from being certain as to the true -inwardness of her violent dismissal. She felt the humiliation of it with an -almost maddened resentment. -</p> - -<p> -“And did you enlighten her on the point?” I ventured to ask. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders with a philosophical acceptance of all the -necessities which ought not to be. Something had to be said, she murmured. She -had told the girl enough to make her come to the right conclusion by herself. -</p> - -<p> -“And she did?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Of course. She isn’t a goose,” retorted Mrs. Fyne tartly. -</p> - -<p> -“Then her education is completed,” I remarked with some bitterness. “Don’t you -think she ought to be given a chance?” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne understood my meaning. -</p> - -<p> -“Not this one,” she snapped in a quite feminine way. “It’s all very well for -you to plead, but I—” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not plead. I simply asked. It seemed natural to ask what you thought.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s what I feel that matters. And I can’t help my feelings. You may guess,” -she added in a softer tone, “that my feelings are mostly concerned with my -brother. We were very fond of each other. The difference of our ages was not -very great. I suppose you know he is a little younger than I am. He was a -sensitive boy. He had the habit of brooding. It is no use concealing from you -that neither of us was happy at home. You have heard, no doubt . . . Yes? Well, -I was made still more unhappy and hurt—I don’t mind telling you that. He made -his way to some distant relations of our mother’s people who I believe were not -known to my father at all. I don’t wish to judge their action.” -</p> - -<p> -I interrupted Mrs. Fyne here. I had heard. Fyne was not very communicative in -general, but he was proud of his father-in-law—“Carleon Anthony, the poet, you -know.” Proud of his celebrity without approving of his character. It was on -that account, I strongly suspect, that he seized with avidity upon the theory -of poetical genius being allied to madness, which he got hold of in some -idiotic book everybody was reading a few years ago. It struck him as being -truth itself—illuminating like the sun. He adopted it devoutly. He bored me -with it sometimes. Once, just to shut him up, I asked quietly if this theory -which he regarded as so incontrovertible did not cause him some uneasiness -about his wife and the dear girls? He transfixed me with a pitying stare and -requested me in his deep solemn voice to remember the “well-established fact” -that genius was not transmissible. -</p> - -<p> -I said only “Oh! Isn’t it?” and he thought he had silenced me by an -unanswerable argument. But he continued to talk of his glorious father-in-law, -and it was in the course of that conversation that he told me how, when the -Liverpool relations of the poet’s late wife naturally addressed themselves to -him in considerable concern, suggesting a friendly consultation as to the boy’s -future, the incensed (but always refined) poet wrote in answer a letter of mere -polished <i>badinage</i> which offended mortally the Liverpool people. This -witty outbreak of what was in fact mortification and rage appeared to them so -heartless that they simply kept the boy. They let him go to sea not because he -was in their way but because he begged hard to be allowed to go. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! You do know,” said Mrs. Fyne after a pause. “Well—I felt myself very much -abandoned. Then his choice of life—so extraordinary, so unfortunate, I may say. -I was very much grieved. I should have liked him to have been distinguished—or -at any rate to remain in the social sphere where we could have had common -interests, acquaintances, thoughts. Don’t think that I am estranged from him. -But the precise truth is that I do not know him. I was most painfully affected -when he was here by the difficulty of finding a single topic we could discuss -together.” -</p> - -<p> -While Mrs. Fyne was talking of her brother I let my thoughts wander out of the -room to little Fyne who by leaving me alone with his wife had, so to speak, -entrusted his domestic peace to my honour. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, then, Mrs. Fyne, does it not strike you that it would be reasonable -under the circumstances to let your brother take care of himself?” -</p> - -<p> -“And suppose I have grounds to think that he can’t take care of himself in a -given instance.” She hesitated in a funny, bashful manner which roused my -interest. Then: -</p> - -<p> -“Sailors I believe are very susceptible,” she added with forced assurance. -</p> - -<p> -I burst into a laugh which only increased the coldness of her observing stare. -</p> - -<p> -“They are. Immensely! Hopelessly! My dear Mrs. Fyne, you had better give it up! -It only makes your husband miserable.” -</p> - -<p> -“And I am quite miserable too. It is really our first difference . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Regarding Miss de Barral?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Regarding everything. It’s really intolerable that this girl should be the -occasion. I think he really ought to give way.” -</p> - -<p> -She turned her chair round a little and picking up the book I had been reading -in the morning began to turn the leaves absently. -</p> - -<p> -Her eyes being off me, I felt I could allow myself to leave the room. Its -atmosphere had become hopeless for little Fyne’s domestic peace. You may smile. -But to the solemn all things are solemn. I had enough sagacity to understand -that. -</p> - -<p> -I slipped out into the porch. The dog was slumbering at Fyne’s feet. The -muscular little man leaning on his elbow and gazing over the fields presented a -forlorn figure. He turned his head quickly, but seeing I was alone, relapsed -into his moody contemplation of the green landscape. -</p> - -<p> -I said loudly and distinctly: “I’ve come out to smoke a cigarette,” and sat -down near him on the little bench. Then lowering my voice: “Tolerance is an -extremely difficult virtue,” I said. “More difficult for some than heroism. -More difficult than compassion.” -</p> - -<p> -I avoided looking at him. I knew well enough that he would not like this -opening. General ideas were not to his taste. He mistrusted them. I lighted a -cigarette, not that I wanted to smoke, but to give another moment to the -consideration of the advice—the diplomatic advice I had made up my mind to bowl -him over with. And I continued in subdued tones. -</p> - -<p> -“I have been led to make these remarks by what I have discovered since you left -us. I suspected from the first. And now I am certain. What your wife cannot -tolerate in this affair is Miss de Barral being what she is.” -</p> - -<p> -He made a movement, but I kept my eyes away from him and went on steadily. -“That is—her being a woman. I have some idea of Mrs. Fyne’s mental attitude -towards society with its injustices, with its atrocious or ridiculous -conventions. As against them there is no audacity of action your wife’s mind -refuses to sanction. The doctrine which I imagine she stuffs into the pretty -heads of your girl-guests is almost vengeful. A sort of moral fire-and-sword -doctrine. How far the lesson is wise is not for me to say. I don’t permit -myself to judge. I seem to see her very delightful disciples singeing -themselves with the torches, and cutting their fingers with the swords of Mrs. -Fyne’s furnishing.” -</p> - -<p> -“My wife holds her opinions very seriously,” murmured Fyne suddenly. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. No doubt,” I assented in a low voice as before. “But it is a mere -intellectual exercise. What I see is that in dealing with reality Mrs. Fyne -ceases to be tolerant. In other words, that she can’t forgive Miss de Barral -for being a woman and behaving like a woman. And yet this is not only -reasonable and natural, but it is her only chance. A woman against the world -has no resources but in herself. Her only means of action is to be what <i>she -is</i>. You understand what I mean.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne mumbled between his teeth that he understood. But he did not seem -interested. What he expected of me was to extricate him from a difficult -situation. I don’t know how far credible this may sound, to less solemn married -couples, but to remain at variance with his wife seemed to him a considerable -incident. Almost a disaster. -</p> - -<p> -“It looks as though I didn’t care what happened to her brother,” he said. “And -after all if anything . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -I became a little impatient but without raising my tone: -</p> - -<p> -“What thing?” I asked. “The liability to get penal servitude is so far like -genius that it isn’t hereditary. And what else can be objected to the girl? All -the energy of her deeper feelings, which she would use up vainly in the danger -and fatigue of a struggle with society may be turned into devoted attachment to -the man who offers her a way of escape from what can be only a life of moral -anguish. I don’t mention the physical difficulties.” -</p> - -<p> -Glancing at Fyne out of the corner of one eye I discovered that he was -attentive. He made the remark that I should have said all this to his wife. It -was a sensible enough remark. But I had given Mrs. Fyne up. I asked him if his -impression was that his wife meant to entrust him with a letter for her -brother? -</p> - -<p> -No. He didn’t think so. There were certain reasons which made Mrs. Fyne -unwilling to commit her arguments to paper. Fyne was to be primed with them. -But he had no doubt that if he persisted in his refusal she would make up her -mind to write. -</p> - -<p> -“She does not wish me to go unless with a full conviction that she is right,” -said Fyne solemnly. -</p> - -<p> -“She’s very exacting,” I commented. And then I reflected that she was used to -it. “Would nothing less do for once?” -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t mean that I should give way—do you?” asked Fyne in a whisper of -alarmed suspicion. -</p> - -<p> -As this was exactly what I meant, I let his fright sink into him. He fidgeted. -If the word may be used of so solemn a personage, he wriggled. And when the -horrid suspicion had descended into his very heels, so to speak, he became very -still. He sat gazing stonily into space bounded by the yellow, burnt-up slopes -of the rising ground a couple of miles away. The face of the down showed the -white scar of the quarry where not more than sixteen hours before Fyne and I -had been groping in the dark with horrible apprehension of finding under our -hands the shattered body of a girl. For myself I had in addition the memory of -my meeting with her. She was certainly walking very near the edge—courting a -sinister solution. But, now, having by the most unexpected chance come upon a -man, she had found another way to escape from the world. Such world as was open -to her—without shelter, without bread, without honour. The best she could have -found in it would have been a precarious dole of pity diminishing as her years -increased. The appeal of the abandoned child Flora to the sympathies of the -Fynes had been irresistible. But now she had become a woman, and Mrs. Fyne was -presenting an implacable front to a particularly feminine transaction. I may -say triumphantly feminine. It is true that Mrs. Fyne did not want women to be -women. Her theory was that they should turn themselves into unscrupulous -sexless nuisances. An offended theorist dwelt in her bosom somewhere. In what -way she expected Flora de Barral to set about saving herself from a most -miserable existence I can’t conceive; but I verify believe that she would have -found it easier to forgive the girl an actual crime; say the rifling of the -Bournemouth old lady’s desk, for instance. And then—for Mrs. Fyne was very much -of a woman herself—her sense of proprietorship was very strong within her; and -though she had not much use for her brother, yet she did not like to see him -annexed by another woman. By a chit of a girl. And such a girl, too. Nothing is -truer than that, in this world, the luckless have no right to their -opportunities—as if misfortune were a legal disqualification. Fyne’s sentiments -(as they naturally would be in a man) had more stability. A good deal of his -sympathy survived. Indeed I heard him murmur “Ghastly nuisance,” but I knew it -was of the integrity of his domestic accord that he was thinking. With my eyes -on the dog lying curled up in sleep in the middle of the porch I suggested in a -subdued impersonal tone: “Yes. Why not let yourself be persuaded?” -</p> - -<p> -I never saw little Fyne less solemn. He hissed through his teeth in -unexpectedly figurative style that it would take a lot to persuade him to “push -under the head of a poor devil of a girl quite sufficiently plucky”—and -snorted. He was still gazing at the distant quarry, and I think he was affected -by that sight. I assured him that I was far from advising him to do anything so -cruel. I am convinced he had always doubted the soundness of my principles, -because he turned on me swiftly as though he had been on the watch for a lapse -from the straight path. -</p> - -<p> -“Then what do you mean? That I should pretend!” -</p> - -<p> -“No! What nonsense! It would be immoral. I may however tell you that if I had -to make a choice I would rather do something immoral than something cruel. What -I meant was that, not believing in the efficacy of the interference, the whole -question is reduced to your consenting to do what your wife wishes you to do. -That would be acting like a gentleman, surely. And acting unselfishly too, -because I can very well understand how distasteful it may be to you. Generally -speaking, an unselfish action is a moral action. I’ll tell you what. I’ll go -with you.” -</p> - -<p> -He turned round and stared at me with surprise and suspicion. “You would go -with me?” he repeated. -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t understand,” I said, amused at the incredulous disgust of his tone. -“I must run up to town, to-morrow morning. Let us go together. You have a set -of travelling chessmen.” -</p> - -<p> -His physiognomy, contracted by a variety of emotions, relaxed to a certain -extent at the idea of a game. I told him that as I had business at the Docks he -should have my company to the very ship. -</p> - -<p> -“We shall beguile the way to the wilds of the East by improving conversation,” -I encouraged him. -</p> - -<p> -“My brother-in-law is staying at an hotel—the Eastern Hotel,” he said, becoming -sombre again. “I haven’t the slightest idea where it is.” -</p> - -<p> -“I know the place. I shall leave you at the door with the comfortable -conviction that you are doing what’s right since it pleases a lady and cannot -do any harm to anybody whatever.” -</p> - -<p> -“You think so? No harm to anybody?” he repeated doubtfully. -</p> - -<p> -“I assure you it’s not the slightest use,” I said with all possible emphasis -which seemed only to increase the solemn discontent of his expression. -</p> - -<p> -“But in order that my going should be a perfectly candid proceeding I must -first convince my wife that it isn’t the slightest use,” he objected -portentously. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, you casuist!” I said. And I said nothing more because at that moment Mrs. -Fyne stepped out into the porch. We rose together at her appearance. Her clear, -colourless, unflinching glance enveloped us both critically. I sustained the -chill smilingly, but Fyne stooped at once to release the dog. He was some time -about it; then simultaneously with his recovery of upright position the animal -passed at one bound from profoundest slumber into most tumultuous activity. -Enveloped in the tornado of his inane scurryings and barkings I took Mrs. -Fyne’s hand extended to me woodenly and bowed over it with deference. She -walked down the path without a word; Fyne had preceded her and was waiting by -the open gate. They passed out and walked up the road surrounded by a low cloud -of dust raised by the dog gyrating madly about their two figures progressing -side by side with rectitude and propriety, and (I don’t know why) looking to me -as if they had annexed the whole country-side. Perhaps it was that they had -impressed me somehow with the sense of their superiority. What superiority? -Perhaps it consisted just in their limitations. It was obvious that neither of -them had carried away a high opinion of me. But what affected me most was the -indifference of the Fyne dog. He used to precipitate himself at full speed and -with a frightful final upward spring upon my waistcoat, at least once at each -of our meetings. He had neglected that ceremony this time notwithstanding my -correct and even conventional conduct in offering him a cake; it seemed to me -symbolic of my final separation from the Fyne household. And I remembered -against him how on a certain day he had abandoned poor Flora de Barral—who was -morbidly sensitive. -</p> - -<p> -I sat down in the porch and, maybe inspired by secret antagonism to the Fynes, -I said to myself deliberately that Captain Anthony must be a fine fellow. Yet -on the facts as I knew them he might have been a dangerous trifler or a -downright scoundrel. He had made a miserable, hopeless girl follow him -clandestinely to London. It is true that the girl had written since, only Mrs. -Fyne had been remarkably vague as to the contents. They were unsatisfactory. -They did not positively announce imminent nuptials as far as I could make it -out from her rather mysterious hints. But then her inexperience might have led -her astray. There was no fathoming the innocence of a woman like Mrs. Fyne who, -venturing as far as possible in theory, would know nothing of the real aspect -of things. It would have been comic if she were making all this fuss for -nothing. But I rejected this suspicion for the honour of human nature. -</p> - -<p> -I imagined to myself Captain Anthony as simple and romantic. It was much more -pleasant. Genius is not hereditary but temperament may be. And he was the son -of a poet with an admirable gift of individualising, of etherealizing the -common-place; of making touching, delicate, fascinating the most hopeless -conventions of the, so-called, refined existence. -</p> - -<p> -What I could not understand was Mrs. Fyne’s dog-in-the-manger attitude. -Sentimentally she needed that brother of hers so little! What could it matter -to her one way or another—setting aside common humanity which would suggest at -least a neutral attitude. Unless indeed it was the blind working of the law -that in our world of chances the luckless <i>must</i> be put in the wrong -somehow. -</p> - -<p> -And musing thus on the general inclination of our instincts towards injustice I -met unexpectedly, at the turn of the road, as it were, a shape of duplicity. It -might have been unconscious on Mrs. Fyne’s part, but her leading idea appeared -to me to be not to keep, not to preserve her brother, but to get rid of him -definitely. She did not hope to stop anything. She had too much sense for that. -Almost anyone out of an idiot asylum would have had enough sense for that. She -wanted the protest to be made, emphatically, with Fyne’s fullest concurrence in -order to make all intercourse for the future impossible. Such an action would -estrange the pair for ever from the Fynes. She understood her brother and the -girl too. Happy together, they would never forgive that outspoken hostility—and -should the marriage turn out badly . . . Well, it would be just the same. -Neither of them would be likely to bring their troubles to such a good prophet -of evil. -</p> - -<p> -Yes. That must have been her motive. The inspiration of a possibly unconscious -Machiavellism! Either she was afraid of having a sister-in-law to look after -during the husband’s long absences; or dreaded the more or less distant -eventuality of her brother being persuaded to leave the sea, the friendly -refuge of his unhappy youth, and to settle on shore, bringing to her very door -this undesirable, this embarrassing connection. She wanted to be done with -it—maybe simply from the fatigue of continuous effort in good or evil, which, -in the bulk of common mortals, accounts for so many surprising inconsistencies -of conduct. -</p> - -<p> -I don’t know that I had classed Mrs. Fyne, in my thoughts, amongst common -mortals. She was too quietly sure of herself for that. But little Fyne, as I -spied him next morning (out of the carriage window) speeding along the -platform, looked very much like a common, flustered mortal who has made a very -near thing of catching his train: the starting wild eyes, the tense and excited -face, the distracted gait, all the common symptoms were there, rendered more -impressive by his native solemnity which flapped about him like a disordered -garment. Had he—I asked myself with interest—resisted his wife to the very last -minute and then bolted up the road from the last conclusive argument, as though -it had been a loaded gun suddenly produced? I opened the carriage door, and a -vigorous porter shoved him in from behind just as the end of the rustic -platform went gliding swiftly from under his feet. He was very much out of -breath, and I waited with some curiosity for the moment he would recover his -power of speech. That moment came. He said “Good morning” with a slight gasp, -remained very still for another minute and then pulled out of his pocket the -travelling chessboard, and holding it in his hand, directed at me a glance of -inquiry. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Certainly,” I said, very much disappointed. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER SEVEN—ON THE PAVEMENT</h3> - -<p> -Fyne was not willing to talk; but as I had been already let into the secret, -the fair-minded little man recognized that I had some right to information if I -insisted on it. And I did insist, after the third game. We were yet some way -from the end of our journey. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, if you want to know,” was his somewhat impatient opening. And then he -talked rather volubly. First of all his wife had not given him to read the -letter received from Flora (I had suspected him of having it in his pocket), -but had told him all about the contents. It was not at all what it should have -been even if the girl had wished to affirm her right to disregard the feelings -of all the world. Her own had been trampled in the dirt out of all shape. -Extraordinary thing to say—I would admit, for a young girl of her age. The -whole tone of that letter was wrong, quite wrong. It was certainly not the -product of a—say, of a well-balanced mind. -</p> - -<p> -“If she were given some sort of footing in this world,” I said, “if only no -bigger than the palm of my hand, she would probably learn to keep a better -balance.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne ignored this little remark. His wife, he said, was not the sort of person -to be addressed mockingly on a serious subject. There was an unpleasant strain -of levity in that letter, extending even to the references to Captain Anthony -himself. Such a disposition was enough, his wife had pointed out to him, to -alarm one for the future, had all the circumstances of that preposterous -project been as satisfactory as in fact they were not. Other parts of the -letter seemed to have a challenging tone—as if daring them (the Fynes) to -approve her conduct. And at the same time implying that she did not care, that -it was for their own sakes that she hoped they would “go against the world—the -horrid world which had crushed poor papa.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne called upon me to admit that this was pretty cool—considering. And there -was another thing, too. It seems that for the last six months (she had been -assisting two ladies who kept a kindergarten school in Bayswater—a mere -pittance), Flora had insisted on devoting all her spare time to the study of -the trial. She had been looking up files of old newspapers, and working herself -up into a state of indignation with what she called the injustice and the -hypocrisy of the prosecution. Her father, Fyne reminded me, had made some -palpable hits in his answers in Court, and she had fastened on them -triumphantly. She had reached the conclusion of her father’s innocence, and had -been brooding over it. Mrs. Fyne had pointed out to him the danger of this. -</p> - -<p> -The train ran into the station and Fyne, jumping out directly it came to a -standstill, seemed glad to cut short the conversation. We walked in silence a -little way, boarded a bus, then walked again. I don’t suppose that since the -days of his childhood, when surely he was taken to see the Tower, he had been -once east of Temple Bar. He looked about him sullenly; and when I pointed out -in the distance the rounded front of the Eastern Hotel at the bifurcation of -two very broad, mean, shabby thoroughfares, rising like a grey stucco tower -above the lowly roofs of the dirty-yellow, two-storey houses, he only grunted -disapprovingly. -</p> - -<p> -“I wouldn’t lay too much stress on what you have been telling me,” I observed -quietly as we approached that unattractive building. “No man will believe a -girl who has just accepted his suit to be not well balanced,—you know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! Accepted his suit,” muttered Fyne, who seemed to have been very thoroughly -convinced indeed. “It may have been the other way about.” And then he added: “I -am going through with it.” -</p> - -<p> -I said that this was very praiseworthy but that a certain moderation of -statement . . . He waved his hand at me and mended his pace. I guessed that he -was anxious to get his mission over as quickly as possible. He barely gave -himself time to shake hands with me and made a rush at the narrow glass door -with the words Hotel Entrance on it. It swung to behind his back with no more -noise than the snap of a toothless jaw. -</p> - -<p> -The absurd temptation to remain and see what would come of it got over my -better judgment. I hung about irresolute, wondering how long an embassy of that -sort would take, and whether Fyne on coming out would consent to be -communicative. I feared he would be shocked at finding me there, would consider -my conduct incorrect, conceivably treat me with contempt. I walked off a few -paces. Perhaps it would be possible to read something on Fyne’s face as he came -out; and, if necessary, I could always eclipse myself discreetly through the -door of one of the bars. The ground floor of the Eastern Hotel was an unabashed -pub, with plate-glass fronts, a display of brass rails, and divided into many -compartments each having its own entrance. -</p> - -<p> -But of course all this was silly. The marriage, the love, the affairs of -Captain Anthony were none of my business. I was on the point of moving down the -street for good when my attention was attracted by a girl approaching the hotel -entrance from the west. She was dressed very modestly in black. It was the -white straw hat of a good form and trimmed with a bunch of pale roses which had -caught my eye. The whole figure seemed familiar. Of course! Flora de Barral. -She was making for the hotel, she was going in. And Fyne was with Captain -Anthony! To meet him could not be pleasant for her. I wished to save her from -the awkwardness, and as I hesitated what to do she looked up and our eyes -happened to meet just as she was turning off the pavement into the hotel -doorway. Instinctively I extended my arm. It was enough to make her stop. I -suppose she had some faint notion that she had seen me before somewhere. She -walked slowly forward, prudent and attentive, watching my faint smile. -</p> - -<p> -“Excuse me,” I said directly she had approached me near enough. “Perhaps you -would like to know that Mr. Fyne is upstairs with Captain Anthony at this -moment.” -</p> - -<p> -She uttered a faint “Ah! Mr. Fyne!” I could read in her eyes that she had -recognized me now. Her serious expression extinguished the imbecile grin of -which I was conscious. I raised my hat. She responded with a slow inclination -of the head while her luminous, mistrustful, maiden’s glance seemed to whisper, -“What is this one doing here?” -</p> - -<p> -“I came up to town with Fyne this morning,” I said in a businesslike tone. “I -have to see a friend in East India Dock. Fyne and I parted this moment at the -door here . . . ” The girl regarded me with darkening eyes . . . “Mrs. Fyne did -not come with her husband,” I went on, then hesitated before that white face so -still in the pearly shadow thrown down by the hat-brim. “But she sent him,” I -murmured by way of warning. -</p> - -<p> -Her eyelids fluttered slowly over the fixed stare. I imagine she was not much -disconcerted by this development. “I live a long way from here,” she whispered. -</p> - -<p> -I said perfunctorily, “Do you?” And we remained gazing at each other. The -uniform paleness of her complexion was not that of an anaemic girl. It had a -transparent vitality and at that particular moment the faintest possible rosy -tinge, the merest suspicion of colour; an equivalent, I suppose, in any other -girl to blushing like a peony while she told me that Captain Anthony had -arranged to show her the ship that morning. -</p> - -<p> -It was easy to understand that she did not want to meet Fyne. And when I -mentioned in a discreet murmur that he had come because of her letter she -glanced at the hotel door quickly, and moved off a few steps to a position -where she could watch the entrance without being seen. I followed her. At the -junction of the two thoroughfares she stopped in the thin traffic of the broad -pavement and turned to me with an air of challenge. “And so you know.” -</p> - -<p> -I told her that I had not seen the letter. I had only heard of it. She was a -little impatient. “I mean all about me.” -</p> - -<p> -Yes. I knew all about her. The distress of Mr. and Mrs. Fyne—especially of Mrs. -Fyne—was so great that they would have shared it with anybody almost—not -belonging to their circle of friends. I happened to be at hand—that was all. -</p> - -<p> -“You understand that I am not their friend. I am only a holiday acquaintance.” -</p> - -<p> -“She was not very much upset?” queried Flora de Barral, meaning, of course, -Mrs. Fyne. And I admitted that she was less so than her husband—and even less -than myself. Mrs. Fyne was a very self-possessed person which nothing could -startle out of her extreme theoretical position. She did not seem startled when -Fyne and I proposed going to the quarry. -</p> - -<p> -“You put that notion into their heads,” the girl said. -</p> - -<p> -I advanced that the notion was in their heads already. But it was much more -vividly in my head since I had seen her up there with my own eyes, tempting -Providence. -</p> - -<p> -She was looking at me with extreme attention, and murmured: -</p> - -<p> -“Is that what you called it to them? Tempting . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“No. I told them that you were making up your mind and I came along just then. -I told them that you were saved by me. My shout checked you . . . ” She moved -her head gently from right to left in negation . . . “No? Well, have it your -own way.” -</p> - -<p> -I thought to myself: She has found another issue. She wants to forget now. And -no wonder. She wants to persuade herself that she had never known such an ugly -and poignant minute in her life. “After all,” I conceded aloud, “things are not -always what they seem.” -</p> - -<p> -Her little head with its deep blue eyes, eyes of tenderness and anger under the -black arch of fine eyebrows was very still. The mouth looked very red in the -white face peeping from under the veil, the little pointed chin had in its form -something aggressive. Slight and even angular in her modest black dress she was -an appealing and—yes—she was a desirable little figure. -</p> - -<p> -Her lips moved very fast asking me: -</p> - -<p> -“And they believed you at once?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, they believed me at once. Mrs. Fyne’s word to us was “Go!” -</p> - -<p> -A white gleam between the red lips was so short that I remained uncertain -whether it was a smile or a ferocious baring of little even teeth. The rest of -the face preserved its innocent, tense and enigmatical expression. She spoke -rapidly. -</p> - -<p> -“No, it wasn’t your shout. I had been there some time before you saw me. And I -was not there to tempt Providence, as you call it. I went up there for—for what -you thought I was going to do. Yes. I climbed two fences. I did not mean to -leave anything to Providence. There seem to be people for whom Providence can -do nothing. I suppose you are shocked to hear me talk like that?” -</p> - -<p> -I shook my head. I was not shocked. What had kept her back all that time, till -I appeared on the scene below, she went on, was neither fear nor any other kind -of hesitation. One reaches a point, she said with appalling youthful -simplicity, where nothing that concerns one matters any longer. But something -did keep her back. I should have never guessed what it was. She herself -confessed that it seemed absurd to say. It was the Fyne dog. -</p> - -<p> -Flora de Barral paused, looking at me, with a peculiar expression and then went -on. You see, she imagined the dog had become extremely attached to her. She -took it into her head that he might fall over or jump down after her. She tried -to drive him away. She spoke sternly to him. It only made him more frisky. He -barked and jumped about her skirt in his usual, idiotic, high spirits. He -scampered away in circles between the pines charging upon her and leaping as -high as her waist. She commanded, “Go away. Go home.” She even picked up from -the ground a bit of a broken branch and threw it at him. At this his delight -knew no bounds; his rushes became faster, his yapping louder; he seemed to be -having the time of his life. She was convinced that the moment she threw -herself down he would spring over after her as if it were part of the game. She -was vexed almost to tears. She was touched too. And when he stood still at some -distance as if suddenly rooted to the ground wagging his tail slowly and -watching her intensely with his shining eyes another fear came to her. She -imagined herself gone and the creature sitting on the brink, its head thrown up -to the sky and howling for hours. This thought was not to be borne. Then my -shout reached her ears. -</p> - -<p> -She told me all this with simplicity. My voice had destroyed her poise—the -suicide poise of her mind. Every act of ours, the most criminal, the most mad -presupposes a balance of thought, feeling and will, like a correct attitude for -an effective stroke in a game. And I had destroyed it. She was no longer in -proper form for the act. She was not very much annoyed. Next day would do. She -would have to slip away without attracting the notice of the dog. She thought -of the necessity almost tenderly. She came down the path carrying her despair -with lucid calmness. But when she saw herself deserted by the dog, she had an -impulse to turn round, go up again and be done with it. Not even that animal -cared for her—in the end. -</p> - -<p> -“I really did think that he was attached to me. What did he want to pretend -for, like this? I thought nothing could hurt me any more. Oh yes. I would have -gone up, but I felt suddenly so tired. So tired. And then you were there. I -didn’t know what you would do. You might have tried to follow me and I didn’t -think I could run—not up hill—not then.” -</p> - -<p> -She had raised her white face a little, and it was queer to hear her say these -things. At that time of the morning there are comparatively few people out in -that part of the town. The broad interminable perspective of the East India -Dock Road, the great perspective of drab brick walls, of grey pavement, of -muddy roadway rumbling dismally with loaded carts and vans lost itself in the -distance, imposing and shabby in its spacious meanness of aspect, in its -immeasurable poverty of forms, of colouring, of life—under a harsh, unconcerned -sky dried by the wind to a clear blue. It had been raining during the night. -The sunshine itself seemed poor. From time to time a few bits of paper, a -little dust and straw whirled past us on the broad flat promontory of the -pavement before the rounded front of the hotel. -</p> - -<p> -Flora de Barral was silent for a while. I said: -</p> - -<p> -“And next day you thought better of it.” -</p> - -<p> -Again she raised her eyes to mine with that peculiar expression of informed -innocence; and again her white cheeks took on the faintest tinge of pink—the -merest shadow of a blush. -</p> - -<p> -“Next day,” she uttered distinctly, “I didn’t think. I remembered. That was -enough. I remembered what I should never have forgotten. Never. And Captain -Anthony arrived at the cottage in the evening.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah yes. Captain Anthony,” I murmured. And she repeated also in a murmur, “Yes! -Captain Anthony.” The faint flush of warm life left her face. I subdued my -voice still more and not looking at her: “You found him sympathetic?” I -ventured. -</p> - -<p> -Her long dark lashes went down a little with an air of calculated discretion. -At least so it seemed to me. And yet no one could say that I was inimical to -that girl. But there you are! Explain it as you may, in this world the -friendless, like the poor, are always a little suspect, as if honesty and -delicacy were only possible to the privileged few. -</p> - -<p> -“Why do you ask?” she said after a time, raising her eyes suddenly to mine in -an effect of candour which on the same principle (of the disinherited not being -to be trusted) might have been judged equivocal. -</p> - -<p> -“If you mean what right I have . . . ” She move slightly a hand in a worn brown -glove as much as to say she could not question anyone’s right against such an -outcast as herself. -</p> - -<p> -I ought to have been moved perhaps; but I only noted the total absence of -humility . . . “No right at all,” I continued, “but just interest. Mrs. -Fyne—it’s too difficult to explain how it came about—has talked to me of -you—well—extensively.” -</p> - -<p> -No doubt Mrs. Fyne had told me the truth, Flora said brusquely with an -unexpected hoarseness of tone. This very dress she was wearing had been given -her by Mrs. Fyne. Of course I looked at it. It could not have been a recent -gift. Close-fitting and black, with heliotrope silk facings under a figured -net, it looked far from new, just on this side of shabbiness; in fact, it -accentuated the slightness of her figure, it went well in its suggestion of -half mourning with the white face in which the unsmiling red lips alone seemed -warm with the rich blood of life and passion. -</p> - -<p> -Little Fyne was staying up there an unconscionable time. Was he arguing, -preaching, remonstrating? Had he discovered in himself a capacity and a taste -for that sort of thing? Or was he perhaps, in an intense dislike for the job, -beating about the bush and only puzzling Captain Anthony, the providential man, -who, if he expected the girl to appear at any moment, must have been on -tenterhooks all the time, and beside himself with impatience to see the back of -his brother-in-law. How was it that he had not got rid of Fyne long before in -any case? I don’t mean by actually throwing him out of the window, but in some -other resolute manner. -</p> - -<p> -Surely Fyne had not impressed him. That he was an impressionable man I could -not doubt. The presence of the girl there on the pavement before me proved this -up to the hilt—and, well, yes, touchingly enough. -</p> - -<p> -It so happened that in their wanderings to and fro our glances met. They met -and remained in contact more familiar than a hand-clasp, more communicative, -more expressive. There was something comic too in the whole situation, in the -poor girl and myself waiting together on the broad pavement at a corner -public-house for the issue of Fyne’s ridiculous mission. But the comic when it -is human becomes quickly painful. Yes, she was infinitely anxious. And I was -asking myself whether this poignant tension of her suspense depended—to put it -plainly—on hunger or love. -</p> - -<p> -The answer would have been of some interest to Captain Anthony. For my part, in -the presence of a young girl I always become convinced that the dreams of -sentiment—like the consoling mysteries of Faith—are invincible; that it is -never never reason which governs men and women. -</p> - -<p> -Yet what sentiment could there have been on her part? I remembered her tone -only a moment since when she said: “That evening Captain Anthony arrived at the -cottage.” And considering, too, what the arrival of Captain Anthony meant in -this connection, I wondered at the calmness with which she could mention that -fact. He arrived at the cottage. In the evening. I knew that late train. He -probably walked from the station. The evening would be well advanced. I could -almost see a dark indistinct figure opening the wicket gate of the garden. -Where was she? Did she see him enter? Was she somewhere near by and did she -hear without the slightest premonition his chance and fateful footsteps on the -flagged path leading to the cottage door? In the shadow of the night made more -cruelly sombre for her by the very shadow of death he must have appeared too -strange, too remote, too unknown to impress himself on her thought as a living -force—such a force as a man can bring to bear on a woman’s destiny. -</p> - -<p> -She glanced towards the hotel door again; I followed suit and then our eyes met -once more, this time intentionally. A tentative, uncertain intimacy was -springing up between us two. She said simply: “You are waiting for Mr. Fyne to -come out; are you?” -</p> - -<p> -I admitted to her that I was waiting to see Mr. Fyne come out. That was all. I -had nothing to say to him. -</p> - -<p> -“I have said yesterday all I had to say to him,” I added meaningly. “I have -said it to them both, in fact. I have also heard all they had to say.” -</p> - -<p> -“About me?” she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. The conversation was about you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder if they told you everything.” -</p> - -<p> -If she wondered I could do nothing else but wonder too. But I did not tell her -that. I only smiled. The material point was that Captain Anthony should be told -everything. But as to that I was very certain that the good sister would see to -it. Was there anything more to disclose—some other misery, some other deception -of which that girl had been a victim? It seemed hardly probable. It was not -even easy to imagine. What struck me most was her—I suppose I must call -it—composure. One could not tell whether she understood what she had done. One -wondered. She was not so much unreadable as blank; and I did not know whether -to admire her for it or dismiss her from my thoughts as a passive butt of -ferocious misfortune. -</p> - -<p> -Looking back at the occasion when we first got on speaking terms on the road by -the quarry, I had to admit that she presented some points of a problematic -appearance. I don’t know why I imagined Captain Anthony as the sort of man who -would not be likely to take the initiative; not perhaps from indifference but -from that peculiar timidity before women which often enough is found in -conjunction with chivalrous instincts, with a great need for affection and -great stability of feelings. Such men are easily moved. At the least -encouragement they go forward with the eagerness, with the recklessness of -starvation. This accounted for the suddenness of the affair. No! With all her -inexperience this girl could not have found any great difficulty in her -conquering enterprise. She must have begun it. And yet there she was, patient, -almost unmoved, almost pitiful, waiting outside like a beggar, without a right -to anything but compassion, for a promised dole. -</p> - -<p> -Every moment people were passing close by us, singly, in two and threes; the -inhabitants of that end of the town where life goes on unadorned by grace or -splendour; they passed us in their shabby garments, with sallow faces, haggard, -anxious or weary, or simply without expression, in an unsmiling sombre stream -not made up of lives but of mere unconsidered existences whose joys, struggles, -thoughts, sorrows and their very hopes were miserable, glamourless, and of no -account in the world. And when one thought of their reality to themselves one’s -heart became oppressed. But of all the individuals who passed by none appeared -to me for the moment so pathetic in unconscious patience as the girl standing -before me; none more difficult to understand. It is perhaps because I was -thinking of things which I could not ask her about. -</p> - -<p> -In fact we had nothing to say to each other; but we two, strangers as we really -were to each other, had dealt with the most intimate and final of subjects, the -subject of death. It had created a sort of bond between us. It made our silence -weighty and uneasy. I ought to have left her there and then; but, as I think -I’ve told you before, the fact of having shouted her away from the edge of a -precipice seemed somehow to have engaged my responsibility as to this other -leap. And so we had still an intimate subject between us to lend more weight -and more uneasiness to our silence. The subject of marriage. I use the word not -so much in reference to the ceremony itself (I had no doubt of this, Captain -Anthony being a decent fellow) or in view of the social institution in general, -as to which I have no opinion, but in regard to the human relation. The first -two views are not particularly interesting. The ceremony, I suppose, is -adequate; the institution, I dare say, is useful or it would not have endured. -But the human relation thus recognized is a mysterious thing in its origins, -character and consequences. Unfortunately you can’t buttonhole familiarly a -young girl as you would a young fellow. I don’t think that even another woman -could really do it. She would not be trusted. There is not between women that -fund of at least conditional loyalty which men may depend on in their dealings -with each other. I believe that any woman would rather trust a man. The -difficulty in such a delicate case was how to get on terms. -</p> - -<p> -So we held our peace in the odious uproar of that wide roadway thronged with -heavy carts. Great vans carrying enormous piled-up loads advanced swaying like -mountains. It was as if the whole world existed only for selling and buying and -those who had nothing to do with the movement of merchandise were of no -account. -</p> - -<p> -“You must be tired,” I said. One had to say something if only to assert oneself -against that wearisome, passionless and crushing uproar. She raised her eyes -for a moment. No, she was not. Not very. She had not walked all the way. She -came by train as far as Whitechapel Station and had only walked from there. -</p> - -<p> -She had had an ugly pilgrimage; but whether of love or of necessity who could -tell? And that precisely was what I should have liked to get at. This was not -however a question to be asked point-blank, and I could not think of any -effective circumlocution. It occurred to me too that she might conceivably know -nothing of it herself—I mean by reflection. That young woman had been obviously -considering death. She had gone the length of forming some conception of it. -But as to its companion fatality—love, she, I was certain, had never reflected -upon its meaning. -</p> - -<p> -With that man in the hotel, whom I did not know, and this girl standing before -me in the street I felt that it was an exceptional case. He had broken away -from his surroundings; she stood outside the pale. One aspect of conventions -which people who declaim against them lose sight of is that conventions make -both joy and suffering easier to bear in a becoming manner. But those two were -outside all conventions. They would be as untrammelled in a sense as the first -man and the first woman. The trouble was that I could not imagine anything -about Flora de Barral and the brother of Mrs. Fyne. Or, if you like, I could -imagine <i>anything</i> which comes practically to the same thing. Darkness and -chaos are first cousins. I should have liked to ask the girl for a word which -would give my imagination its line. But how was one to venture so far? I can be -rough sometimes but I am not naturally impertinent. I would have liked to ask -her for instance: “Do you know what you have done with yourself?” A question -like that. Anyhow it was time for one of us to say something. A question it -must be. And the question I asked was: “So he’s going to show you the ship?” -</p> - -<p> -She seemed glad I had spoken at last and glad of the opportunity to speak -herself. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. He said he would—this morning. Did you say you did not know Captain -Anthony?” -</p> - -<p> -“No. I don’t know him. Is he anything like his sister?” -</p> - -<p> -She looked startled and murmured “Sister!” in a puzzled tone which astonished -me. “Oh! Mrs. Fyne,” she exclaimed, recollecting herself, and avoiding my eyes -while I looked at her curiously. -</p> - -<p> -What an extraordinary detachment! And all the time the stream of shabby people -was hastening by us, with the continuous dreary shuffling of weary footsteps on -the flagstones. The sunshine falling on the grime of surfaces, on the poverty -of tones and forms seemed of an inferior quality, its joy faded, its brilliance -tarnished and dusty. I had to raise my voice in the dull vibrating noise of the -roadway. -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t mean to say you have forgotten the connection?” -</p> - -<p> -She cried readily enough: “I wasn’t thinking.” And then, while I wondered what -could have been the images occupying her brain at this time, she asked me: “You -didn’t see my letter to Mrs. Fyne—did you?” -</p> - -<p> -“No. I didn’t,” I shouted. Just then the racket was distracting, a pair-horse -trolly lightly loaded with loose rods of iron passing slowly very near us. “I -wasn’t trusted so far.” And remembering Mrs. Fyne’s hints that the girl was -unbalanced, I added: “Was it an unreserved confession you wrote?” -</p> - -<p> -She did not answer me for a time, and as I waited I thought that there’s -nothing like a confession to make one look mad; and that of all confessions a -written one is the most detrimental all round. Never confess! Never, never! An -untimely joke is a source of bitter regret always. Sometimes it may ruin a man; -not because it is a joke, but because it is untimely. And a confession of -whatever sort is always untimely. The only thing which makes it supportable for -a while is curiosity. You smile? Ah, but it is so, or else people would be sent -to the rightabout at the second sentence. How many sympathetic souls can you -reckon on in the world? One in ten, one in a hundred—in a thousand—in ten -thousand? Ah! What a sell these confessions are! What a horrible sell! You seek -sympathy, and all you get is the most evanescent sense of relief—if you get -that much. For a confession, whatever it may be, stirs the secret depths of the -hearer’s character. Often depths that he himself is but dimly aware of. And so -the righteous triumph secretly, the lucky are amused, the strong are disgusted, -the weak either upset or irritated with you according to the measure of their -sincerity with themselves. And all of them in their hearts brand you for either -mad or impudent . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -I had seldom seen Marlow so vehement, so pessimistic, so earnestly cynical -before. I cut his declamation short by asking what answer Flora de Barral had -given to his question. “Did the poor girl admit firing off her confidences at -Mrs. Fyne—eight pages of close writing—that sort of thing?” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow shook his head. -</p> - -<p> -“She did not tell me. I accepted her silence, as a kind of answer and remarked -that it would have been better if she had simply announced the fact to Mrs. -Fyne at the cottage. “Why didn’t you do it?” I asked point-blank. -</p> - -<p> -She said: “I am not a very plucky girl.” She looked up at me and added -meaningly: “And <i>you</i> know it. And you know why.” -</p> - -<p> -I must remark that she seemed to have become very subdued since our first -meeting at the quarry. Almost a different person from the defiant, angry and -despairing girl with quivering lips and resentful glances. -</p> - -<p> -“I thought it was very sensible of you to get away from that sheer drop,” I -said. -</p> - -<p> -She looked up with something of that old expression. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s not what I mean. I see you will have it that you saved my life. Nothing -of the kind. I was concerned for that vile little beast of a dog. No! It was -the idea of—of doing away with myself which was cowardly. That’s what I meant -by saying I am not a very plucky girl.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” I retorted airily. “That little dog. He isn’t really a bad little dog.” -But she lowered her eyelids and went on: -</p> - -<p> -“I was so miserable that I could think only of myself. This was mean. It was -cruel too. And besides I had <i>not</i> given it up—not then.” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Marlow changed his tone. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know much of the psychology of self-destruction. It’s a sort of -subject one has few opportunities to study closely. I knew a man once who came -to my rooms one evening, and while smoking a cigar confessed to me moodily that -he was trying to discover some graceful way of retiring out of existence. I -didn’t study his case, but I had a glimpse of him the other day at a cricket -match, with some women, having a good time. That seems a fairly reasonable -attitude. Considered as a sin, it is a case for repentance before the throne of -a merciful God. But I imagine that Flora de Barral’s religion under the care of -the distinguished governess could have been nothing but outward formality. -Remorse in the sense of gnawing shame and unavailing regret is only -understandable to me when some wrong had been done to a fellow-creature. But -why she, that girl who existed on sufferance, so to speak—why she should writhe -inwardly with remorse because she had once thought of getting rid of a life -which was nothing in every respect but a curse—that I could not understand. I -thought it was very likely some obscure influence of common forms of speech, -some traditional or inherited feeling—a vague notion that suicide is a legal -crime; words of old moralists and preachers which remain in the air and help to -form all the authorized moral conventions. Yes, I was surprised at her remorse. -But lowering her glance unexpectedly till her dark eye-lashes seemed to rest -against her white cheeks she presented a perfectly demure aspect. It was so -attractive that I could not help a faint smile. That Flora de Barral should -ever, in any aspect, have the power to evoke a smile was the very last thing I -should have believed. She went on after a slight hesitation: -</p> - -<p> -“One day I started for there, for that place.” -</p> - -<p> -Look at the influence of a mere play of physiognomy! If you remember what we -were talking about you will hardly believe that I caught myself grinning down -at that demure little girl. I must say too that I felt more friendly to her at -the moment than ever before. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, you did? To take that jump? You are a determined young person. Well, what -happened that time?” -</p> - -<p> -An almost imperceptible alteration in her bearing; a slight droop of her head -perhaps—a mere nothing—made her look more demure than ever. -</p> - -<p> -“I had left the cottage,” she began a little hurriedly. “I was walking along -the road—you know, <i>the</i> road. I had made up my mind I was not coming back -this time.” -</p> - -<p> -I won’t deny that these words spoken from under the brim of her hat (oh yes, -certainly, her head was down—she had put it down) gave me a thrill; for indeed -I had never doubted her sincerity. It could never have been a make-believe -despair. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” I whispered. “You were going along the road.” -</p> - -<p> -“When . . . ” Again she hesitated with an effect of innocent shyness worlds -asunder from tragic issues; then glided on . . . “When suddenly Captain Anthony -came through a gate out of a field.” -</p> - -<p> -I coughed down the beginning of a most improper fit of laughter, and felt -ashamed of myself. Her eyes raised for a moment seemed full of innocent -suffering and unexpressed menace in the depths of the dilated pupils within the -rings of sombre blue. It was—how shall I say it?—a night effect when you seem -to see vague shapes and don’t know what reality you may come upon at any time. -Then she lowered her eyelids again, shutting all mysteriousness out of the -situation except for the sobering memory of that glance, nightlike in the -sunshine, expressively still in the brutal unrest of the street. -</p> - -<p> -“So Captain Anthony joined you—did he?” -</p> - -<p> -“He opened a field-gate and walked out on the road. He crossed to my side and -went on with me. He had his pipe in his hand. He said: ‘Are you going far this -morning?’” -</p> - -<p> -These words (I was watching her white face as she spoke) gave me a slight -shudder. She remained demure, almost prim. And I remarked: -</p> - -<p> -“You have been talking together before, of course.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not more than twenty words altogether since he arrived,” she declared without -emphasis. “That day he had said ‘Good morning’ to me when we met at breakfast -two hours before. And I said good morning to him. I did not see him afterwards -till he came out on the road.” -</p> - -<p> -I thought to myself that this was not accidental. He had been observing her. I -felt certain also that he had not been asking any questions of Mrs. Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -“I wouldn’t look at him,” said Flora de Barral. “I had done with looking at -people. He said to me: ‘My sister does not put herself out much for us. We had -better keep each other company. I have read every book there is in that -cottage.’ I walked on. He did not leave me. I thought he ought to. But he -didn’t. He didn’t seem to notice that I would not talk to him.” -</p> - -<p> -She was now perfectly still. The wretched little parasol hung down against her -dress from her joined hands. I was rigid with attention. It isn’t every day -that one culls such a volunteered tale on a girl’s lips. The ugly street-noises -swelling up for a moment covered the next few words she said. It was vexing. -The next word I heard was “worried.” -</p> - -<p> -“It worried you to have him there, walking by your side.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Just that,” she went on with downcast eyes. There was something prettily -comical in her attitude and her tone, while I pictured to myself a poor -white-faced girl walking to her death with an unconscious man striding by her -side. Unconscious? I don’t know. First of all, I felt certain that this was no -chance meeting. Something had happened before. Was he a man for a -<i>coup-de-foudre</i>, the lightning stroke of love? I don’t think so. That -sort of susceptibility is luckily rare. A world of inflammable lovers of the -Romeo and Juliet type would very soon end in barbarism and misery. But it is a -fact that in every man (not in every woman) there lives a lover; a lover who is -called out in all his potentialities often by the most insignificant little -things—as long as they come at the psychological moment: the glimpse of a face -at an unusual angle, an evanescent attitude, the curve of a cheek often looked -at before, perhaps, but then, at the moment, charged with astonishing -significance. These are great mysteries, of course. Magic signs. -</p> - -<p> -I don’t know in what the sign consisted in this case. It might have been her -pallor (it wasn’t pasty nor yet papery) that white face with eyes like blue -gleams of fire and lips like red coals. In certain lights, in certain poises of -head it suggested tragic sorrow. Or it might have been her wavy hair. Or even -just that pointed chin stuck out a little, resentful and not particularly -distinguished, doing away with the mysterious aloofness of her fragile -presence. But any way at a given moment Anthony must have suddenly <i>seen</i> -the girl. And then, that something had happened to him. Perhaps nothing more -than the thought coming into his head that this was “a possible woman.” -</p> - -<p> -Followed this waylaying! Its resolute character makes me think it was the -chin’s doing; that “common mortal” touch which stands in such good stead to -some women. Because men, I mean really masculine men, those whose generations -have evolved an ideal woman, are often very timid. Who wouldn’t be before the -ideal? It’s your sentimental trifler, who has just missed being nothing at all, -who is enterprising, simply because it is easy to appear enterprising when one -does not mean to put one’s belief to the test. -</p> - -<p> -Well, whatever it was that encouraged him, Captain Anthony stuck to Flora de -Barral in a manner which in a timid man might have been called heroic if it had -not been so simple. Whether policy, diplomacy, simplicity, or just inspiration, -he kept up his talk, rather deliberate, with very few pauses. Then suddenly as -if recollecting himself: -</p> - -<p> -“It’s funny. I don’t think you are annoyed with me for giving you my company -unasked. But why don’t you say something?” -</p> - -<p> -I asked Miss de Barral what answer she made to this query. -</p> - -<p> -“I made no answer,” she said in that even, unemotional low voice which seemed -to be her voice for delicate confidences. “I walked on. He did not seem to -mind. We came to the foot of the quarry where the road winds up hill, past the -place where you were sitting by the roadside that day. I began to wonder what I -should do. After we reached the top Captain Anthony said that he had not been -for a walk with a lady for years and years—almost since he was a boy. We had -then come to where I ought to have turned off and struck across a field. I -thought of making a run of it. But he would have caught me up. I knew he would; -and, of course, he would not have allowed me. I couldn’t give him the slip.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why didn’t you ask him to leave you?” I inquired curiously. -</p> - -<p> -“He would not have taken any notice,” she went on steadily. “And what could I -have done then? I could not have started quarrelling with him—could I? I hadn’t -enough energy to get angry. I felt very tired suddenly. I just stumbled on -straight along the road. Captain Anthony told me that the family—some relations -of his mother—he used to know in Liverpool was broken up now, and he had never -made any friends since. All gone their different ways. All the girls married. -Nice girls they were and very friendly to him when he was but little more than -a boy. He repeated: ‘Very nice, cheery, clever girls.’ I sat down on a bank -against a hedge and began to cry.” -</p> - -<p> -“You must have astonished him not a little,” I observed. -</p> - -<p> -Anthony, it seems, remained on the road looking down at her. He did not offer -to approach her, neither did he make any other movement or gesture. Flora de -Barral told me all this. She could see him through her tears, blurred to a mere -shadow on the white road, and then again becoming more distinct, but always -absolutely still and as if lost in thought before a strange phenomenon which -demanded the closest possible attention. -</p> - -<p> -Flora learned later that he had never seen a woman cry; not in that way, at -least. He was impressed and interested by the mysteriousness of the effect. She -was very conscious of being looked at, but was not able to stop herself crying. -In fact, she was not capable of any effort. Suddenly he advanced two steps, -stooped, caught hold of her hands lying on her lap and pulled her up to her -feet; she found herself standing close to him almost before she realized what -he had done. Some people were coming briskly along the road and Captain Anthony -muttered: “You don’t want to be stared at. What about that stile over there? -Can we go back across the fields?” -</p> - -<p> -She snatched her hands out of his grasp (it seems he had omitted to let them -go), marched away from him and got over the stile. It was a big field sprinkled -profusely with white sheep. A trodden path crossed it diagonally. After she had -gone more than half way she turned her head for the first time. Keeping five -feet or so behind, Captain Anthony was following her with an air of extreme -interest. Interest or eagerness. At any rate she caught an expression on his -face which frightened her. But not enough to make her run. And indeed it would -have had to be something incredibly awful to scare into a run a girl who had -come to the end of her courage to live. -</p> - -<p> -As if encouraged by this glance over the shoulder Captain Anthony came up -boldly, and now that he was by her side, she felt his nearness intimately, like -a touch. She tried to disregard this sensation. But she was not angry with him -now. It wasn’t worth while. She was thankful that he had the sense not to ask -questions as to this crying. Of course he didn’t ask because he didn’t care. No -one in the world cared for her, neither those who pretended nor yet those who -did not pretend. She preferred the latter. -</p> - -<p> -Captain Anthony opened for her a gate into another field; when they got through -he kept walking abreast, elbow to elbow almost. His voice growled pleasantly in -her very ear. Staying in this dull place was enough to give anyone the blues. -His sister scribbled all day. It was positively unkind. He alluded to his -nieces as rude, selfish monkeys, without either feelings or manners. And he -went on to talk about his ship being laid up for a month and dismantled for -repairs. The worst was that on arriving in London he found he couldn’t get the -rooms he was used to, where they made him as comfortable as such a confirmed -sea-dog as himself could be anywhere on shore. -</p> - -<p> -In the effort to subdue by dint of talking and to keep in check the mysterious, -the profound attraction he felt already for that delicate being of flesh and -blood, with pale cheeks, with darkened eyelids and eyes scalded with hot tears, -he went on speaking of himself as a confirmed enemy of life on shore—a perfect -terror to a simple man, what with the fads and proprieties and the ceremonies -and affectations. He hated all that. He wasn’t fit for it. There was no rest -and peace and security but on the sea. -</p> - -<p> -This gave one a view of Captain Anthony as a hermit withdrawn from a wicked -world. It was amusingly unexpected to me and nothing more. But it must have -appealed straight to that bruised and battered young soul. Still shrinking from -his nearness she had ended by listening to him with avidity. His deep murmuring -voice soothed her. And she thought suddenly that there was peace and rest in -the grave too. -</p> - -<p> -She heard him say: “Look at my sister. She isn’t a bad woman by any means. She -asks me here because it’s right and proper, I suppose, but she has no use for -me. There you have your shore people. I quite understand anybody crying. I -would have been gone already, only, truth to say, I haven’t any friends to go -to.” He added brusquely: “And you?” -</p> - -<p> -She made a slight negative sign. He must have been observing her, putting two -and two together. After a pause he said simply: “When I first came here I -thought you were governess to these girls. My sister didn’t say a word about -you to me.” -</p> - -<p> -Then Flora spoke for the first time. -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Fyne is my best friend.” -</p> - -<p> -“So she is mine,” he said without the slightest irony or bitterness, but added -with conviction: “That shows you what life ashore is. Much better be out of -it.” -</p> - -<p> -As they were approaching the cottage he was heard again as though a long silent -walk had not intervened: “But anyhow I shan’t ask her anything about you.” -</p> - -<p> -He stopped short and she went on alone. His last words had impressed her. -Everything he had said seemed somehow to have a special meaning under its -obvious conversational sense. Till she went in at the door of the cottage she -felt his eyes resting on her. -</p> - -<p> -That is it. He had made himself felt. That girl was, one may say, washing about -with slack limbs in the ugly surf of life with no opportunity to strike out for -herself, when suddenly she had been made to feel that there was somebody beside -her in the bitter water. A most considerable moral event for her; whether she -was aware of it or not. They met again at the one o’clock dinner. I am inclined -to think that, being a healthy girl under her frail appearance, and fast -walking and what I may call relief-crying (there are many kinds of crying) -making one hungry, she made a good meal. It was Captain Anthony who had no -appetite. His sister commented on it in a curt, businesslike manner, and the -eldest of his delightful nieces said mockingly: “You have been taking too much -exercise this morning, Uncle Roderick.” The mild Uncle Roderick turned upon her -with a “What do you know about it, young lady?” so charged with suppressed -savagery that the whole round table gave one gasp and went dumb for the rest of -the meal. He took no notice whatever of Flora de Barral. I don’t think it was -from prudence or any calculated motive. I believe he was so full of her aspects -that he did not want to look in her direction when there were other people to -hamper his imagination. -</p> - -<p> -You understand I am piecing here bits of disconnected statements. Next day -Flora saw him leaning over the field-gate. When she told me this, I didn’t of -course ask her how it was she was there. Probably she could not have told me -how it was she was there. The difficulty here is to keep steadily in view the -then conditions of her existence, a combination of dreariness and horror. -</p> - -<p> -That hermit-like but not exactly misanthropic sailor was leaning over the gate -moodily. When he saw the white-faced restless Flora drifting like a lost thing -along the road he put his pipe in his pocket and called out “Good morning, Miss -Smith” in a tone of amazing happiness. She, with one foot in life and the other -in a nightmare, was at the same time inert and unstable, and very much at the -mercy of sudden impulses. She swerved, came distractedly right up to the gate -and looking straight into his eyes: “I am not Miss Smith. That’s not my name. -Don’t call me by it.” -</p> - -<p> -She was shaking as if in a passion. His eyes expressed nothing; he only -unlatched the gate in silence, grasped her arm and drew her in. Then closing it -with a kick— -</p> - -<p> -“Not your name? That’s all one to me. Your name’s the least thing about you I -care for.” He was leading her firmly away from the gate though she resisted -slightly. There was a sort of joy in his eyes which frightened her. “You are -not a princess in disguise,” he said with an unexpected laugh she found -blood-curdling. “And that’s all I care for. You had better understand that I am -not blind and not a fool. And then it’s plain for even a fool to see that -things have been going hard with you. You are on a lee shore and eating your -heart out with worry.” -</p> - -<p> -What seemed most awful to her was the elated light in his eyes, the rapacious -smile that would come and go on his lips as if he were gloating over her -misery. But her misery was his opportunity and he rejoiced while the tenderest -pity seemed to flood his whole being. He pointed out to her that she knew who -he was. He was Mrs. Fyne’s brother. And, well, if his sister was the best -friend she had in the world, then, by Jove, it was about time somebody came -along to look after her a little. -</p> - -<p> -Flora had tried more than once to free herself, but he tightened his grasp of -her arm each time and even shook it a little without ceasing to speak. The -nearness of his face intimidated her. He seemed striving to look her through. -It was obvious the world had been using her ill. And even as he spoke with -indignation the very marks and stamp of this ill-usage of which he was so -certain seemed to add to the inexplicable attraction he felt for her person. It -was not pity alone, I take it. It was something more spontaneous, perverse and -exciting. It gave him the feeling that if only he could get hold of her, no -woman would belong to him so completely as this woman. -</p> - -<p> -“Whatever your troubles,” he said, “I am the man to take you away from them; -that is, if you are not afraid. You told me you had no friends. Neither have I. -Nobody ever cared for me as far as I can remember. Perhaps you could. Yes, I -live on the sea. But who would you be parting from? No one. You have no one -belonging to you.” -</p> - -<p> -At this point she broke away from him and ran. He did not pursue her. The tall -hedges tossing in the wind, the wide fields, the clouds driving over the sky -and the sky itself wheeled about her in masses of green and white and blue as -if the world were breaking up silently in a whirl, and her foot at the next -step were bound to find the void. She reached the gate all right, got out, and, -once on the road, discovered that she had not the courage to look back. The -rest of that day she spent with the Fyne girls who gave her to understand that -she was a slow and unprofitable person. Long after tea, nearly at dusk, Captain -Anthony (the son of the poet) appeared suddenly before her in the little garden -in front of the cottage. They were alone for the moment. The wind had dropped. -In the calm evening air the voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls strolling -aimlessly on the road could be heard. He said to her severely: -</p> - -<p> -“You have understood?” -</p> - -<p> -She looked at him in silence. -</p> - -<p> -“That I love you,” he finished. -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head the least bit. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you believe me?” he asked in a low, infuriated voice. -</p> - -<p> -“Nobody would love me,” she answered in a very quiet tone. “Nobody could.” -</p> - -<p> -He was dumb for a time, astonished beyond measure, as he well might have been. -He doubted his ears. He was outraged. -</p> - -<p> -“Eh? What? Can’t love you? What do you know about it? It’s my affair, isn’t it? -You dare say <i>that</i> to a man who has just told you! You must be mad!” -</p> - -<p> -“Very nearly,” she said with the accent of pent-up sincerity, and even relieved -because she was able to say something which she felt was true. For the last few -days she had felt herself several times near that madness which is but an -intolerable lucidity of apprehension. -</p> - -<p> -The clear voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls were coming nearer, sounding -affected in the peace of the passion-laden earth. He began storming at her -hastily. -</p> - -<p> -“Nonsense! Nobody can . . . Indeed! Pah! You’ll have to be shown that somebody -can. I can. Nobody . . . ” He made a contemptuous hissing noise. “More likely -<i>you</i> can’t. They have done something to you. Something’s crushed your -pluck. You can’t face a man—that’s what it is. What made you like this? Where -do you come from? You have been put upon. The scoundrels—whoever they are, men -or women, seem to have robbed you of your very name. You say you are not Miss -Smith. Who are you, then?” -</p> - -<p> -She did not answer. He muttered, “Not that I care,” and fell silent, because -the fatuous self-confident chatter of the Fyne girls could be heard at the very -gate. But they were not going to bed yet. They passed on. He waited a little in -silence and immobility, then stamped his foot and lost control of himself. He -growled at her in a savage passion. She felt certain that he was threatening -her and calling her names. She was no stranger to abuse, as we know, but there -seemed to be a particular kind of ferocity in this which was new to her. She -began to tremble. The especially terrifying thing was that she could not make -out the nature of these awful menaces and names. Not a word. Yet it was not the -shrinking anguish of her other experiences of angry scenes. She made a mighty -effort, though her knees were knocking together, and in an expiring voice -demanded that he should let her go indoors. “Don’t stop me. It’s no use. It’s -no use,” she repeated faintly, feeling an invincible obstinacy rising within -her, yet without anger against that raging man. -</p> - -<p> -He became articulate suddenly, and, without raising his voice, perfectly -audible. -</p> - -<p> -“No use! No use! You dare stand here and tell me that—you white-faced wisp, you -wreath of mist, you little ghost of all the sorrow in the world. You dare! -Haven’t I been looking at you? You are all eyes. What makes your cheeks always -so white as if you had seen something . . . Don’t speak. I love it . . . No -use! And you really think that I can now go to sea for a year or more, to the -other side of the world somewhere, leaving you behind. Why! You would vanish . -. . what little there is of you. Some rough wind will blow you away altogether. -You have no holding ground on earth. Well, then trust yourself to me—to the -sea—which is deep like your eyes.” -</p> - -<p> -She said: “Impossible.” He kept quiet for a while, then asked in a totally -changed tone, a tone of gloomy curiosity: -</p> - -<p> -“You can’t stand me then? Is that it?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” she said, more steady herself. “I am not thinking of you at all.” -</p> - -<p> -The inane voices of the Fyne girls were heard over the sombre fields calling to -each other, thin and clear. He muttered: “You could try to. Unless you are -thinking of somebody else.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. I am thinking of somebody else, of someone who has nobody to think of him -but me.” -</p> - -<p> -His shadowy form stepped out of her way, and suddenly leaned sideways against -the wooden support of the porch. And as she stood still, surprised by this -staggering movement, his voice spoke up in a tone quite strange to her. -</p> - -<p> -“Go in then. Go out of my sight—I thought you said nobody could love you.” -</p> - -<p> -She was passing him when suddenly he struck her as so forlorn that she was -inspired to say: “No one has ever loved me—not in that way—if that’s what you -mean. Nobody would.” -</p> - -<p> -He detached himself brusquely from the post, and she did not shrink; but Mrs. -Fyne and the girls were already at the gate. -</p> - -<p> -All he understood was that everything was not over yet. There was no time to -lose; Mrs. Fyne and the girls had come in at the gate. He whispered “Wait” with -such authority (he was the son of Carleon Anthony, the domestic autocrat) that -it did arrest her for a moment, long enough to hear him say that he could not -be left like this to puzzle over her nonsense all night. She was to slip down -again into the garden later on, as soon as she could do so without being heard. -He would be there waiting for her till—till daylight. She didn’t think he could -go to sleep, did she? And she had better come, or—he broke off on an unfinished -threat. -</p> - -<p> -She vanished into the unlighted cottage just as Mrs. Fyne came up to the porch. -Nervous, holding her breath in the darkness of the living-room, she heard her -best friend say: “You ought to have joined us, Roderick.” And then: “Have you -seen Miss Smith anywhere?” -</p> - -<p> -Flora shuddered, expecting Anthony to break out into betraying imprecations on -Miss Smith’s head, and cause a painful and humiliating explanation. She -imagined him full of his mysterious ferocity. To her great surprise, Anthony’s -voice sounded very much as usual, with perhaps a slight tinge of grimness. -“Miss Smith! No. I’ve seen no Miss Smith.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne seemed satisfied—and not much concerned really. -</p> - -<p> -Flora, relieved, got clear away to her room upstairs, and shutting her door -quietly, dropped into a chair. She was used to reproaches, abuse, to all sorts -of wicked ill usage—short of actual beating on her body. Otherwise inexplicable -angers had cut and slashed and trampled down her youth without mercy—and -mainly, it appeared, because she was the financier de Barral’s daughter and -also condemned to a degrading sort of poverty through the action of treacherous -men who had turned upon her father in his hour of need. And she thought with -the tenderest possible affection of that upright figure buttoned up in a long -frock-coat, soft-voiced and having but little to say to his girl. She seemed to -feel his hand closed round hers. On his flying visits to Brighton he would -always walk hand in hand with her. People stared covertly at them; the band was -playing; and there was the sea—the blue gaiety of the sea. They were quietly -happy together . . . It was all over! -</p> - -<p> -An immense anguish of the present wrung her heart, and she nearly cried aloud. -That dread of what was before her which had been eating up her courage slowly -in the course of odious years, flamed up into an access of panic, that sort of -headlong panic which had already driven her out twice to the top of the -cliff-like quarry. She jumped up saying to herself: “Why not now? At once! Yes. -I’ll do it now—in the dark!” The very horror of it seemed to give her -additional resolution. -</p> - -<p> -She came down the staircase quietly, and only on the point of opening the door -and because of the discovery that it was unfastened, she remembered Captain -Anthony’s threat to stay in the garden all night. She hesitated. She did not -understand the mood of that man clearly. He was violent. But she had gone -beyond the point where things matter. What would he think of her coming down to -him—as he would naturally suppose. And even that didn’t matter. He could not -despise her more than she despised herself. She must have been light-headed -because the thought came into her mind that should he get into ungovernable -fury from disappointment, and perchance strangle her, it would be as good a way -to be done with it as any. -</p> - -<p> -“You had that thought,” I exclaimed in wonder. -</p> - -<p> -With downcast eyes and speaking with an almost painstaking precision (her very -lips, her red lips, seemed to move just enough to be heard and no more), she -said that, yes, the thought came into her head. This makes one shudder at the -mysterious ways girls acquire knowledge. For this was a thought, wild enough, I -admit, but which could only have come from the depths of that sort of -experience which she had not had, and went far beyond a young girl’s possible -conception of the strongest and most veiled of human emotions. -</p> - -<p> -“He was there, of course?” I said. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, he was there.” She saw him on the path directly she stepped outside the -porch. He was very still. It was as though he had been standing there with his -face to the door for hours. -</p> - -<p> -Shaken up by the changing moods of passion and tenderness, he must have been -ready for any extravagance of conduct. Knowing the profound silence each night -brought to that nook of the country, I could imagine them having the feeling of -being the only two people on the wide earth. A row of six or seven lofty elms -just across the road opposite the cottage made the night more obscure in that -little garden. If these two could just make out each other that was all. -</p> - -<p> -“Well! And were you very much terrified?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -She made me wait a little before she said, raising her eyes: “He was gentleness -itself.” -</p> - -<p> -I noticed three abominable, drink-sodden loafers, sallow and dirty, who had -come to range themselves in a row within ten feet of us against the front of -the public-house. They stared at Flora de Barral’s back with unseeing, mournful -fixity. -</p> - -<p> -“Let’s move this way a little,” I proposed. -</p> - -<p> -She turned at once and we made a few paces; not too far to take us out of sight -of the hotel door, but very nearly. I could just keep my eyes on it. After all, -I had not been so very long with the girl. If you were to disentangle the words -we actually exchanged from my comments you would see that they were not so very -many, including everything she had so unexpectedly told me of her story. No, -not so very many. And now it seemed as though there would be no more. No! I -could expect no more. The confidence was wonderful enough in its nature as far -as it went, and perhaps not to have been expected from any other girl under the -sun. And I felt a little ashamed. The origin of our intimacy was too gruesome. -It was as if listening to her I had taken advantage of having seen her poor -bewildered, scared soul without its veils. But I was curious, too; or, to -render myself justice without false modesty—I was anxious; anxious to know a -little more. -</p> - -<p> -I felt like a blackmailer all the same when I made my attempt with a -light-hearted remark. -</p> - -<p> -“And so you gave up that walk you proposed to take?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I gave up the walk,” she said slowly before raising her downcast eyes. -When she did so it was with an extraordinary effect. It was like catching sight -of a piece of blue sky, of a stretch of open water. And for a moment I -understood the desire of that man to whom the sea and sky of his solitary life -had appeared suddenly incomplete without that glance which seemed to belong to -them both. He was not for nothing the son of a poet. I looked into those -unabashed eyes while the girl went on, her demure appearance and precise tone -changed to a very earnest expression. Woman is various indeed. -</p> - -<p> -“But I want you to understand, Mr. . . . ” she had actually to think of my name -. . . “Mr. Marlow, that I have written to Mrs. Fyne that I haven’t been—that I -have done nothing to make Captain Anthony behave to me as he had behaved. I -haven’t. I haven’t. It isn’t my doing. It isn’t my fault—if she likes to put it -in that way. But she, with her ideas, ought to understand that I couldn’t, that -I couldn’t . . . I know she hates me now. I think she never liked me. I think -nobody ever cared for me. I was told once nobody could care for me; and I think -it is true. At any rate I can’t forget it.” -</p> - -<p> -Her abominable experience with the governess had implanted in her unlucky -breast a lasting doubt, an ineradicable suspicion of herself and of others. I -said: -</p> - -<p> -“Remember, Miss de Barral, that to be fair you must trust a man altogether—or -not at all.” -</p> - -<p> -She dropped her eyes suddenly. I thought I heard a faint sigh. I tried to take -a light tone again, and yet it seemed impossible to get off the ground which -gave me my standing with her. -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Fyne is absurd. She’s an excellent woman, but really you could not be -expected to throw away your chance of life simply that she might cherish a good -opinion of your memory. That would be excessive.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was not of my life that I was thinking while Captain Anthony was—was -speaking to me,” said Flora de Barral with an effort. -</p> - -<p> -I told her that she was wrong then. She ought to have been thinking of her -life, and not only of her life but of the life of the man who was speaking to -her too. She let me finish, then shook her head impatiently. -</p> - -<p> -“I mean—death.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” I said, “when he stood before you there, outside the cottage, he really -stood between you and that. I have it out of your own mouth. You can’t deny -it.” -</p> - -<p> -“If you will have it that he saved my life, then he has got it. It was not for -me. Oh no! It was not for me that I—It was not fear! There!” She finished -petulantly: “And you may just as well know it.” -</p> - -<p> -She hung her head and swung the parasol slightly to and fro. I thought a -little. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you know French, Miss de Barral?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -She made a sign with her head that she did, but without showing any surprise at -the question and without ceasing to swing her parasol. -</p> - -<p> -“Well then, somehow or other I have the notion that Captain Anthony is what the -French call <i>un galant homme</i>. I should like to think he is being treated -as he deserves.” -</p> - -<p> -The form of her lips (I could see them under the brim of her hat) was suddenly -altered into a line of seriousness. The parasol stopped swinging. -</p> - -<p> -“I have given him what he wanted—that’s myself,” she said without a tremor and -with a striking dignity of tone. -</p> - -<p> -Impressed by the manner and the directness of the words, I hesitated for a -moment what to say. Then made up my mind to clear up the point. -</p> - -<p> -“And you have got what you wanted? Is that it?” -</p> - -<p> -The daughter of the egregious financier de Barral did not answer at once this -question going to the heart of things. Then raising her head and gazing -wistfully across the street noisy with the endless transit of innumerable -bargains, she said with intense gravity: -</p> - -<p> -“He has been most generous.” -</p> - -<p> -I was pleased to hear these words. Not that I doubted the infatuation of -Roderick Anthony, but I was pleased to hear something which proved that she was -sensible and open to the sentiment of gratitude which in this case was -significant. In the face of man’s desire a girl is excusable if she thinks -herself priceless. I mean a girl of our civilization which has established a -dithyrambic phraseology for the expression of love. A man in love will accept -any convention exalting the object of his passion and in this indirect way his -passion itself. In what way the captain of the ship <i>Ferndale</i> gave proofs -of lover-like lavishness I could not guess very well. But I was glad she was -appreciative. It is lucky that small things please women. And it is not silly -of them to be thus pleased. It is in small things that the deepest loyalty, -that which they need most, the loyalty of the passing moment, is best -expressed. -</p> - -<p> -She had remained thoughtful, letting her deep motionless eyes rest on the -streaming jumble of traffic. Suddenly she said: -</p> - -<p> -“And I wanted to ask you . . . I was really glad when I saw you actually here. -Who would have expected you here, at this spot, before this hotel! I certainly -never . . . You see it meant a lot to me. You are the only person who knows . . -. who knows for certain . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Knows what?” I said, not discovering at first what she had in her mind. Then I -saw it. “Why can’t you leave that alone?” I remonstrated, rather annoyed at the -invidious position she was forcing on me in a sense. “It’s true that I was the -only person to see,” I added. “But, as it happens, after your mysterious -disappearance I told the Fynes the story of our meeting.” -</p> - -<p> -Her eyes raised to mine had an expression of dreamy, unfathomable candour, if I -dare say so. And if you wonder what I mean I can only say that I have seen the -sea wear such an expression on one or two occasions shortly before sunrise on a -calm, fresh day. She said as if meditating aloud that she supposed the Fynes -were not likely to talk about that. She couldn’t imagine any connection in -which . . . Why should they? -</p> - -<p> -As her tone had become interrogatory I assented. “To be sure. There’s no reason -whatever—” thinking to myself that they would be more likely indeed to keep -quiet about it. They had other things to talk of. And then remembering little -Fyne stuck upstairs for an unconscionable time, enough to blurt out everything -he ever knew in his life, I reflected that he would assume naturally that -Captain Anthony had nothing to learn from him about Flora de Barral. It had -been up to now my assumption too. I saw my mistake. The sincerest of women will -make no unnecessary confidences to a man. And this is as it should be. -</p> - -<p> -“No—no!” I said reassuringly. “It’s most unlikely. Are you much concerned?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you see, when I came down,” she said again in that precise demure tone, -“when I came down—into the garden Captain Anthony misunderstood—” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course he would. Men are so conceited,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -I saw it well enough that he must have thought she had come down to him. What -else could he have thought? And then he had been “gentleness itself.” A new -experience for that poor, delicate, and yet so resisting creature. Gentleness -in passion! What could have been more seductive to the scared, starved heart of -that girl? Perhaps had he been violent, she might have told him that what she -came down to keep was the tryst of death—not of love. It occurred to me as I -looked at her, young, fragile in aspect, and intensely alive in her quietness, -that perhaps she did not know herself then what sort of tryst she was coming -down to keep. -</p> - -<p> -She smiled faintly, almost awkwardly as if she were totally unused to smiling, -at my cheap jocularity. Then she said with that forced precision, a sort of -conscious primness: -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t want him to know.” -</p> - -<p> -I approved heartily. Quite right. Much better. Let him ever remain under his -misapprehension which was so much more flattering for him. -</p> - -<p> -I tried to keep it in the tone of comedy; but she was, I believe, too simple to -understand my intention. She went on, looking down. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! You think so? When I saw you I didn’t know why you were here. I was glad -when you spoke to me because this is exactly what I wanted to ask you for. I -wanted to ask you if you ever meet Captain Anthony—by any chance—anywhere—you -are a sailor too, are you not?—that you would never mention—never—that—that you -had seen me over there.” -</p> - -<p> -“My dear young lady,” I cried, horror-struck at the supposition. “Why should I? -What makes you think I should dream of . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -She had raised her head at my vehemence. She did not understand it. The world -had treated her so dishonourably that she had no notion even of what mere -decency of feeling is like. It was not her fault. Indeed, I don’t know why she -should have put her trust in anybody’s promises. -</p> - -<p> -But I thought it would be better to promise. So I assured her that she could -depend on my absolute silence. -</p> - -<p> -“I am not likely to ever set eyes on Captain Anthony,” I added with -conviction—as a further guarantee. -</p> - -<p> -She accepted my assurance in silence, without a sign. Her gravity had in it -something acute, perhaps because of that chin. While we were still looking at -each other she declared: -</p> - -<p> -“There’s no deception in it really. I want you to believe that if I am here, -like this, to-day, it is not from fear. It is not!” -</p> - -<p> -“I quite understand,” I said. But her firm yet self-conscious gaze became -doubtful. “I do,” I insisted. “I understand perfectly that it was not of death -that you were afraid.” -</p> - -<p> -She lowered her eyes slowly, and I went on: -</p> - -<p> -“As to life, that’s another thing. And I don’t know that one ought to blame you -very much—though it seemed rather an excessive step. I wonder now if it isn’t -the ugliness rather than the pain of the struggle which . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -She shuddered visibly: “But I do blame myself,” she exclaimed with feeling. “I -am ashamed.” And, dropping her head, she looked in a moment the very picture of -remorse and shame. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you will be going away from all its horrors,” I said. “And surely you -are not afraid of the sea. You are a sailor’s granddaughter, I understand.” -</p> - -<p> -She sighed deeply. She remembered her grandfather only a little. He was a -clean-shaven man with a ruddy complexion and long, perfectly white hair. He -used to take her on his knee, and putting his face near hers, talk to her in -loving whispers. If only he were alive now . . . ! -</p> - -<p> -She remained silent for a while. -</p> - -<p> -“Aren’t you anxious to see the ship?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -She lowered her head still more so that I could not see anything of her face. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know,” she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -I had already the suspicion that she did not know her own feelings. All this -work of the merest chance had been so unexpected, so sudden. And she had -nothing to fall back upon, no experience but such as to shake her belief in -every human being. She was dreadfully and pitifully forlorn. It was almost in -order to comfort my own depression that I remarked cheerfully: -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I know of somebody who must be growing extremely anxious to see you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am before my time,” she confessed simply, rousing herself. “I had nothing to -do. So I came out.” -</p> - -<p> -I had the sudden vision of a shabby, lonely little room at the other end of the -town. It had grown intolerable to her restlessness. The mere thought of it -oppressed her. Flora de Barral was looking frankly at her chance confidant, -</p> - -<p> -“And I came this way,” she went on. “I appointed the time myself yesterday, but -Captain Anthony would not have minded. He told me he was going to look over -some business papers till I came.” -</p> - -<p> -The idea of the son of the poet, the rescuer of the most forlorn damsel of -modern times, the man of violence, gentleness and generosity, sitting up to his -neck in ship’s accounts amused me. “I am sure he would not have minded,” I -said, smiling. But the girl’s stare was sombre, her thin white face seemed -pathetically careworn. -</p> - -<p> -“I can hardly believe yet,” she murmured anxiously. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s quite real. Never fear,” I said encouragingly, but had to change my tone -at once. “You had better go down that way a little,” I directed her abruptly. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -I had seen Fyne come striding out of the hotel door. The intelligent girl, -without staying to ask questions, walked away from me quietly down one street -while I hurried on to meet Fyne coming up the other at his efficient pedestrian -gait. My object was to stop him getting as far as the corner. He must have been -thinking too hard to be aware of his surroundings. I put myself in his way, and -he nearly walked into me. -</p> - -<p> -“Hallo!” I said. -</p> - -<p> -His surprise was extreme. “You here! You don’t mean to say you have been -waiting for me?” -</p> - -<p> -I said negligently that I had been detained by unexpected business in the -neighbourhood, and thus happened to catch sight of him coming out. -</p> - -<p> -He stared at me with solemn distraction, obviously thinking of something else. -I suggested that he had better take the next city-ward tramcar. He was -inattentive, and I perceived that he was profoundly perturbed. As Miss de -Barral (she had moved out of sight) could not possibly approach the hotel door -as long as we remained where we were I proposed that we should wait for the car -on the other side of the street. He obeyed rather the slight touch on his arm -than my words, and while we were crossing the wide roadway in the midst of the -lumbering wheeled traffic, he exclaimed in his deep tone, “I don’t know which -of these two is more mad than the other!” -</p> - -<p> -“Really!” I said, pulling him forward from under the noses of two enormous -sleepy-headed cart-horses. He skipped wildly out of the way and up on the -curbstone with a purely instinctive precision; his mind had nothing to do with -his movements. In the middle of his leap, and while in the act of sailing -gravely through the air, he continued to relieve his outraged feelings. -</p> - -<p> -“You would never believe! They <i>are</i> mad!” -</p> - -<p> -I took care to place myself in such a position that to face me he had to turn -his back on the hotel across the road. I believe he was glad I was there to -talk to. But I thought there was some misapprehension in the first statement he -shot out at me without loss of time, that Captain Anthony had been glad to see -him. It was indeed difficult to believe that, directly he opened the door, his -wife’s “sailor-brother” had positively shouted: “Oh, it’s you! The very man I -wanted to see.” -</p> - -<p> -“I found him sitting there,” went on Fyne impressively in his effortless, grave -chest voice, “drafting his will.” -</p> - -<p> -This was unexpected, but I preserved a noncommittal attitude, knowing full well -that our actions in themselves are neither mad nor sane. But I did not see what -there was to be excited about. And Fyne was distinctly excited. I understood it -better when I learned that the captain of the <i>Ferndale</i> wanted little -Fyne to be one of the trustees. He was leaving everything to his wife. -Naturally, a request which involved him into sanctioning in a way a proceeding -which he had been sent by his wife to oppose, must have appeared sufficiently -mad to Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -“Me! Me, of all people in the world!” he repeated portentously. But I could see -that he was frightened. Such want of tact! -</p> - -<p> -“He knew I came from his sister. You don’t put a man into such an awkward -position,” complained Fyne. “It made me speak much more strongly against all -this very painful business than I would have had the heart to do otherwise.” -</p> - -<p> -I pointed out to him concisely, and keeping my eyes on the door of the hotel, -that he and his wife were the only bond with the land Captain Anthony had. Who -else could he have asked? -</p> - -<p> -“I explained to him that he was breaking this bond,” declared Fyne solemnly. -“Breaking it once for all. And for what—for what?” -</p> - -<p> -He glared at me. I could perhaps have given him an inkling for what, but I said -nothing. He started again: -</p> - -<p> -“My wife assures me that the girl does not love him a bit. She goes by that -letter she received from her. There is a passage in it where she practically -admits that she was quite unscrupulous in accepting this offer of marriage, but -says to my wife that she supposes she, my wife, will not blame her—as it was in -self-defence. My wife has her own ideas, but this is an outrageous -misapprehension of her views. Outrageous.” -</p> - -<p> -The good little man paused and then added weightily: -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t tell that to my brother-in-law—I mean, my wife’s views.” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” I said. “What would have been the good?” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s positive infatuation,” agreed little Fyne, in the tone as though he had -made an awful discovery. “I have never seen anything so hopeless and -inexplicable in my life. I—I felt quite frightened and sorry,” he added, while -I looked at him curiously asking myself whether this excellent civil servant -and notable pedestrian had felt the breath of a great and fatal love-spell -passing him by in the room of that East-end hotel. He did look for a moment as -though he had seen a ghost, an other-world thing. But that look vanished -instantaneously, and he nodded at me with mere exasperation at something quite -of this world—whatever it was. “It’s a bad business. My brother-in-law knows -nothing of women,” he cried with an air of profound, experienced wisdom. -</p> - -<p> -What he imagined he knew of women himself I can’t tell. I did not know anything -of the opportunities he might have had. But this is a subject which, if -approached with undue solemnity, is apt to elude one’s grasp entirely. No doubt -Fyne knew something of a woman who was Captain Anthony’s sister. But that, -admittedly, had been a very solemn study. I smiled at him gently, and as if -encouraged or provoked, he completed his thought rather explosively. -</p> - -<p> -“And that girl understands nothing . . . It’s sheer lunacy.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know,” I said, “whether the circumstances of isolation at sea would be -any alleviation to the danger. But it’s certain that they shall have the -opportunity to learn everything about each other in a lonely -<i>tête-à-tête</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“But dash it all,” he cried in hollow accents which at the same time had the -tone of bitter irony—I had never before heard a sound so quaintly ugly and -almost horrible—“You forget Mr. Smith.” -</p> - -<p> -“What Mr. Smith?” I asked innocently. -</p> - -<p> -Fyne made an extraordinary simiesque grimace. I believe it was quite -involuntary, but you know that a grave, much-lined, shaven countenance when -distorted in an unusual way is extremely apelike. It was a surprising sight, -and rendered me not only speechless but stopped the progress of my thought -completely. I must have presented a remarkably imbecile appearance. -</p> - -<p> -“My brother-in-law considered it amusing to chaff me about us introducing the -girl as Miss Smith,” said Fyne, going surly in a moment. “He said that perhaps -if he had heard her real name from the first it might have restrained him. As -it was, he made the discovery too late. Asked me to tell Zoe this together with -a lot more nonsense.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne gave me the impression of having escaped from a man inspired by a grimly -playful ebullition of high spirits. It must have been most distasteful to him; -and his solemnity got damaged somehow in the process, I perceived. There were -holes in it through which I could see a new, an unknown Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -“You wouldn’t believe it,” he went on, “but she looks upon her father -exclusively as a victim. I don’t know,” he burst out suddenly through an -enormous rent in his solemnity, “if she thinks him absolutely a saint, but she -certainly imagines him to be a martyr.” -</p> - -<p> -It is one of the advantages of that magnificent invention, the prison, that you -may forget people which are put there as though they were dead. One needn’t -worry about them. Nothing can happen to them that you can help. They can do -nothing which might possibly matter to anybody. They come out of it, though, -but that seems hardly an advantage to themselves or anyone else. I had -completely forgotten the financier de Barral. The girl for me was an orphan, -but now I perceived suddenly the force of Fyne’s qualifying statement, “to a -certain extent.” It would have been infinitely more kind all round for the law -to have shot, beheaded, strangled, or otherwise destroyed this absurd de -Barral, who was a danger to a moral world inhabited by a credulous multitude -not fit to take care of itself. But I observed to Fyne that, however insane was -the view she held, one could not declare the girl mad on that account. -</p> - -<p> -“So she thinks of her father—does she? I suppose she would appear to us saner -if she thought only of herself.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am positive,” Fyne said earnestly, “that she went and made desperate eyes at -Anthony . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh come!” I interrupted. “You haven’t seen her make eyes. You don’t know the -colour of her eyes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well! It don’t matter. But it could hardly have come to that if she -hadn’t . . . It’s all one, though. I tell you she has led him on, or accepted -him, if you like, simply because she was thinking of her father. She doesn’t -care a bit about Anthony, I believe. She cares for no one. Never cared for -anyone. Ask Zoe. For myself I don’t blame her,” added Fyne, giving me another -view of unsuspected things through the rags and tatters of his damaged -solemnity. “No! by heavens, I don’t blame her—the poor devil.” -</p> - -<p> -I agreed with him silently. I suppose affections are, in a sense, to be -learned. If there exists a native spark of love in all of us, it must be fanned -while we are young. Hers, if she ever had it, had been drenched in as ugly a -lot of corrosive liquid as could be imagined. But I was surprised at Fyne -obscurely feeling this. -</p> - -<p> -“She loves no one except that preposterous advertising shark,” he pursued -venomously, but in a more deliberate manner. “And Anthony knows it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Does he?” I said doubtfully. -</p> - -<p> -“She’s quite capable of having told him herself,” affirmed Fyne, with amazing -insight. “But whether or no, <i>I’ve</i> told him.” -</p> - -<p> -“You did? From Mrs. Fyne, of course.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne only blinked owlishly at this piece of my insight. -</p> - -<p> -“And how did Captain Anthony receive this interesting information?” I asked -further. -</p> - -<p> -“Most improperly,” said Fyne, who really was in a state in which he didn’t mind -what he blurted out. “He isn’t himself. He begged me to tell his sister that he -offered no remarks on her conduct. Very improper and inconsequent. He said . . -. I was tired of this wrangling. I told him I made allowances for the state of -excitement he was in.” -</p> - -<p> -“You know, Fyne,” I said, “a man in jail seems to me such an incredible, cruel, -nightmarish sort of thing that I can hardly believe in his existence. Certainly -not in relation to any other existences.” -</p> - -<p> -“But dash it all,” cried Fyne, “he isn’t shut up for life. They are going to -let him out. He’s coming out! That’s the whole trouble. What is he coming out -to, I want to know? It seems a more cruel business than the shutting him up -was. This has been the worry for weeks. Do you see now?” -</p> - -<p> -I saw, all sorts of things! Immediately before me I saw the excitement of -little Fyne—mere food for wonder. Further off, in a sort of gloom and beyond -the light of day and the movement of the street, I saw the figure of a man, -stiff like a ramrod, moving with small steps, a slight girlish figure by his -side. And the gloom was like the gloom of villainous slums, of misery, of -wretchedness, of a starved and degraded existence. It was a relief that I could -see only their shabby hopeless backs. He was an awful ghost. But indeed to call -him a ghost was only a refinement of polite speech, and a manner of concealing -one’s terror of such things. Prisons are wonderful contrivances. Shut—open. -Very neat. Shut—open. And out comes some sort of corpse, to wander awfully in a -world in which it has no possible connections and carrying with it the -appalling tainted atmosphere of its silent abode. Marvellous arrangement. It -works automatically, and, when you look at it, the perfection makes you sick; -which for a mere mechanism is no mean triumph. Sick and scared. It had nearly -scared that poor girl to her death. Fancy having to take such a thing by the -hand! Now I understood the remorseful strain I had detected in her speeches. -</p> - -<p> -“By Jove!” I said. “They are about to let him out! I never thought of that.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne was contemptuous either of me or of things at large. -</p> - -<p> -“You didn’t suppose he was to be kept in jail for life?” -</p> - -<p> -At that moment I caught sight of Flora de Barral at the junction of the two -streets. Then some vehicles following each other in quick succession hid from -my sight the black slight figure with just a touch of colour in her hat. She -was walking slowly; and it might have been caution or reluctance. While -listening to Fyne I stared hard past his shoulder trying to catch sight of her -again. He was going on with positive heat, the rags of his solemnity dropping -off him at every second sentence. -</p> - -<p> -That was just it. His wife and he had been perfectly aware of it. Of course the -girl never talked of her father with Mrs. Fyne. I suppose with her theory of -innocence she found it difficult. But she must have been thinking of it day and -night. What to do with him? Where to go? How to keep body and soul together? He -had never made any friends. The only relations were the atrocious East-end -cousins. We know what they were. Nothing but wretchedness, whichever way she -turned in an unjust and prejudiced world. And to look at him helplessly she -felt would be too much for her. -</p> - -<p> -I won’t say I was thinking these thoughts. It was not necessary. This complete -knowledge was in my head while I stared hard across the wide road, so hard that -I failed to hear little Fyne till he raised his deep voice indignantly. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t blame the girl,” he was saying. “He is infatuated with her. Anybody -can see that. Why she should have got such a hold on him I can’t understand. -She said “Yes” to him only for the sake of that fatuous, swindling father of -hers. It’s perfectly plain if one thinks it over a moment. One needn’t even -think of it. We have it under her own hand. In that letter to my wife she says -she has acted unscrupulously. She has owned up, then, for what else can it -mean, I should like to know. And so they are to be married before that old -idiot comes out . . . He will be surprised,” commented Fyne suddenly in a -strangely malignant tone. “He shall be met at the jail door by a Mrs. Anthony, -a Mrs. Captain Anthony. Very pleasant for Zoe. And for all I know, my -brother-in-law means to turn up dutifully too. A little family event. It’s -extremely pleasant to think of. Delightful. A charming family party. We three -against the world—and all that sort of thing. And what for. For a girl that -doesn’t care twopence for him.” -</p> - -<p> -The demon of bitterness had entered into little Fyne. He amazed me as though he -had changed his skin from white to black. It was quite as wonderful. And he -kept it up, too. -</p> - -<p> -“Luckily there are some advantages in the—the profession of a sailor. As long -as they defy the world away at sea somewhere eighteen thousand miles from here, -I don’t mind so much. I wonder what that interesting old party will say. He -will have another surprise. They mean to drag him along with them on board the -ship straight away. Rescue work. Just think of Roderick Anthony, the son of a -gentleman, after all . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -He gave me a little shock. I thought he was going to say the “son of the poet” -as usual; but his mind was not running on such vanities now. His unspoken -thought must have gone on “and uncle of my girls.” I suspect that he had been -roughly handled by Captain Anthony up there, and the resentment gave a -tremendous fillip to the slow play of his wits. Those men of sober fancy, when -anything rouses their imaginative faculty, are very thorough. “Just think!” he -cried. “The three of them crowded into a four-wheeler, and Anthony sitting -deferentially opposite that astonished old jail-bird!” -</p> - -<p> -The good little man laughed. An improper sound it was to come from his manly -chest; and what made it worse was the thought that for the least thing, by a -mere hair’s breadth, he might have taken this affair sentimentally. But clearly -Anthony was no diplomatist. His brother-in-law must have appeared to him, to -use the language of shore people, a perfect philistine with a heart like a -flint. What Fyne precisely meant by “wrangling” I don’t know, but I had no -doubt that these two had “wrangled” to a profoundly disturbing extent. How much -the other was affected I could not even imagine; but the man before me was -quite amazingly upset. -</p> - -<p> -“In a four-wheeler! Take him on board!” I muttered, startled by the change in -Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s the plan—nothing less. If I am to believe what I have been told, his -feet will scarcely touch the ground between the prison-gates and the deck of -that ship.” -</p> - -<p> -The transformed Fyne spoke in a forcibly lowered tone which I heard without -difficulty. The rumbling, composite noises of the street were hushed for a -moment, during one of these sudden breaks in the traffic as if the stream of -commerce had dried up at its source. Having an unobstructed view past Fyne’s -shoulder, I was astonished to see that the girl was still there. I thought she -had gone up long before. But there was her black slender figure, her white face -under the roses of her hat. She stood on the edge of the pavement as people -stand on the bank of a stream, very still, as if waiting—or as if unconscious -of where she was. The three dismal, sodden loafers (I could see them too; they -hadn’t budged an inch) seemed to me to be watching her. Which was horrible. -</p> - -<p> -Meantime Fyne was telling me rather remarkable things—for him. He declared -first it was a mercy in a sense. Then he asked me if it were not real madness, -to saddle one’s existence with such a perpetual reminder. The daily existence. -The isolated sea-bound existence. To bring such an additional strain into the -solitude already trying enough for two people was the craziest thing. -Undesirable relations were bad enough on shore. One could cut them or at least -forget their existence now and then. He himself was preparing to forget his -brother-in-law’s existence as much as possible. -</p> - -<p> -That was the general sense of his remarks, not his exact words. I thought that -his wife’s brother’s existence had never been very embarrassing to him but that -now of course he would have to abstain from his allusions to the “son of the -poet—you know.” I said “yes, yes” in the pauses because I did not want him to -turn round; and all the time I was watching the girl intently. I thought I knew -now what she meant with her—“He was most generous.” Yes. Generosity of -character may carry a man through any situation. But why didn’t she go then to -her generous man? Why stand there as if clinging to this solid earth which she -surely hated as one must hate the place where one has been tormented, hopeless, -unhappy? Suddenly she stirred. Was she going to cross over? No. She turned and -began to walk slowly close to the curbstone, reminding me of the time when I -discovered her walking near the edge of a ninety-foot sheer drop. It was the -same impression, the same carriage, straight, slim, with rigid head and the two -hands hanging lightly clasped in front—only now a small sunshade was dangling -from them. I saw something fateful in that deliberate pacing towards the -inconspicuous door with the words <i>Hotel Entrance</i> on the glass panels. -</p> - -<p> -She was abreast of it now and I thought that she would stop again; but no! She -swerved rigidly—at the moment there was no one near her; she had that bit of -pavement to herself—with inanimate slowness as if moved by something outside -herself. -</p> - -<p> -“A confounded convict,” Fyne burst out. -</p> - -<p> -With the sound of that word offending my ears I saw the girl extend her arm, -push the door open a little way and glide in. I saw plainly that movement, the -hand put out in advance with the gesture of a sleep-walker. -</p> - -<p> -She had vanished, her black figure had melted in the darkness of the open door. -For some time Fyne said nothing; and I thought of the girl going upstairs, -appearing before the man. Were they looking at each other in silence and -feeling they were alone in the world as lovers should at the moment of meeting? -But that fine forgetfulness was surely impossible to Anthony the seaman -directly after the wrangling interview with Fyne the emissary of an order of -things which stops at the edge of the sea. How much he was disturbed I couldn’t -tell because I did not know what that impetuous lover had had to listen to. -</p> - -<p> -“Going to take the old fellow to sea with them,” I said. “Well I really don’t -see what else they could have done with him. You told your brother-in-law what -you thought of it? I wonder how he took it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very improperly,” repeated Fyne. “His manner was offensive, derisive, from the -first. I don’t mean he was actually rude in words. Hang it all, I am not a -contemptible ass. But he was exulting at having got hold of a miserable girl.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is pretty certain that she will be much less poor and miserable,” I -murmured. -</p> - -<p> -It looked as if the exultation of Captain Anthony had got on Fyne’s nerves. “I -told the fellow very plainly that he was abominably selfish in this,” he -affirmed unexpectedly. -</p> - -<p> -“You did! Selfish!” I said rather taken aback. “But what if the girl thought -that, on the contrary, he was most generous.” -</p> - -<p> -“What do you know about it,” growled Fyne. The rents and slashes of his -solemnity were closing up gradually but it was going to be a surly solemnity. -“Generosity! I am disposed to give it another name. No. Not folly,” he shot out -at me as though I had meant to interrupt him. “Still another. Something worse. -I need not tell you what it is,” he added with grim meaning. -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly. You needn’t—unless you like,” I said blankly. Little Fyne had never -interested me so much since the beginning of the de Barral-Anthony affair when -I first perceived possibilities in him. The possibilities of dull men are -exciting because when they happen they suggest legendary cases of “possession,” -not exactly by the devil but, anyhow, by a strange spirit. -</p> - -<p> -“I told him it was a shame,” said Fyne. “Even if the girl did make eyes at -him—but I think with you that she did not. Yes! A shame to take advantage of a -girl’s—a distresses girl that does not love him in the least.” -</p> - -<p> -“You think it’s so bad as that?” I said. “Because you know I don’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“What can you think about it,” he retorted on me with a solemn stare. “I go by -her letter to my wife.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! that famous letter. But you haven’t actually read it,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -“No, but my wife told me. Of course it was a most improper sort of letter to -write considering the circumstances. It pained Mrs. Fyne to discover how -thoroughly she had been misunderstood. But what is written is not all. It’s -what my wife could read between the lines. She says that the girl is really -terrified at heart.” -</p> - -<p> -“She had not much in life to give her any very special courage for it, or any -great confidence in mankind. That’s very true. But this seems an exaggeration.” -</p> - -<p> -“I should like to know what reasons you have to say that,” asked Fyne with -offended solemnity. “I really don’t see any. But I had sufficient authority to -tell my brother-in-law that if he thought he was going to do something -chivalrous and fine he was mistaken. I can see very well that he will do -everything she asks him to do—but, all the same, it is rather a pitiless -transaction.” -</p> - -<p> -For a moment I felt it might be so. Fyne caught sight of an approaching -tram-car and stepped out on the road to meet it. “Have you a more compassionate -scheme ready?” I called after him. He made no answer, clambered on to the rear -platform, and only then looked back. We exchanged a perfunctory wave of the -hand. We also looked at each other, he rather angrily, I fancy, and I with -wonder. I may also mention that it was for the last time. From that day I never -set eyes on the Fynes. As usual the unexpected happened to me. It had nothing -to do with Flora de Barral. The fact is that I went away. My call was not like -her call. Mine was not urged on me with passionate vehemence or tender -gentleness made all the finer and more compelling by the allurements of -generosity which is a virtue as mysterious as any other but having a glamour of -its own. No, it was just a prosaic offer of employment on rather good terms -which, with a sudden sense of having wasted my time on shore long enough, I -accepted without misgivings. And once started out of my indolence I went, as my -habit was, very, very far away and for a long, long time. Which is another -proof of my indolence. How far Flora went I can’t say. But I will tell you my -idea: my idea is that she went as far as she was able—as far as she could bear -it—as far as she had to . . . ” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>PART II—THE KNIGHT</h2> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER ONE—THE FERNDALE</h3> - -<p> -I have said that the story of Flora de Barral was imparted to me in stages. At -this stage I did not see Marlow for some time. At last, one evening rather -early, very soon after dinner, he turned up in my rooms. -</p> - -<p> -I had been waiting for his call primed with a remark which had not occurred to -me till after he had gone away. -</p> - -<p> -“I say,” I tackled him at once, “how can you be certain that Flora de Barral -ever went to sea? After all, the wife of the captain of the <i>Ferndale</i>—” -the lady that mustn’t be disturbed “of the old ship-keeper—may not have been -Flora.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I do know,” he said, “if only because I have been keeping in touch with -Mr. Powell.” -</p> - -<p> -“You have!” I cried. “This is the first I hear of it. And since when?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, since the first day. You went up to town leaving me in the inn. I slept -ashore. In the morning Mr. Powell came in for breakfast; and after the first -awkwardness of meeting a man you have been yarning with over-night had worn -off, we discovered a liking for each other.” -</p> - -<p> -As I had discovered the fact of their mutual liking before either of them, I -was not surprised. -</p> - -<p> -“And so you kept in touch,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -“It was not so very difficult. As he was always knocking about the river I -hired Dingle’s sloop-rigged three-tonner to be more on an equality. Powell was -friendly but elusive. I don’t think he ever wanted to avoid me. But it is a -fact that he used to disappear out of the river in a very mysterious manner -sometimes. A man may land anywhere and bolt inland—but what about his five-ton -cutter? You can’t carry that in your hand like a suit-case. -</p> - -<p> -“Then as suddenly he would reappear in the river, after one had given him up. I -did not like to be beaten. That’s why I hired Dingle’s decked boat. There was -just the accommodation in her to sleep a man and a dog. But I had no dog-friend -to invite. Fyne’s dog who saved Flora de Barral’s life is the last dog-friend I -had. I was rather lonely cruising about; but that, too, on the river has its -charm, sometimes. I chased the mystery of the vanishing Powell dreamily, -looking about me at the ships, thinking of the girl Flora, of life’s -chances—and, do you know, it was very simple.” -</p> - -<p> -“What was very simple?” I asked innocently. -</p> - -<p> -“The mystery.” -</p> - -<p> -“They generally are that,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -Marlow eyed me for a moment in a peculiar manner. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I have discovered the mystery of Powell’s disappearances. The fellow -used to run into one of these narrow tidal creeks on the Essex shore. These -creeks are so inconspicuous that till I had studied the chart pretty carefully -I did not know of their existence. One afternoon, I made Powell’s boat out, -heading into the shore. By the time I got close to the mud-flat his craft had -disappeared inland. But I could see the mouth of the creek by then. The tide -being on the turn I took the risk of getting stuck in the mud suddenly and -headed in. All I had to guide me was the top of the roof of some sort of small -building. I got in more by good luck than by good management. The sun had set -some time before; my boat glided in a sort of winding ditch between two low -grassy banks; on both sides of me was the flatness of the Essex marsh, -perfectly still. All I saw moving was a heron; he was flying low, and -disappeared in the murk. Before I had gone half a mile, I was up with the -building the roof of which I had seen from the river. It looked like a small -barn. A row of piles driven into the soft bank in front of it and supporting a -few planks made a sort of wharf. All this was black in the falling dusk, and I -could just distinguish the whitish ruts of a cart-track stretching over the -marsh towards the higher land, far away. Not a sound was to be heard. Against -the low streak of light in the sky I could see the mast of Powell’s cutter -moored to the bank some twenty yards, no more, beyond that black barn or -whatever it was. I hailed him with a loud shout. Got no answer. After making -fast my boat just astern, I walked along the bank to have a look at Powell’s. -Being so much bigger than mine she was aground already. Her sails were furled; -the slide of her scuttle hatch was closed and padlocked. Powell was gone. He -had walked off into that dark, still marsh somewhere. I had not seen a single -house anywhere near; there did not seem to be any human habitation for miles; -and now as darkness fell denser over the land I couldn’t see the glimmer of a -single light. However, I supposed that there must be some village or hamlet not -very far away; or only one of these mysterious little inns one comes upon -sometimes in most unexpected and lonely places. -</p> - -<p> -“The stillness was oppressive. I went back to my boat, made some coffee over a -spirit-lamp, devoured a few biscuits, and stretched myself aft, to smoke and -gaze at the stars. The earth was a mere shadow, formless and silent, and empty, -till a bullock turned up from somewhere, quite shadowy too. He came smartly to -the very edge of the bank as though he meant to step on board, stretched his -muzzle right over my boat, blew heavily once, and walked off contemptuously -into the darkness from which he had come. I had not expected a call from a -bullock, though a moment’s thought would have shown me that there must be lots -of cattle and sheep on that marsh. Then everything became still as before. I -might have imagined myself arrived on a desert island. In fact, as I reclined -smoking a sense of absolute loneliness grew on me. And just as it had become -intense, very abruptly and without any preliminary sound I heard firm, quick -footsteps on the little wharf. Somebody coming along the cart-track had just -stepped at a swinging gait on to the planks. That somebody could only have been -Mr. Powell. Suddenly he stopped short, having made out that there were two -masts alongside the bank where he had left only one. Then he came on silent on -the grass. When I spoke to him he was astonished. -</p> - -<p> -“Who would have thought of seeing you here!” he exclaimed, after returning my -good evening. -</p> - -<p> -“I told him I had run in for company. It was rigorously true.” -</p> - -<p> -“You knew I was here?” he exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course,” I said. “I tell you I came in for company.” -</p> - -<p> -“He is a really good fellow,” went on Marlow. “And his capacity for -astonishment is quickly exhausted, it seems. It was in the most matter-of-fact -manner that he said, ‘Come on board of me, then; I have here enough supper for -two.’ He was holding a bulky parcel in the crook of his arm. I did not wait to -be asked twice, as you may guess. His cutter has a very neat little cabin, -quite big enough for two men not only to sleep but to sit and smoke in. We left -the scuttle wide open, of course. As to his provisions for supper, they were -not of a luxurious kind. He complained that the shops in the village were -miserable. There was a big village within a mile and a half. It struck me he -had been very long doing his shopping; but naturally I made no remark. I didn’t -want to talk at all except for the purpose of setting him going.” -</p> - -<p> -“And did you set him going?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -“I did,” said Marlow, composing his features into an impenetrable expression -which somehow assured me of his success better than an air of triumph could -have done. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“You made him talk?” I said after a silence. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I made him . . . about himself.” -</p> - -<p> -“And to the point?” -</p> - -<p> -“If you mean by this,” said Marlow, “that it was about the voyage of the -<i>Ferndale</i>, then again, yes. I brought him to talk about that voyage, -which, by the by, was not the first voyage of Flora de Barral. The man himself, -as I told you, is simple, and his faculty of wonder not very great. He’s one of -those people who form no theories about facts. Straightforward people seldom -do. Neither have they much penetration. But in this case it did not matter. -I—we—have already the inner knowledge. We know the history of Flora de Barral. -We know something of Captain Anthony. We have the secret of the situation. The -man was intoxicated with the pity and tenderness of his part. Oh yes! -Intoxicated is not too strong a word; for you know that love and desire take -many disguises. I believe that the girl had been frank with him, with the -frankness of women to whom perfect frankness is impossible, because so much of -their safety depends on judicious reticences. I am not indulging in cheap -sneers. There is necessity in these things. And moreover she could not have -spoken with a certain voice in the face of his impetuosity, because she did not -have time to understand either the state of her feelings, or the precise nature -of what she was doing. -</p> - -<p> -Had she spoken ever so clearly he was, I take it, too elated to hear her -distinctly. I don’t mean to imply that he was a fool. Oh dear no! But he had no -training in the usual conventions, and we must remember that he had no -experience whatever of women. He could only have an ideal conception of his -position. An ideal is often but a flaming vision of reality. -</p> - -<p> -To him enters Fyne, wound up, if I may express myself so irreverently, wound up -to a high pitch by his wife’s interpretation of the girl’s letter. He enters -with his talk of meanness and cruelty, like a bucket of water on the flame. -Clearly a shock. But the effects of a bucket of water are diverse. They depend -on the kind of flame. A mere blaze of dry straw, of course . . . but there can -be no question of straw there. Anthony of the <i>Ferndale</i> was not, could -not have been, a straw-stuffed specimen of a man. There are flames a bucket of -water sends leaping sky-high. -</p> - -<p> -We may well wonder what happened when, after Fyne had left him, the hesitating -girl went up at last and opened the door of that room where our man, I am -certain, was not extinguished. Oh no! Nor cold; whatever else he might have -been. -</p> - -<p> -It is conceivable he might have cried at her in the first moment of -humiliation, of exasperation, “Oh, it’s you! Why are you here? If I am so -odious to you that you must write to my sister to say so, I give you back your -word.” But then, don’t you see, it could not have been that. I have the -practical certitude that soon afterwards they went together in a hansom to see -the ship—as agreed. That was my reason for saying that Flora de Barral did go -to sea . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. It seems conclusive,” I agreed. “But even without that—if, as you seem to -think, the very desolation of that girlish figure had a sort of perversely -seductive charm, making its way through his compassion to his senses (and -everything is possible)—then such words could not have been spoken.” -</p> - -<p> -“They might have escaped him involuntarily,” observed Marlow. “However, a plain -fact settles it. They went off together to see the ship.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you conclude from this that nothing whatever was said?” I inquired. -</p> - -<p> -“I should have liked to see the first meeting of their glances upstairs there,” -mused Marlow. “And perhaps nothing was said. But no man comes out of such a -‘wrangle’ (as Fyne called it) without showing some traces of it. And you may be -sure that a girl so bruised all over would feel the slightest touch of anything -resembling coldness. She was mistrustful; she could not be otherwise; for the -energy of evil is so much more forcible than the energy of good that she could -not help looking still upon her abominable governess as an authority. How could -one have expected her to throw off the unholy prestige of that long domination? -She could not help believing what she had been told; that she was in some -mysterious way odious and unlovable. It was cruelly true—<i>to her</i>. The -oracle of so many years had spoken finally. Only other people did not find her -out at once . . . I would not go so far as to say she believed it altogether. -That would be hardly possible. But then haven’t the most flattered, the most -conceited of us their moments of doubt? Haven’t they? Well, I don’t know. There -may be lucky beings in this world unable to believe any evil of themselves. For -my own part I’ll tell you that once, many years ago now, it came to my -knowledge that a fellow I had been mixed up with in a certain transaction—a -clever fellow whom I really despised—was going around telling people that I was -a consummate hypocrite. He could know nothing of it. It suited his humour to -say so. I had given him no ground for that particular calumny. Yet to this day -there are moments when it comes into my mind, and involuntarily I ask myself, -‘What if it were true?’ It’s absurd, but it has on one or two occasions nearly -affected my conduct. And yet I was not an impressionable ignorant young girl. I -had taken the exact measure of the fellow’s utter worthlessness long before. He -had never been for me a person of prestige and power, like that awful governess -to Flora de Barral. See the might of suggestion? We live at the mercy of a -malevolent word. A sound, a mere disturbance of the air, sinks into our very -soul sometimes. Flora de Barral had been more astounded than convinced by the -first impetuosity of Roderick Anthony. She let herself be carried along by a -mysterious force which her person had called into being, as her father had been -carried away out of his depth by the unexpected power of successful -advertising. -</p> - -<p> -They went on board that morning. The <i>Ferndale</i> had just come to her -loading berth. The only living creature on board was the ship-keeper—whether -the same who had been described to us by Mr. Powell, or another, I don’t know. -Possibly some other man. He, looking over the side, saw, in his own words, ‘the -captain come sailing round the corner of the nearest cargo-shed, in company -with a girl.’ He lowered the accommodation ladder down on to the jetty . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“How do you know all this?” I interrupted. -</p> - -<p> -Marlow interjected an impatient: -</p> - -<p> -“You shall see by and by . . . Flora went up first, got down on deck and stood -stock-still till the captain took her by the arm and led her aft. The -ship-keeper let them into the saloon. He had the keys of all the cabins, and -stumped in after them. The captain ordered him to open all the doors, every -blessed door; state-rooms, passages, pantry, fore-cabin—and then sent him away. -</p> - -<p> -“The <i>Ferndale</i> had magnificent accommodation. At the end of a passage -leading from the quarter-deck there was a long saloon, its sumptuosity slightly -tarnished perhaps, but having a grand air of roominess and comfort. The harbour -carpets were down, the swinging lamps hung, and everything in its place, even -to the silver on the sideboard. Two large stern cabins opened out of it, one on -each side of the rudder casing. These two cabins communicated through a small -bathroom between them, and one was fitted up as the captain’s state-room. The -other was vacant, and furnished with arm-chairs and a round table, more like a -room on shore, except for the long curved settee following the shape of the -ship’s stern. In a dim inclined mirror, Flora caught sight down to the waist of -a pale-faced girl in a white straw hat trimmed with roses, distant, shadowy, as -if immersed in water, and was surprised to recognize herself in those -surroundings. They seemed to her arbitrary, bizarre, strange. Captain Anthony -moved on, and she followed him. He showed her the other cabins. He talked all -the time loudly in a voice she seemed to have known extremely well for a long -time; and yet, she reflected, she had not heard it often in her life. What he -was saying she did not quite follow. He was speaking of comparatively -indifferent things in a rather moody tone, but she felt it round her like a -caress. And when he stopped she could hear, alarming in the sudden silence, the -precipitated beating of her heart. -</p> - -<p> -The ship-keeper dodged about the quarter-deck, out of hearing, and trying to -keep out of sight. At the same time, taking advantage of the open doors with -skill and prudence, he could see the captain and “that girl” the captain had -brought aboard. The captain was showing her round very thoroughly. Through the -whole length of the passage, far away aft in the perspective of the saloon the -ship-keeper had interesting glimpses of them as they went in and out of the -various cabins, crossing from side to side, remaining invisible for a time in -one or another of the state-rooms, and then reappearing again in the distance. -The girl, always following the captain, had her sunshade in her hands. Mostly -she would hang her head, but now and then she would look up. They had a lot to -say to each other, and seemed to forget they weren’t alone in the ship. He saw -the captain put his hand on her shoulder, and was preparing himself with a -certain zest for what might follow, when the “old man” seemed to recollect -himself, and came striding down all the length of the saloon. At this move the -ship-keeper promptly dodged out of sight, as you may believe, and heard the -captain slam the inner door of the passage. After that disappointment the -ship-keeper waited resentfully for them to clear out of the ship. It happened -much sooner than he had expected. The girl walked out on deck first. As before -she did not look round. She didn’t look at anything; and she seemed to be in -such a hurry to get ashore that she made for the gangway and started down the -ladder without waiting for the captain. -</p> - -<p> -What struck the ship-keeper most was the absent, unseeing expression of the -captain, striding after the girl. He passed him, the ship-keeper, without -notice, without an order, without so much as a look. The captain had never done -so before. Always had a nod and a pleasant word for a man. From this slight the -ship-keeper drew a conclusion unfavourable to the strange girl. He gave them -time to get down on the wharf before crossing the deck to steal one more look -at the pair over the rail. The captain took hold of the girl’s arm just before -a couple of railway trucks drawn by a horse came rolling along and hid them -from the ship-keeper’s sight for good. -</p> - -<p> -Next day, when the chief mate joined the ship, he told him the tale of the -visit, and expressed himself about the girl “who had got hold of the captain” -disparagingly. She didn’t look healthy, he explained. “Shabby clothes, too,” he -added spitefully. -</p> - -<p> -The mate was very much interested. He had been with Anthony for several years, -and had won for himself in the course of many long voyages, a footing of -familiarity, which was to be expected with a man of Anthony’s character. But in -that slowly-grown intimacy of the sea, which in its duration and solitude had -its unguarded moments, no words had passed, even of the most casual, to prepare -him for the vision of his captain associated with any kind of girl. His -impression had been that women did not exist for Captain Anthony. Exhibiting -himself with a girl! A girl! What did he want with a girl? Bringing her on -board and showing her round the cabin! That was really a little bit too much. -Captain Anthony ought to have known better. -</p> - -<p> -Franklin (the chief mate’s name was Franklin) felt disappointed; almost -disillusioned. Silly thing to do! Here was a confounded old ship-keeper set -talking. He snubbed the ship-keeper, and tried to think of that insignificant -bit of foolishness no more; for it diminished Captain Anthony in his eyes of a -jealously devoted subordinate. -</p> - -<p> -Franklin was over forty; his mother was still alive. She stood in the forefront -of all women for him, just as Captain Anthony stood in the forefront of all -men. We may suppose that these groups were not very large. He had gone to sea -at a very early age. The feeling which caused these two people to partly -eclipse the rest of mankind were of course not similar; though in time he had -acquired the conviction that he was “taking care” of them both. The “old lady” -of course had to be looked after as long as she lived. In regard to Captain -Anthony, he used to say that: why should he leave him? It wasn’t likely that he -would come across a better sailor or a better man or a more comfortable ship. -As to trying to better himself in the way of promotion, commands were not the -sort of thing one picked up in the streets, and when it came to that, Captain -Anthony was as likely to give him a lift on occasion as anyone in the world. -</p> - -<p> -From Mr. Powell’s description Franklin was a short, thick black-haired man, -bald on the top. His head sunk between the shoulders, his staring prominent -eyes and a florid colour, gave him a rather apoplectic appearance. In repose, -his congested face had a humorously melancholy expression. -</p> - -<p> -The ship-keeper having given him up all the keys and having been chased forward -with the admonition to mind his own business and not to chatter about what did -not concern him, Mr. Franklin went under the poop. He opened one door after -another; and, in the saloon, in the captain’s state-room and everywhere, he -stared anxiously as if expecting to see on the bulkheads, on the deck, in the -air, something unusual—sign, mark, emanation, shadow—he hardly knew what—some -subtle change wrought by the passage of a girl. But there was nothing. He -entered the unoccupied stern cabin and spent some time there unscrewing the two -stern ports. In the absence of all material evidences his uneasiness was -passing away. With a last glance round he came out and found himself in the -presence of his captain advancing from the other end of the saloon. -</p> - -<p> -Franklin, at once, looked for the girl. She wasn’t to be seen. The captain came -up quickly. ‘Oh! you are here, Mr. Franklin.’ And the mate said, ‘I was giving -a little air to the place, sir.’ Then the captain, his hat pulled down over his -eyes, laid his stick on the table and asked in his kind way: ‘How did you find -your mother, Franklin?’—‘The old lady’s first-rate, sir, thank you.’ And then -they had nothing to say to each other. It was a strange and disturbing feeling -for Franklin. He, just back from leave, the ship just come to her loading -berth, the captain just come on board, and apparently nothing to say! The -several questions he had been anxious to ask as to various things which had to -be done had slipped out of his mind. He, too, felt as though he had nothing to -say. -</p> - -<p> -The captain, picking up his stick off the table, marched into his state-room -and shut the door after him. Franklin remained still for a moment and then -started slowly to go on deck. But before he had time to reach the other end of -the saloon he heard himself called by name. He turned round. The captain was -staring from the doorway of his state-room. Franklin said, “Yes, sir.” But the -captain, silent, leaned a little forward grasping the door handle. So he, -Franklin, walked aft keeping his eyes on him. When he had come up quite close -he said again, “Yes, sir?” interrogatively. Still silence. The mate didn’t like -to be stared at in that manner, a manner quite new in his captain, with a -defiant and self-conscious stare, like a man who feels ill and dares you to -notice it. Franklin gazed at his captain, felt that there was something wrong, -and in his simplicity voiced his feelings by asking point-blank: -</p> - -<p> -“What’s wrong, sir?” -</p> - -<p> -The captain gave a slight start, and the character of his stare changed to a -sort of sinister surprise. Franklin grew very uncomfortable, but the captain -asked negligently: -</p> - -<p> -“What makes you think that there’s something wrong?” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t say exactly. You don’t look quite yourself, sir,” Franklin owned up. -</p> - -<p> -“You seem to have a confoundedly piercing eye,” said the captain in such an -aggressive tone that Franklin was moved to defend himself. -</p> - -<p> -“We have been together now over six years, sir, so I suppose I know you a bit -by this time. I could see there was something wrong directly you came on -board.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Franklin,” said the captain, “we have been more than six years together, -it is true, but I didn’t know you for a reader of faces. You are not a correct -reader though. It’s very far from being wrong. You understand? As far from -being wrong as it can very well be. It ought to teach you not to make rash -surmises. You should leave that to the shore people. They are great hands at -spying out something wrong. I dare say they know what they have made of the -world. A dam’ poor job of it and that’s plain. It’s a confoundedly ugly place, -Mr. Franklin. You don’t know anything of it? Well—no, we sailors don’t. Only -now and then one of us runs against something cruel or underhand, enough to -make your hair stand on end. And when you do see a piece of their wickedness -you find that to set it right is not so easy as it looks . . . Oh! I called you -back to tell you that there will be a lot of workmen, joiners and all that sent -down on board first thing to-morrow morning to start making alterations in the -cabin. You will see to it that they don’t loaf. There isn’t much time.” -</p> - -<p> -Franklin was impressed by this unexpected lecture upon the wickedness of the -solid world surrounded by the salt, uncorruptible waters on which he and his -captain had dwelt all their lives in happy innocence. What he could not -understand was why it should have been delivered, and what connection it could -have with such a matter as the alterations to be carried out in the cabin. The -work did not seem to him to be called for in such a hurry. What was the use of -altering anything? It was a very good accommodation, spacious, -well-distributed, on a rather old-fashioned plan, and with its decorations -somewhat tarnished. But a dab of varnish, a touch of gilding here and there, -was all that was necessary. As to comfort, it could not be improved by any -alterations. He resented the notion of change; but he said dutifully that he -would keep his eye on the workmen if the captain would only let him know what -was the nature of the work he had ordered to be done. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ll find a note of it on this table. I’ll leave it for you as I go ashore,” -said Captain Anthony hastily. Franklin thought there was no more to hear, and -made a movement to leave the saloon. But the captain continued after a slight -pause, “You will be surprised, no doubt, when you look at it. There’ll be a -good many alterations. It’s on account of a lady coming with us. I am going to -get married, Mr. Franklin!” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER TWO—YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS</h3> - -<p> -“You remember,” went on Marlow, “how I feared that Mr. Powell’s want of -experience would stand in his way of appreciating the unusual. The unusual I -had in my mind was something of a very subtle sort: the unusual in marital -relations. I may well have doubted the capacity of a young man too much -concerned with the creditable performance of his professional duties to observe -what in the nature of things is not easily observable in itself, and still less -so under the special circumstances. In the majority of ships a second officer -has not many points of contact with the captain’s wife. He sits at the same -table with her at meals, generally speaking; he may now and then be addressed -more or less kindly on insignificant matters, and have the opportunity to show -her some small attentions on deck. And that is all. Under such conditions, -signs can be seen only by a sharp and practised eye. I am alluding now to -troubles which are subtle often to the extent of not being understood by the -very hearts they devastate or uplift. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, Mr. Powell, whom the chance of his name had thrown upon the floating stage -of that tragicomedy would have been perfectly useless for my purpose if the -unusual of an obvious kind had not aroused his attention from the first. -</p> - -<p> -We know how he joined that ship so suddenly offered to his anxious desire to -make a real start in his profession. He had come on board breathless with the -hurried winding up of his shore affairs, accompanied by two horrible -night-birds, escorted by a dock policeman on the make, received by an asthmatic -shadow of a ship-keeper, warned not to make a noise in the darkness of the -passage because the captain and his wife were already on board. That in itself -was already somewhat unusual. Captains and their wives do not, as a rule, join -a moment sooner than is necessary. They prefer to spend the last moments with -their friends and relations. A ship in one of London’s older docks with their -restrictions as to lights and so on is not the place for a happy evening. -Still, as the tide served at six in the morning, one could understand them -coming on board the evening before. -</p> - -<p> -Just then young Powell felt as if anybody ought to be glad enough to be quit of -the shore. We know he was an orphan from a very early age, without brothers or -sisters—no near relations of any kind, I believe, except that aunt who had -quarrelled with his father. No affection stood in the way of the quiet -satisfaction with which he thought that now all the worries were over, that -there was nothing before him but duties, that he knew what he would have to do -as soon as the dawn broke and for a long succession of days. A most soothing -certitude. He enjoyed it in the dark, stretched out in his bunk with his new -blankets pulled over him. Some clock ashore beyond the dock-gates struck two. -And then he heard nothing more, because he went off into a light sleep from -which he woke up with a start. He had not taken his clothes off, it was hardly -worth while. He jumped up and went on deck. -</p> - -<p> -The morning was clear, colourless, grey overhead; the dock like a sheet of -darkling glass crowded with upside-down reflections of warehouses, of hulls and -masts of silent ships. Rare figures moved here and there on the distant quays. -A knot of men stood alongside with clothes-bags and wooden chests at their -feet. Others were coming down the lane between tall, blind walls, surrounding a -hand-cart loaded with more bags and boxes. It was the crew of the -<i>Ferndale</i>. They began to come on board. He scanned their faces as they -passed forward filling the roomy deck with the shuffle of their footsteps and -the murmur of voices, like the awakening to life of a world about to be -launched into space. -</p> - -<p> -Far away down the clear glassy stretch in the middle of the long dock Mr. -Powell watched the tugs coming in quietly through the open gates. A subdued -firm voice behind him interrupted this contemplation. It was Franklin, the -thick chief mate, who was addressing him with a watchful appraising stare of -his prominent black eyes: “You’d better take a couple of these chaps with you -and look out for her aft. We are going to cast off.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir,” Powell said with proper alacrity; but for a moment they remained -looking at each other fixedly. Something like a faint smile altered the set of -the chief mate’s lips just before he moved off forward with his brisk step. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell, getting up on the poop, touched his cap to Captain Anthony, who was -there alone. He tells me that it was only then that he saw his captain for the -first time. The day before, in the shipping office, what with the bad light and -his excitement at this berth obtained as if by a brusque and unscrupulous -miracle, did not count. He had then seemed to him much older and heavier. He -was surprised at the lithe figure, broad of shoulder, narrow at the hips, the -fire of the deep-set eyes, the springiness of the walk. The captain gave him a -steady stare, nodded slightly, and went on pacing the poop with an air of not -being aware of what was going on, his head rigid, his movements rapid. -</p> - -<p> -Powell stole several glances at him with a curiosity very natural under the -circumstances. He wore a short grey jacket and a grey cap. In the light of the -dawn, growing more limpid rather than brighter, Powell noticed the slightly -sunken cheeks under the trimmed beard, the perpendicular fold on the forehead, -something hard and set about the mouth. -</p> - -<p> -It was too early yet for the work to have begun in the dock. The water gleamed -placidly, no movement anywhere on the long straight lines of the quays, no one -about to be seen except the few dock hands busy alongside the <i>Ferndale</i>, -knowing their work, mostly silent or exchanging a few words in low tones as if -they, too, had been aware of that lady ‘who mustn’t be disturbed.’ The -<i>Ferndale</i> was the only ship to leave that tide. The others seemed still -asleep, without a sound, and only here and there a figure, coming up on the -forecastle, leaned on the rail to watch the proceedings idly. Without trouble -and fuss and almost without a sound was the <i>Ferndale</i> leaving the land, -as if stealing away. Even the tugs, now with their engines stopped, were -approaching her without a ripple, the burly-looking paddle-boat sheering -forward, while the other, a screw, smaller and of slender shape, made for her -quarter so gently that she did not divide the smooth water, but seemed to glide -on its surface as if on a sheet of plate-glass, a man in her bow, the master at -the wheel visible only from the waist upwards above the white screen of the -bridge, both of them so still-eyed as to fascinate young Powell into curious -self-forgetfulness and immobility. He was steeped, sunk in the general -quietness, remembering the statement ‘she’s a lady that mustn’t be disturbed,’ -and repeating to himself idly: ‘No. She won’t be disturbed. She won’t be -disturbed.’ Then the first loud words of that morning breaking that strange -hush of departure with a sharp hail: ‘Look out for that line there,’ made him -start. The line whizzed past his head, one of the sailors aft caught it, and -there was an end to the fascination, to the quietness of spirit which had -stolen on him at the very moment of departure. From that moment till two hours -afterwards, when the ship was brought up in one of the lower reaches of the -Thames off an apparently uninhabited shore, near some sort of inlet where -nothing but two anchored barges flying a red flag could be seen, Powell was too -busy to think of the lady ‘that mustn’t be disturbed,’ or of his captain—or of -anything else unconnected with his immediate duties. In fact, he had no -occasion to go on the poop, or even look that way much; but while the ship was -about to anchor, casting his eyes in that direction, he received an absurd -impression that his captain (he was up there, of course) was sitting on both -sides of the aftermost skylight at once. He was too occupied to reflect on this -curious delusion, this phenomenon of seeing double as though he had had a drop -too much. He only smiled at himself. -</p> - -<p> -As often happens after a grey daybreak the sun had risen in a warm and glorious -splendour above the smooth immense gleam of the enlarged estuary. Wisps of mist -floated like trails of luminous dust, and in the dazzling reflections of water -and vapour, the shores had the murky semi-transparent darkness of shadows cast -mysteriously from below. Powell, who had sailed out of London all his young -seaman’s life, told me that it was then, in a moment of entranced vision an -hour or so after sunrise, that the river was revealed to him for all time, like -a fair face often seen before, which is suddenly perceived to be the expression -of an inner and unsuspected beauty, of that something unique and only its own -which rouses a passion of wonder and fidelity and an unappeasable memory of its -charm. The hull of the <i>Ferndale</i>, swung head to the eastward, caught the -light, her tall spars and rigging steeped in a bath of red-gold, from the -water-line full of glitter to the trucks slight and gleaming against the -delicate expanse of the blue. -</p> - -<p> -“Time we had a mouthful to eat,” said a voice at his side. It was Mr. Franklin, -the chief mate, with his head sunk between his shoulders, and melancholy eyes. -“Let the men have their breakfast, bo’sun,” he went on, “and have the fire out -in the galley in half an hour at the latest, so that we can call these barges -of explosives alongside. Come along, young man. I don’t know your name. Haven’t -seen the captain, to speak to, since yesterday afternoon when he rushed off to -pick up a second mate somewhere. How did he get you?” -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell, a little shy notwithstanding the friendly disposition of the -other, answered him smilingly, aware somehow that there was something marked in -this inquisitiveness, natural, after all—something anxious. His name was -Powell, and he was put in the way of this berth by Mr. Powell, the shipping -master. He blushed. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, I see. Well, you have been smart in getting ready. The ship-keeper, before -he went away, told me you joined at one o’clock. I didn’t sleep on board last -night. Not I. There was a time when I never cared to leave this ship for more -than a couple of hours in the evening, even while in London, but now, since—” -</p> - -<p> -He checked himself with a roll of his prominent eyes towards that youngster, -that stranger. Meantime, he was leading the way across the quarter-deck under -the poop into the long passage with the door of the saloon at the far end. It -was shut. But Mr. Franklin did not go so far. After passing the pantry he -opened suddenly a door on the left of the passage, to Powell’s great surprise. -</p> - -<p> -“Our mess-room,” he said, entering a small cabin painted white, bare, lighted -from part of the foremost skylight, and furnished only with a table and two -settees with movable backs. “That surprises you? Well, it isn’t usual. And it -wasn’t so in this ship either, before. It’s only since—” -</p> - -<p> -He checked himself again. “Yes. Here we shall feed, you and I, facing each -other for the next twelve months or more—God knows how much more! The bo’sun -keeps the deck at meal-times in fine weather.” -</p> - -<p> -He talked not exactly wheezing, but like a man whose breath is somewhat short, -and the spirit (young Powell could not help thinking) embittered by some -mysterious grievance. -</p> - -<p> -There was enough of the unusual there to be recognized even by Powell’s -inexperience. The officers kept out of the cabin against the custom of the -service, and then this sort of accent in the mate’s talk. Franklin did not seem -to expect conversational ease from the new second mate. He made several remarks -about the old, deploring the accident. Awkward. Very awkward this thing to -happen on the very eve of sailing. -</p> - -<p> -“Collar-bone and arm broken,” he sighed. “Sad, very sad. Did you notice if the -captain was at all affected? Eh? Must have been.” -</p> - -<p> -Before this congested face, these globular eyes turned yearningly upon him, -young Powell (one must keep in mind he was but a youngster then) who could not -remember any signs of visible grief, confessed with an embarrassed laugh that, -owing to the suddenness of this lucky chance coming to him, he was not in a -condition to notice the state of other people. -</p> - -<p> -“I was so pleased to get a ship at last,” he murmured, further disconcerted by -the sort of pent-up gravity in Mr. Franklin’s aspect. -</p> - -<p> -“One man’s food another man’s poison,” the mate remarked. “That holds true -beyond mere victuals. I suppose it didn’t occur to you that it was a dam’ poor -way for a good man to be knocked out.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell admitted openly that he had not thought of that. He was ready to -admit that it was very reprehensible of him. But Franklin had no intention -apparently to moralize. He did not fall silent either. His further remarks were -to the effect that there had been a time when Captain Anthony would have showed -more than enough concern for the least thing happening to one of his officers. -Yes, there had been a time! -</p> - -<p> -“And mind,” he went on, laying down suddenly a half-consumed piece of bread and -butter and raising his voice, “poor Mathews was the second man the longest on -board. I was the first. He joined a month later—about the same time as the -steward by a few days. The bo’sun and the carpenter came the voyage after. -Steady men. Still here. No good man need ever have thought of leaving the -<i>Ferndale</i> unless he were a fool. Some good men are fools. Don’t know when -they are well off. I mean the best of good men; men that you would do anything -for. They go on for years, then all of a sudden—” -</p> - -<p> -Our young friend listened to the mate with a queer sense of discomfort growing -on him. For it was as though Mr. Franklin were thinking aloud, and putting him -into the delicate position of an unwilling eavesdropper. But there was in the -mess-room another listener. It was the steward, who had come in carrying a tin -coffee-pot with a long handle, and stood quietly by: a man with a middle-aged, -sallow face, long features, heavy eyelids, a soldierly grey moustache. His body -encased in a short black jacket with narrow sleeves, his long legs in very -tight trousers, made up an agile, youthful, slender figure. He moved forward -suddenly, and interrupted the mate’s monologue. -</p> - -<p> -“More coffee, Mr. Franklin? Nice fresh lot. Piping hot. I am going to give -breakfast to the saloon directly, and the cook is raking his fire out. Now’s -your chance.” -</p> - -<p> -The mate who, on account of his peculiar build, could not turn his head freely, -twisted his thick trunk slightly, and ran his black eyes in the corners towards -the steward. -</p> - -<p> -“And is the precious pair of them out?” he growled. -</p> - -<p> -The steward, pouring out the coffee into the mate’s cup, muttered moodily but -distinctly: “The lady wasn’t when I was laying the table.” -</p> - -<p> -Powell’s ears were fine enough to detect something hostile in this reference to -the captain’s wife. For of what other person could they be speaking? The -steward added with a gloomy sort of fairness: “But she will be before I bring -the dishes in. She never gives that sort of trouble. That she doesn’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“No. Not in that way,” Mr. Franklin agreed, and then both he and the steward, -after glancing at Powell—the stranger to the ship—said nothing more. -</p> - -<p> -But this had been enough to rouse his curiosity. Curiosity is natural to man. -Of course it was not a malevolent curiosity which, if not exactly natural, is -to be met fairly frequently in men and perhaps more frequently in -women—especially if a woman be in question; and that woman under a cloud, in a -manner of speaking. For under a cloud Flora de Barral was fated to be even at -sea. Yes. Even that sort of darkness which attends a woman for whom there is no -clear place in the world hung over her. Yes. Even at sea! -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -And this is the pathos of being a woman. A man can struggle to get a place for -himself or perish. But a woman’s part is passive, say what you like, and -shuffle the facts of the world as you may, hinting at lack of energy, of -wisdom, of courage. As a matter of fact, almost all women have all that—of -their own kind. But they are not made for attack. Wait they must. I am speaking -here of women who are really women. And it’s no use talking of opportunities, -either. I know that some of them do talk of it. But not the genuine women. -Those know better. Nothing can beat a true woman for a clear vision of reality; -I would say a cynical vision if I were not afraid of wounding your chivalrous -feelings—for which, by the by, women are not so grateful as you may think, to -fellows of your kind . . . -</p> - -<p> -“Upon my word, Marlow,” I cried, “what are you flying out at me for like this? -I wouldn’t use an ill-sounding word about women, but what right have you to -imagine that I am looking for gratitude?” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow raised a soothing hand. -</p> - -<p> -“There! There! I take back the ill-sounding word, with the remark, though, that -cynicism seems to me a word invented by hypocrites. But let that pass. As to -women, they know that the clamour for opportunities for them to become -something which they cannot be is as reasonable as if mankind at large started -asking for opportunities of winning immortality in this world, in which death -is the very condition of life. You must understand that I am not talking here -of material existence. That naturally is implied; but you won’t maintain that a -woman who, say, enlisted, for instance (there have been cases) has conquered -her place in the world. She has only got her living in it—which is quite -meritorious, but not quite the same thing. -</p> - -<p> -All these reflections which arise from my picking up the thread of Flora de -Barral’s existence did not, I am certain, present themselves to Mr. Powell—not -the Mr. Powell we know taking solitary week-end cruises in the estuary of the -Thames (with mysterious dashes into lonely creeks) but to the young Mr. Powell, -the chance second officer of the ship <i>Ferndale</i>, commanded (and for the -most part owned) by Roderick Anthony, the son of the poet—you know. A Mr. -Powell, much slenderer than our robust friend is now, with the bloom of -innocence not quite rubbed off his smooth cheeks, and apt not only to be -interested but also to be surprised by the experience life was holding in store -for him. This would account for his remembering so much of it with considerable -vividness. For instance, the impressions attending his first breakfast on board -the <i>Ferndale</i>, both visual and mental, were as fresh to him as if -received yesterday. -</p> - -<p> -The surprise, it is easy to understand, would arise from the inability to -interpret aright the signs which experience (a thing mysterious in itself) -makes to our understanding and emotions. For it is never more than that. Our -experience never gets into our blood and bones. It always remains outside of -us. That’s why we look with wonder at the past. And this persists even when -from practice and through growing callousness of fibre we come to the point -when nothing that we meet in that rapid blinking stumble across a flick of -sunshine—which our life is—nothing, I say, which we run against surprises us -any more. Not at the time, I mean. If, later on, we recover the faculty with -some such exclamation: ‘Well! Well! I’ll be hanged if I ever, . . . ’ it is -probably because this very thing that there should be a past to look back upon, -other people’s, is very astounding in itself when one has the time, a fleeting -and immense instant to think of it . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -I was on the point of interrupting Marlow when he stopped of himself, his eyes -fixed on vacancy, or—perhaps—(I wouldn’t be too hard on him) on a vision. He -has the habit, or, say, the fault, of defective mantelpiece clocks, of suddenly -stopping in the very fulness of the tick. If you have ever lived with a clock -afflicted with that perversity, you know how vexing it is—such a stoppage. I -was vexed with Marlow. He was smiling faintly while I waited. He even laughed a -little. And then I said acidly: -</p> - -<p> -“Am I to understand that you have ferreted out something comic in the history -of Flora de Barral?” -</p> - -<p> -“Comic!” he exclaimed. “No! What makes you say? . . . Oh, I laughed—did I? But -don’t you know that people laugh at absurdities that are very far from being -comic? Didn’t you read the latest books about laughter written by philosophers, -psychologists? There is a lot of them . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“I dare say there has been a lot of nonsense written about laughter—and tears, -too, for that matter,” I said impatiently. -</p> - -<p> -“They say,” pursued the unabashed Marlow, “that we laugh from a sense of -superiority. Therefore, observe, simplicity, honesty, warmth of feeling, -delicacy of heart and of conduct, self-confidence, magnanimity are laughed at, -because the presence of these traits in a man’s character often puts him into -difficult, cruel or absurd situations, and makes us, the majority who are -fairly free as a rule from these peculiarities, feel pleasantly superior.” -</p> - -<p> -“Speak for yourself,” I said. “But have you discovered all these fine things in -the story; or has Mr. Powell discovered them to you in his artless talk? Have -you two been having good healthy laughs together? Come! Are your sides aching -yet, Marlow?” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow took no offence at my banter. He was quite serious. -</p> - -<p> -“I should not like to say off-hand how much of that there was,” he pursued with -amusing caution. “But there was a situation, tense enough for the signs of it -to give many surprises to Mr. Powell—neither of them shocking in itself, but -with a cumulative effect which made the whole unforgettable in the detail of -its progress. And the first surprise came very soon, when the explosives (to -which he owed his sudden chance of engagement)—dynamite in cases and blasting -powder in barrels—taken on board, main hatch battened for sea, cook restored to -his functions in the galley, anchor fished and the tug ahead, rounding the -South Foreland, and with the sun sinking clear and red down the purple vista of -the channel, he went on the poop, on duty, it is true, but with time to take -the first freer breath in the busy day of departure. The pilot was still on -board, who gave him first a silent glance, and then passed an insignificant -remark before resuming his lounging to and fro between the steering wheel and -the binnacle. Powell took his station modestly at the break of the poop. He had -noticed across the skylight a head in a grey cap. But when, after a time, he -crossed over to the other side of the deck he discovered that it was not the -captain’s head at all. He became aware of grey hairs curling over the nape of -the neck. How could he have made that mistake? But on board ship away from the -land one does not expect to come upon a stranger. -</p> - -<p> -Powell walked past the man. A thin, somewhat sunken face, with a tightly closed -mouth, stared at the distant French coast, vague like a suggestion of solid -darkness, lying abeam beyond the evening light reflected from the level waters, -themselves growing more sombre than the sky; a stare, across which Powell had -to pass and did pass with a quick side glance, noting its immovable stillness. -His passage disturbed those eyes no more than if he had been as immaterial as a -ghost. And this failure of his person in producing an impression affected him -strangely. Who could that old man be? -</p> - -<p> -He was so curious that he even ventured to ask the pilot in a low voice. The -pilot turned out to be a good-natured specimen of his kind, condescending, -sententious. He had been down to his meals in the main cabin, and had something -to impart. -</p> - -<p> -“That? Queer fish—eh? Mrs. Anthony’s father. I’ve been introduced to him in the -cabin at breakfast time. Name of Smith. Wonder if he has all his wits about -him. They take him about with them, it seems. Don’t look very happy—eh?” -</p> - -<p> -Then, changing his tone abruptly, he desired Powell to get all hands on deck -and make sail on the ship. “I shall be leaving you in half an hour. You’ll have -plenty of time to find out all about the old gent,” he added with a thick -laugh. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -In the secret emotion of giving his first order as a fully responsible officer, -young Powell forgot the very existence of that old man in a moment. The -following days, in the interest of getting in touch with the ship, with the men -in her, with his duties, in the rather anxious period of settling down, his -curiosity slumbered; for of course the pilot’s few words had not extinguished -it. -</p> - -<p> -This settling down was made easy for him by the friendly character of his -immediate superior—the chief. Powell could not defend himself from some -sympathy for that thick, bald man, comically shaped, with his crimson -complexion and something pathetic in the rolling of his very movable black eyes -in an apparently immovable head, who was so tactfully ready to take his -competency for granted. -</p> - -<p> -There can be nothing more reassuring to a young man tackling his life’s work -for the first time. Mr. Powell, his mind at ease about himself, had time to -observe the people around with friendly interest. Very early in the beginning -of the passage, he had discovered with some amusement that the marriage of -Captain Anthony was resented by those to whom Powell (conscious of being looked -upon as something of an outsider) referred in his mind as ‘the old lot.’ -</p> - -<p> -They had the funny, regretful glances, intonations, nods of men who had seen -other, better times. What difference it could have made to the bo’sun and the -carpenter Powell could not very well understand. Yet these two pulled long -faces and even gave hostile glances to the poop. The cook and the steward might -have been more directly concerned. But the steward used to remark on occasion, -‘Oh, she gives no extra trouble,’ with scrupulous fairness of the most gloomy -kind. He was rather a silent man with a great sense of his personal worth which -made his speeches guarded. The cook, a neat man with fair side whiskers, who -had been only three years in the ship, seemed the least concerned. He was even -known to have inquired once or twice as to the success of some of his dishes -with the captain’s wife. This was considered a sort of disloyal falling away -from the ruling feeling. -</p> - -<p> -The mate’s annoyance was yet the easiest to understand. As he let it out to -Powell before the first week of the passage was over: ‘You can’t expect me to -be pleased at being chucked out of the saloon as if I weren’t good enough to -sit down to meat with that woman.’ But he hastened to add: ‘Don’t you think I’m -blaming the captain. He isn’t a man to be found fault with. You, Mr. Powell, -are too young yet to understand such matters.’ -</p> - -<p> -Some considerable time afterwards, at the end of a conversation of that -aggrieved sort, he enlarged a little more by repeating: ‘Yes! You are too young -to understand these things. I don’t say you haven’t plenty of sense. You are -doing very well here. Jolly sight better than I expected, though I liked your -looks from the first.’ -</p> - -<p> -It was in the trade-winds, at night, under a velvety, bespangled sky; a great -multitude of stars watching the shadows of the sea gleaming mysteriously in the -wake of the ship; while the leisurely swishing of the water to leeward was like -a drowsy comment on her progress. Mr. Powell expressed his satisfaction by a -half-bashful laugh. The mate mused on: ‘And of course you haven’t known the -ship as she used to be. She was more than a home to a man. She was not like any -other ship; and Captain Anthony was not like any other master to sail with. -Neither is she now. But before one never had a care in the world as to her—and -as to him, too. No, indeed, there was never anything to worry about.’ -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell couldn’t see what there was to worry about even then. The serenity -of the peaceful night seemed as vast as all space, and as enduring as eternity -itself. It’s true the sea is an uncertain element, but no sailor remembers this -in the presence of its bewitching power any more than a lover ever thinks of -the proverbial inconstancy of women. And Mr. Powell, being young, thought -naïvely that the captain being married, there could be no occasion for -anxiety as to his condition. I suppose that to him life, perhaps not so much -his own as that of others, was something still in the nature of a fairy-tale -with a ‘they lived happy ever after’ termination. We are the creatures of our -light literature much more than is generally suspected in a world which prides -itself on being scientific and practical, and in possession of incontrovertible -theories. Powell felt in that way the more because the captain of a ship at sea -is a remote, inaccessible creature, something like a prince of a fairy-tale, -alone of his kind, depending on nobody, not to be called to account except by -powers practically invisible and so distant, that they might well be looked -upon as supernatural for all that the rest of the crew knows of them, as a -rule. -</p> - -<p> -So he did not understand the aggrieved attitude of the mate—or rather he -understood it obscurely as a result of simple causes which did not seem to him -adequate. He would have dismissed all this out of his mind with a contemptuous: -‘What the devil do I care?’ if the captain’s wife herself had not been so -young. To see her the first time had been something of a shock to him. He had -some preconceived ideas as to captain’s wives which, while he did not believe -the testimony of his eyes, made him open them very wide. He had stared till the -captain’s wife noticed it plainly and turned her face away. Captain’s wife! -That girl covered with rugs in a long chair. Captain’s . . . ! He gasped -mentally. It had never occurred to him that a captain’s wife could be anything -but a woman to be described as stout or thin, as jolly or crabbed, but always -mature, and even, in comparison with his own years, frankly old. But this! It -was a sort of moral upset as though he had discovered a case of abduction or -something as surprising as that. You understand that nothing is more disturbing -than the upsetting of a preconceived idea. Each of us arranges the world -according to his own notion of the fitness of things. To behold a girl where -your average mediocre imagination had placed a comparatively old woman may -easily become one of the strongest shocks . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow paused, smiling to himself. -</p> - -<p> -“Powell remained impressed after all these years by the very recollection,” he -continued in a voice, amused perhaps but not mocking. “He said to me only the -other day with something like the first awe of that discovery lingering in his -tone—he said to me: “Why, she seemed so young, so girlish, that I looked round -for some woman which would be the captain’s wife, though of course I knew there -was no other woman on board that voyage.” The voyage before, it seems, there -had been the steward’s wife to act as maid to Mrs. Anthony; but she was not -taken that time for some reason he didn’t know. Mrs. Anthony . . . ! If it -hadn’t been the captain’s wife he would have referred to her mentally as a kid, -he said. I suppose there must be a sort of divinity hedging in a captain’s wife -(however incredible) which prevented him applying to her that contemptuous -definition in the secret of his thoughts. -</p> - -<p> -I asked him when this had happened; and he told me that it was three days after -parting from the tug, just outside the channel—to be precise. A head wind had -set in with unpleasant damp weather. He had come up to leeward of the poop, -still feeling very much of a stranger, and an untried officer, at six in the -evening to take his watch. To see her was quite as unexpected as seeing a -vision. When she turned away her head he recollected himself and dropped his -eyes. What he could see then was only, close to the long chair on which she -reclined, a pair of long, thin legs ending in black cloth boots tucked in close -to the skylight seat. Whence he concluded that the ‘old gentleman,’ who wore a -grey cap like the captain’s, was sitting by her—his daughter. In his first -astonishment he had stopped dead short, with the consequence that now he felt -very much abashed at having betrayed his surprise. But he couldn’t very well -turn tail and bolt off the poop. He had come there on duty. So, still with -downcast eyes, he made his way past them. Only when he got as far as the -wheel-grating did he look up. She was hidden from him by the back of her -deck-chair; but he had the view of the owner of the thin, aged legs seated on -the skylight, his clean-shaved cheek, his thin compressed mouth with a hollow -in each corner, the sparse grey locks escaping from under the tweed cap, and -curling slightly on the collar of the coat. He leaned forward a little over -Mrs. Anthony, but they were not talking. Captain Anthony, walking with a -springy hurried gait on the other side of the poop from end to end, gazed -straight before him. Young Powell might have thought that his captain was not -aware of his presence either. However, he knew better, and for that reason -spent a most uncomfortable hour motionless by the compass before his captain -stopped in his swift pacing and with an almost visible effort made some remark -to him about the weather in a low voice. Before Powell, who was startled, could -find a word of answer, the captain swung off again on his endless tramp with a -fixed gaze. And till the supper bell rang silence dwelt over that poop like an -evil spell. The captain walked up and down looking straight before him, the -helmsman steered, looking upwards at the sails, the old gent on the skylight -looked down on his daughter—and Mr. Powell confessed to me that he didn’t know -where to look, feeling as though he had blundered in where he had no -business—which was absurd. At last he fastened his eyes on the compass card, -took refuge, in spirit, inside the binnacle. He felt chilled more than he -should have been by the chilly dusk falling on the muddy green sea of the -soundings from a smoothly clouded sky. A fitful wind swept the cheerless waste, -and the ship, hauled up so close as to check her way, seemed to progress by -languid fits and starts against the short seas which swept along her sides with -a snarling sound. -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell thought that this was the dreariest evening aspect of the sea he -had ever seen. He was glad when the other occupants of the poop left it at the -sound of the bell. The captain first, with a sudden swerve in his walk towards -the companion, and not even looking once towards his wife and his wife’s -father. Those two got up and moved towards the companion, the old gent very -erect, his thin locks stirring gently about the nape of his neck, and carrying -the rugs over his arm. The girl who was Mrs. Anthony went down first. The murky -twilight had settled in deep shadow on her face. She looked at Mr. Powell in -passing. He thought that she was very pale. Cold perhaps. The old gent stopped -a moment, thin and stiff, before the young man, and in a voice which was low -but distinct enough, and without any particular accent—not even of inquiry—he -said: -</p> - -<p> -“You are the new second officer, I believe.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell answered in the affirmative, wondering if this were a friendly -overture. He had noticed that Mr. Smith’s eyes had a sort of inward look as -though he had disliked or disdained his surroundings. The captain’s wife had -disappeared then down the companion stairs. Mr. Smith said ‘Ah!’ and waited a -little longer to put another question in his incurious voice. -</p> - -<p> -“And did you know the man who was here before you?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said young Powell, “I didn’t know anybody belonging to this ship before I -joined.” -</p> - -<p> -“He was much older than you. Twice your age. Perhaps more. His hair was iron -grey. Yes. Certainly more.” -</p> - -<p> -The low, repressed voice paused, but the old man did not move away. He added: -“Isn’t it unusual?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell was surprised not only by being engaged in conversation, but also by -its character. It might have been the suggestion of the word uttered by this -old man, but it was distinctly at that moment that he became aware of something -unusual not only in this encounter but generally around him, about everybody, -in the atmosphere. The very sea, with short flashes of foam bursting out here -and there in the gloomy distances, the unchangeable, safe sea sheltering a man -from all passions, except its own anger, seemed queer to the quick glance he -threw to windward where the already effaced horizon traced no reassuring limit -to the eye. In the expiring, diffused twilight, and before the clouded night -dropped its mysterious veil, it was the immensity of space made visible—almost -palpable. Young Powell felt it. He felt it in the sudden sense of his -isolation; the trustworthy, powerful ship of his first acquaintance reduced to -a speck, to something almost undistinguishable, the mere support for the soles -of his two feet before that unexpected old man becoming so suddenly articulate -in a darkening universe. -</p> - -<p> -It took him a moment or so to seize the drift of the question. He repeated -slowly: ‘Unusual . . . Oh, you mean for an elderly man to be the second of a -ship. I don’t know. There are a good many of us who don’t get on. He didn’t get -on, I suppose.’ -</p> - -<p> -The other, his head bowed a little, had the air of listening with acute -attention. -</p> - -<p> -“And now he has been taken to the hospital,” he said. -</p> - -<p> -“I believe so. Yes. I remember Captain Anthony saying so in the shipping -office.” -</p> - -<p> -“Possibly about to die,” went on the old man, in his careful deliberate tone. -“And perhaps glad enough to die.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell was young enough to be startled at the suggestion, which sounded -confidential and blood-curdling in the dusk. He said sharply that it was not -very likely, as if defending the absent victim of the accident from an unkind -aspersion. He felt, in fact, indignant. The other emitted a short stifled laugh -of a conciliatory nature. The second bell rang under the poop. He made a -movement at the sound, but lingered. -</p> - -<p> -“What I said was not meant seriously,” he murmured, with that strange air of -fearing to be overheard. “Not in this case. I know the man.” -</p> - -<p> -The occasion, or rather the want of occasion, for this conversation, had -sharpened the perceptions of the unsophisticated second officer of the -<i>Ferndale</i>. He was alive to the slightest shade of tone, and felt as if -this “I know the man” should have been followed by a “he was no friend of -mine.” But after the shortest possible break the old gentleman continued to -murmur distinctly and evenly: -</p> - -<p> -“Whereas you have never seen him. Nevertheless, when you have gone through as -many years as I have, you will understand how an event putting an end to one’s -existence may not be altogether unwelcome. Of course there are stupid -accidents. And even then one needn’t be very angry. What is it to be deprived -of life? It’s soon done. But what would you think of the feelings of a man who -should have had his life stolen from him? Cheated out of it, I say!” -</p> - -<p> -He ceased abruptly, and remained still long enough for the astonished Powell to -stammer out an indistinct: “What do you mean? I don’t understand.” Then, with a -low ‘Good-night’ glided a few steps, and sank through the shadow of the -companion into the lamplight below which did not reach higher than the turn of -the staircase. -</p> - -<p> -The strange words, the cautious tone, the whole person left a strong uneasiness -in the mind of Mr. Powell. He started walking the poop in great mental -confusion. He felt all adrift. This was funny talk and no mistake. And this -cautious low tone as though he were watched by someone was more than funny. The -young second officer hesitated to break the established rule of every ship’s -discipline; but at last could not resist the temptation of getting hold of some -other human being, and spoke to the man at the wheel. -</p> - -<p> -“Did you hear what this gentleman was saying to me?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, sir,” answered the sailor quietly. Then, encouraged by this evidence of -laxity in his officer, made bold to add, “A queer fish, sir.” This was -tentative, and Mr. Powell, busy with his own view, not saying anything, he -ventured further. “They are more like passengers. One sees some queer -passengers.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who are like passengers?” asked Powell gruffly. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, these two, sir.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER THREE—DEVOTED SERVANTS—AND THE LIGHT OF A FLARE</h3> - -<p> -Young Powell thought to himself: “The men, too, are noticing it.” Indeed, the -captain’s behaviour to his wife and to his wife’s father was noticeable enough. -It was as if they had been a pair of not very congenial passengers. But perhaps -it was not always like that. The captain might have been put out by something. -</p> - -<p> -When the aggrieved Franklin came on deck Mr. Powell made a remark to that -effect. For his curiosity was aroused. -</p> - -<p> -The mate grumbled “Seems to you? . . . Putout? . . . eh?” He buttoned his thick -jacket up to the throat, and only then added a gloomy “Aye, likely enough,” -which discouraged further conversation. But no encouragement would have induced -the newly-joined second mate to enter the way of confidences. His was an -instinctive prudence. Powell did not know why it was he had resolved to keep -his own counsel as to his colloquy with Mr. Smith. But his curiosity did not -slumber. Some time afterwards, again at the relief of watches, in the course of -a little talk, he mentioned Mrs. Anthony’s father quite casually, and tried to -find out from the mate who he was. -</p> - -<p> -“It would take a clever man to find that out, as things are on board now,” Mr. -Franklin said, unexpectedly communicative. “The first I saw of him was when she -brought him alongside in a four-wheeler one morning about half-past eleven. The -captain had come on board early, and was down in the cabin that had been fitted -out for him. Did I tell you that if you want the captain for anything you must -stamp on the port side of the deck? That’s so. This ship is not only unlike -what she used to be, but she is like no other ship, anyhow. Did you ever hear -of the captain’s room being on the port side? Both of them stern cabins have -been fitted up afresh like a blessed palace. A gang of people from some tip-top -West-End house were fussing here on board with hangings and furniture for a -fortnight, as if the Queen were coming with us. Of course the starboard cabin -is the bedroom one, but the poor captain hangs out to port on a couch, so that -in case we want him on deck at night, Mrs. Anthony should not be startled. -Nervous! Phoo! A woman who marries a sailor and makes up her mind to come to -sea should have no blamed jumpiness about her, I say. But never mind. Directly -the old cab pointed round the corner of the warehouse I called out to the -captain that his lady was coming aboard. He answered me, but as I didn’t see -him coming, I went down the gangway myself to help her alight. She jumps out -excitedly without touching my arm, or as much as saying “thank you” or “good -morning” or anything, turns back to the cab, and then that old joker comes out -slowly. I hadn’t noticed him inside. I hadn’t expected to see anybody. It gave -me a start. She says: “My father—Mr. Franklin.” He was staring at me like an -owl. “How do you do, sir?” says I. Both of them looked funny. It was as if -something had happened to them on the way. Neither of them moved, and I stood -by waiting. The captain showed himself on the poop; and I saw him at the side -looking over, and then he disappeared; on the way to meet them on shore, I -expected. But he just went down below again. So, not seeing him, I said: “Let -me help you on board, sir.” “On board!” says he in a silly fashion. “On board!” -“It’s not a very good ladder, but it’s quite firm,” says I, as he seemed to be -afraid of it. And he didn’t look a broken-down old man, either. You can see -yourself what he is. Straight as a poker, and life enough in him yet. But he -made no move, and I began to feel foolish. Then she comes forward. “Oh! Thank -you, Mr. Franklin. I’ll help my father up.” Flabbergasted me—to be choked off -like this. Pushed in between him and me without as much as a look my way. So of -course I dropped it. What do you think? I fell back. I would have gone up on -board at once and left them on the quay to come up or stay there till next -week, only they were blocking the way. I couldn’t very well shove them on one -side. Devil only knows what was up between them. There she was, pale as death, -talking to him very fast. He got as red as a turkey-cock—dash me if he didn’t. -A bad-tempered old bloke, I can tell you. And a bad lot, too. Never mind. I -couldn’t hear what she was saying to him, but she put force enough into it to -shake her. It seemed—it seemed, mind!—that he didn’t want to go on board. Of -course it couldn’t have been that. I know better. Well, she took him by the -arm, above the elbow, as if to lead him, or push him rather. I was standing not -quite ten feet off. Why should I have gone away? I was anxious to get back on -board as soon as they would let me. I didn’t want to overhear her blamed -whispering either. But I couldn’t stay there for ever, so I made a move to get -past them if I could. And that’s how I heard a few words. It was the old -chap—something nasty about being “under the heel” of somebody or other. Then he -says, “I don’t want this sacrifice.” What it meant I can’t tell. It was a -quarrel—of that I am certain. She looks over her shoulder, and sees me pretty -close to them. I don’t know what she found to say into his ear, but he gave way -suddenly. He looked round at me too, and they went up together so quickly then -that when I got on the quarter-deck I was only in time to see the inner door of -the passage close after them. Queer—eh? But if it were only queerness one -wouldn’t mind. Some luggage in new trunks came on board in the afternoon. We -undocked at midnight. And may I be hanged if I know who or what he was or is. I -haven’t been able to find out. No, I don’t know. He may have been anything. All -I know is that once, years ago when I went to see the Derby with a friend, I -saw a pea-and-thimble chap who looked just like that old mystery father out of -a cab.” -</p> - -<p> -All this the goggle-eyed mate had said in a resentful and melancholy voice, -with pauses, to the gentle murmur of the sea. It was for him a bitter sort of -pleasure to have a fresh pair of ears, a newcomer, to whom he could repeat all -these matters of grief and suspicion talked over endlessly by the band of -Captain Anthony’s faithful subordinates. It was evidently so refreshing to his -worried spirit that it made him forget the advisability of a little caution -with a complete stranger. But really with Mr. Powell there was no danger. -Amused, at first, at these plaints, he provoked them for fun. Afterwards, -turning them over in his mind, he became impressed, and as the impression grew -stronger with the days his resolution to keep it to himself grew stronger too. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -What made it all the easier to keep—I mean the resolution—was that Powell’s -sentiment of amused surprise at what struck him at first as mere absurdity was -not unmingled with indignation. And his years were too few, his position too -novel, his reliance on his own opinion not yet firm enough to allow him to -express it with any effect. And then—what would have been the use, anyhow—and -where was the necessity? -</p> - -<p> -But this thing, familiar and mysterious at the same time, occupied his -imagination. The solitude of the sea intensifies the thoughts and the facts of -one’s experience which seems to lie at the very centre of the world, as the -ship which carries one always remains the centre figure of the round horizon. -He viewed the apoplectic, goggle-eyed mate and the saturnine, heavy-eyed -steward as the victims of a peculiar and secret form of lunacy which poisoned -their lives. But he did not give them his sympathy on that account. No. That -strange affliction awakened in him a sort of suspicious wonder. -</p> - -<p> -Once—and it was at night again; for the officers of the <i>Ferndale</i> keeping -watch and watch as was customary in those days, had but few occasions for -intercourse—once, I say, the thick Mr. Franklin, a quaintly bulky figure under -the stars, the usual witnesses of his outpourings, asked him with an abruptness -which was not callous, but in his simple way: -</p> - -<p> -“I believe you have no parents living?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell said that he had lost his father and mother at a very early age. -</p> - -<p> -“My mother is still alive,” declared Mr. Franklin in a tone which suggested -that he was gratified by the fact. “The old lady is lasting well. Of course -she’s got to be made comfortable. A woman must be looked after, and, if it -comes to that, I say, give me a mother. I dare say if she had not lasted it out -so well I might have gone and got married. I don’t know, though. We sailors -haven’t got much time to look about us to any purpose. Anyhow, as the old lady -was there I haven’t, I may say, looked at a girl in all my life. Not that I -wasn’t partial to female society in my time,” he added with a pathetic -intonation, while the whites of his goggle eyes gleamed amorously under the -clear night sky. “Very partial, I may say.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell was amused; and as these communications took place only when the -mate was relieved off duty he had no serious objection to them. The mate’s -presence made the first half-hour and sometimes even more of his watch on deck -pass away. If his senior did not mind losing some of his rest it was not Mr. -Powell’s affair. Franklin was a decent fellow. His intention was not to boast -of his filial piety. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I mean respectable female society,” he explained. “The other sort is -neither here nor there. I blame no man’s conduct, but a well-brought-up young -fellow like you knows that there’s precious little fun to be got out of it.” He -fetched a deep sigh. “I wish Captain Anthony’s mother had been a lasting sort -like my old lady. He would have had to look after her and he would have done it -well. Captain Anthony is a proper man. And it would have saved him from the -most foolish—” -</p> - -<p> -He did not finish the phrase which certainly was turning bitter in his mouth. -Mr. Powell thought to himself: “There he goes again.” He laughed a little. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t understand why you are so hard on the captain, Mr. Franklin. I thought -you were a great friend of his.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Franklin exclaimed at this. He was not hard on the captain. Nothing was -further from his thoughts. Friend! Of course he was a good friend and a -faithful servant. He begged Powell to understand that if Captain Anthony chose -to strike a bargain with Old Nick to-morrow, and Old Nick were good to the -captain, he (Franklin) would find it in his heart to love Old Nick for the -captain’s sake. That was so. On the other hand, if a saint, an angel with white -wings came along and—” -</p> - -<p> -He broke off short again as if his own vehemence had frightened him. Then in -his strained pathetic voice (which he had never raised) he observed that it was -no use talking. Anybody could see that the man was changed. -</p> - -<p> -“As to that,” said young Powell, “it is impossible for me to judge.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good Lord!” whispered the mate. “An educated, clever young fellow like you -with a pair of eyes on him and some sense too! Is that how a happy man looks? -Eh? Young you may be, but you aren’t a kid; and I dare you to say ‘Yes!’” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell did not take up the challenge. He did not know what to think of the -mate’s view. Still, it seemed as if it had opened his understanding in a -measure. He conceded that the captain did not look very well. -</p> - -<p> -“Not very well,” repeated the mate mournfully. “Do you think a man with a face -like that can hope to live his life out? You haven’t knocked about long in this -world yet, but you are a sailor, you have been in three or four ships, you say. -Well, have you ever seen a shipmaster walking his own deck as if he did not -know what he had underfoot? Have you? Dam’me if I don’t think that he forgets -where he is. Of course he can be no other than a prime seaman; but it’s lucky, -all the same, he has me on board. I know by this time what he wants done -without being told. Do you know that I have had no order given me since we left -port? Do you know that he has never once opened his lips to me unless I spoke -to him first? I? His chief officer; his shipmate for full six years, with whom -he had no cross word—not once in all that time. Aye. Not a cross look even. -True that when I do make him speak to me, there is his dear old self, the quick -eye, the kind voice. Could hardly be other to his old Franklin. But what’s the -good? Eyes, voice, everything’s miles away. And for all that I take good care -never to address him when the poop isn’t clear. Yes! Only we two and nothing -but the sea with us. You think it would be all right; the only chief mate he -ever had—Mr. Franklin here and Mr. Franklin there—when anything went wrong the -first word you would hear about the decks was ‘Franklin!’—I am thirteen years -older than he is—you would think it would be all right, wouldn’t you? Only we -two on this poop on which we saw each other first—he a young master—told me -that he thought I would suit him very well—we two, and thirty-one days out at -sea, and it’s no good! It’s like talking to a man standing on shore. I can’t -get him back. I can’t get at him. I feel sometimes as if I must shake him by -the arm: “Wake up! Wake up! You are wanted, sir . . . !” -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell recognized the expression of a true sentiment, a thing so rare in -this world where there are so many mutes and so many excellent reasons even at -sea for an articulate man not to give himself away, that he felt something like -respect for this outburst. It was not loud. The grotesque squat shape, with the -knob of the head as if rammed down between the square shoulders by a blow from -a club, moved vaguely in a circumscribed space limited by the two harness-casks -lashed to the front rail of the poop, without gestures, hands in the pockets of -the jacket, elbows pressed closely to its side; and the voice without -resonance, passed from anger to dismay and back again without a single louder -word in the hurried delivery, interrupted only by slight gasps for air as if -the speaker were being choked by the suppressed passion of his grief. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell, though moved to a certain extent, was by no means carried away. And -just as he thought that it was all over, the other, fidgeting in the darkness, -was heard again explosive, bewildered but not very loud in the silence of the -ship and the great empty peace of the sea. -</p> - -<p> -“They have done something to him! What is it? What can it be? Can’t you guess? -Don’t you know?” -</p> - -<p> -“Good heavens!” Young Powell was astounded on discovering that this was an -appeal addressed to him. “How on earth can I know?” -</p> - -<p> -“You do talk to that white-faced, black-eyed . . . I’ve seen you talking to her -more than a dozen times.” -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell, his sympathy suddenly chilled, remarked in a disdainful tone that -Mrs. Anthony’s eyes were not black. -</p> - -<p> -“I wish to God she had never set them on the captain, whatever colour they -are,” retorted Franklin. “She and that old chap with the scraped jaws who sits -over her and stares down at her dead-white face with his yellow eyes—confound -them! Perhaps you will tell us that his eyes are not yellow?” -</p> - -<p> -Powell, not interested in the colour of Mr. Smith’s eyes, made a vague gesture. -Yellow or not yellow, it was all one to him. -</p> - -<p> -The mate murmured to himself. “No. He can’t know. No! No more than a baby. It -would take an older head.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t even understand what you mean,” observed Mr. Powell coldly. -</p> - -<p> -“And even the best head would be puzzled by such devil-work,” the mate -continued, muttering. “Well, I have heard tell of women doing for a man in one -way or another when they got him fairly ashore. But to bring their devilry to -sea and fasten on such a man! . . . It’s something I can’t understand. But I -can watch. Let them look out—I say!” -</p> - -<p> -His short figure, unable to stoop, without flexibility, could not express -dejection. He was very tired suddenly; he dragged his feet going off the poop. -Before he left it with nearly an hour of his watch below sacrificed, he -addressed himself once more to our young man who stood abreast of the mizzen -rigging in an unreceptive mood expressed by silence and immobility. He did not -regret, he said, having spoken openly on this very serious matter. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know about its seriousness, sir,” was Mr. Powell’s frank answer. “But -if you think you have been telling me something very new you are mistaken. You -can’t keep that matter out of your speeches. It’s the sort of thing I’ve been -hearing more or less ever since I came on board.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell, speaking truthfully, did not mean to speak offensively. He had -instincts of wisdom; he felt that this was a serious affair, for it had nothing -to do with reason. He did not want to raise an enemy for himself in the mate. -And Mr. Franklin did not take offence. To Mr. Powell’s truthful statement he -answered with equal truth and simplicity that it was very likely, very likely. -With a thing like that (next door to witchcraft almost) weighing on his mind, -the wonder was that he could think of anything else. The poor man must have -found in the restlessness of his thoughts the illusion of being engaged in an -active contest with some power of evil; for his last words as he went -lingeringly down the poop ladder expressed the quaint hope that he would get -him, Powell, “on our side yet.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell—just imagine a straightforward youngster assailed in this fashion on -the high seas—answered merely by an embarrassed and uneasy laugh which -reflected exactly the state of his innocent soul. The apoplectic mate, already -half-way down, went up again three steps of the poop ladder. Why, yes. A proper -young fellow, the mate expected, wouldn’t stand by and see a man, a good sailor -and his own skipper, in trouble without taking his part against a couple of -shore people who—Mr. Powell interrupted him impatiently, asking what was the -trouble? -</p> - -<p> -“What is it you are hinting at?” he cried with an inexplicable irritation. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t like to think of him all alone down there with these two,” Franklin -whispered impressively. “Upon my word I don’t. God only knows what may be going -on there . . . Don’t laugh . . . It was bad enough last voyage when Mrs. Brown -had a cabin aft; but now it’s worse. It frightens me. I can’t sleep sometimes -for thinking of him all alone there, shut off from us all.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Brown was the steward’s wife. You must understand that shortly after his -visit to the Fyne cottage (with all its consequences), Anthony had got an offer -to go to the Western Islands, and bring home the cargo of some ship which, -damaged in a collision or a stranding, took refuge in St. Michael, and was -condemned there. Roderick Anthony had connections which would put such paying -jobs in his way. So Flora de Barral had but a five months’ voyage, a mere -excursion, for her first trial of sea-life. And Anthony, dearly trying to be -most attentive, had induced this Mrs. Brown, the wife of his faithful steward, -to come along as maid to his bride. But for some reason or other this -arrangement was not continued. And the mate, tormented by indefinite alarms and -forebodings, regretted it. He regretted that Jane Brown was no longer on -board—as a sort of representative of Captain Anthony’s faithful servants, to -watch quietly what went on in that part of the ship this fatal marriage had -closed to their vigilance. That had been excellent. For she was a dependable -woman. -</p> - -<p> -Powell did not detect any particular excellence in what seemed a spying -employment. But in his simplicity he said that he should have thought Mrs. -Anthony would have been glad anyhow to have another woman on board. He was -thinking of the white-faced girlish personality which it seemed to him ought to -have been cared for. The innocent young man always looked upon the girl as -immature; something of a child yet. -</p> - -<p> -“She! glad! Why it was she who had her fired out. She didn’t want anybody -around the cabin. Mrs. Brown is certain of it. She told her husband so. You ask -the steward and hear what he has to say about it. That’s why I don’t like it. A -capable woman who knew her place. But no. Out she must go. For no fault, mind -you. The captain was ashamed to send her away. But that wife of his—aye the -precious pair of them have got hold of him. I can’t speak to him for a minute -on the poop without that thimble-rigging coon coming gliding up. I’ll tell you -what. I overheard once—God knows I didn’t try to—only he forgot I was on the -other side of the skylight with my sextant—I overheard him—you know how he sits -hanging over her chair and talking away without properly opening his mouth—yes -I caught the word right enough. He was alluding to the captain as “the jailer.” -The jail . . . !” -</p> - -<p> -Franklin broke off with a profane execration. A silence reigned for a long time -and the slight, very gentle rolling of the ship slipping before the N.E. -trade-wind seemed to be a soothing device for lulling to sleep the suspicions -of men who trust themselves to the sea. -</p> - -<p> -A deep sigh was heard followed by the mate’s voice asking dismally if that was -the way one would speak of a man to whom one wished well? No better proof of -something wrong was needed. Therefore he hoped, as he vanished at last, that -Mr. Powell would be on their side. And this time Mr. Powell did not answer this -hope with an embarrassed laugh. -</p> - -<p> -That young officer was more and more surprised at the nature of the incongruous -revelations coming to him in the surroundings and in the atmosphere of the open -sea. It is difficult for us to understand the extent, the completeness, the -comprehensiveness of his inexperience, for us who didn’t go to sea out of a -small private school at the age of fourteen years and nine months. Leaning on -his elbow in the mizzen rigging and so still that the helmsman over there at -the other end of the poop might have (and he probably did) suspect him of being -criminally asleep on duty, he tried to “get hold of that thing” by some side -which would fit in with his simple notions of psychology. “What the deuce are -they worrying about?” he asked himself in a dazed and contemptuous impatience. -But all the same “jailer” was a funny name to give a man; unkind, unfriendly, -nasty. He was sorry that Mr. Smith was guilty in that matter because, the truth -must be told, he had been to a certain extent sensible of having been noticed -in a quiet manner by the father of Mrs. Anthony. Youth appreciates that sort of -recognition which is the subtlest form of flattery age can offer. Mr. Smith -seized opportunities to approach him on deck. His remarks were sometimes weird -and enigmatical. -</p> - -<p> -He was doubtless an eccentric old gent. But from that to calling his son-in-law -(whom he never approached on deck) nasty names behind his back was a long step. -</p> - -<p> -And Mr. Powell marvelled . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“While he was telling me all this,”—Marlow changed his tone—“I marvelled even -more. It was as if misfortune marked its victims on the forehead for the -dislike of the crowd. I am not thinking here of numbers. Two men may behave -like a crowd, three certainly will when their emotions are engaged. It was as -if the forehead of Flora de Barral were marked. Was the girl born to be a -victim; to be always disliked and crushed as if she were too fine for this -world? Or too luckless—since that also is often counted as sin. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, I marvelled more since I knew more of the girl than Mr. Powell—if only her -true name; and more of Captain Anthony—if only the fact that he was the son of -a delicate erotic poet of a markedly refined and autocratic temperament. Yes, I -knew their joint stories which Mr. Powell did not know. The chapter in it he -was opening to me, the sea-chapter, with such new personages as the sentimental -and apoplectic chief-mate and the morose steward, however astounding to him in -its detached condition was much more so to me as a member of a series, -following the chapter outside the Eastern Hotel in which I myself had played my -part. In view of her declarations and my sage remarks it was very unexpected. -She had meant well, and I had certainly meant well too. Captain Anthony—as far -as I could gather from little Fyne—had meant well. As far as such lofty words -may be applied to the obscure personages of this story we were all filled with -the noblest sentiments and intentions. The sea was there to give them the -shelter of its solitude free from the earth’s petty suggestions. I could well -marvel in myself, as to what had happened. -</p> - -<p> -I hope that if he saw it, Mr. Powell forgave me the smile of which I was guilty -at that moment. The light in the cabin of his little cutter was dim. And the -smile was dim too. Dim and fleeting. The girl’s life had presented itself to me -as a tragi-comical adventure, the saddest thing on earth, slipping between -frank laughter and unabashed tears. Yes, the saddest facts and the most common, -and, being common perhaps the most worthy of our unreserved pity. -</p> - -<p> -The purely human reality is capable of lyrism but not of abstraction. Nothing -will serve for its understanding but the evidence of rational linking up of -characters and facts. And beginning with Flora de Barral, in the light of my -memories I was certain that she at least must have been passive; for that is of -necessity the part of women, this waiting on fate which some of them, and not -the most intelligent, cover up by the vain appearances of agitation. Flora de -Barral was not exceptionally intelligent but she was thoroughly feminine. She -would be passive (and that does not mean inanimate) in the circumstances, where -the mere fact of being a woman was enough to give her an occult and supreme -significance. And she would be enduring which is the essence of woman’s -visible, tangible power. Of that I was certain. Had she not endured already? -Yet it is so true that the germ of destruction lies in wait for us mortals, -even at the very source of our strength, that one may die of too much endurance -as well as of too little of it. -</p> - -<p> -Such was my train of thought. And I was mindful also of my first view of -her—toying or perhaps communing in earnest with the possibilities of a -precipice. But I did not ask Mr. Powell anxiously what had happened to Mrs. -Anthony in the end. I let him go on in his own way feeling that no matter what -strange facts he would have to disclose, I was certain to know much more of -them than he ever did know or could possibly guess . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow paused for quite a long time. He seemed uncertain as though he had -advanced something beyond my grasp. Purposely I made no sign. “You understand?” -he asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Perfectly,” I said. “You are the expert in the psychological wilderness. This -is like one of those Red-skin stories where the noble savages carry off a girl -and the honest backwoodsman with his incomparable knowledge follows the track -and reads the signs of her fate in a footprint here, a broken twig there, a -trinket dropped by the way. I have always liked such stories. Go on.” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow smiled indulgently at my jesting. “It is not exactly a story for boys,” -he said. “I go on then. The sign, as you call it, was not very plentiful but -very much to the purpose, and when Mr. Powell heard (at a certain moment I felt -bound to tell him) when he heard that I had known Mrs. Anthony before her -marriage, that, to a certain extent, I was her confidant . . . For you can’t -deny that to a certain extent . . . Well let us say that I had a look in . . . -A young girl, you know, is something like a temple. You pass by and wonder what -mysterious rites are going on in there, what prayers, what visions? The -privileged men, the lover, the husband, who are given the key of the sanctuary -do not always know how to use it. For myself, without claim, without merit, -simply by chance I had been allowed to look through the half-opened door and I -had seen the saddest possible desecration, the withered brightness of youth, a -spirit neither made cringing nor yet dulled but as if bewildered in quivering -hopelessness by gratuitous cruelty; self-confidence destroyed and, instead, a -resigned recklessness, a mournful callousness (and all this simple, almost -naïve)—before the material and moral difficulties of the situation. The -passive anguish of the luckless! -</p> - -<p> -I asked myself: wasn’t that ill-luck exhausted yet? Ill-luck which is like the -hate of invisible powers interpreted, made sensible and injurious by the -actions of men? -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell as you may well imagine had opened his eyes at my statement. But he -was full of his recalled experiences on board the <i>Ferndale</i>, and the -strangeness of being mixed up in what went on aboard, simply because his name -was also the name of a shipping-master, kept him in a state of wonder which -made other coincidences, however unlikely, not so very surprising after all. -</p> - -<p> -This astonishing occurrence was so present to his mind that he always felt as -though he were there under false pretences. And this feeling was so -uncomfortable that it nerved him to break through the awe-inspiring aloofness -of his captain. He wanted to make a clean breast of it. I imagine that his -youth stood in good stead to Mr. Powell. Oh, yes. Youth is a power. Even -Captain Anthony had to take some notice of it, as if it refreshed him to see -something untouched, unscarred, unhardened by suffering. Or perhaps the very -novelty of that face, on board a ship where he had seen the same faces for -years, attracted his attention. -</p> - -<p> -Whether one day he dropped a word to his new second officer or only looked at -him I don’t know; but Mr. Powell seized the opportunity whatever it was. The -captain who had started and stopped in his everlasting rapid walk smoothed his -brow very soon, heard him to the end and then laughed a little. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! That’s the story. And you felt you must put me right as to this.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“It doesn’t matter how you came on board,” said Anthony. And then showing that -perhaps he was not so utterly absent from his ship as Franklin supposed: -“That’s all right. You seem to be getting on very well with everybody,” he said -in his curt hurried tone, as if talking hurt him, and his eyes already straying -over the sea as usual. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -Powell tells me that looking then at the strong face to which that haggard -expression was returning, he had the impulse, from some confused friendly -feeling, to add: “I am very happy on board here, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -The quickly returning glance, its steadiness, abashed Mr. Powell and made him -even step back a little. The captain looked as though he had forgotten the -meaning of the word. -</p> - -<p> -“You—what? Oh yes . . . You . . . of course . . . Happy. Why not?” -</p> - -<p> -This was merely muttered; and next moment Anthony was off on his headlong tramp -his eyes turned to the sea away from his ship. -</p> - -<p> -A sailor indeed looks generally into the great distances, but in Captain -Anthony’s case there was—as Powell expressed it—something particular, something -purposeful like the avoidance of pain or temptation. It was very marked once -one had become aware of it. Before, one felt only a pronounced strangeness. Not -that the captain—Powell was careful to explain—didn’t see things as a -ship-master should. The proof of it was that on that very occasion he desired -him suddenly after a period of silent pacing, to have all the staysails sheets -eased off, and he was going on with some other remarks on the subject of these -staysails when Mrs. Anthony followed by her father emerged from the companion. -She established herself in her chair to leeward of the skylight as usual. -Thereupon the captain cut short whatever he was going to say, and in a little -while went down below. -</p> - -<p> -I asked Mr. Powell whether the captain and his wife never conversed on deck. He -said no—or at any rate they never exchanged more than a couple of words. There -was some constraint between them. For instance, on that very occasion, when -Mrs. Anthony came out they did look at each other; the captain’s eyes indeed -followed her till she sat down; but he did not speak to her; he did not -approach her; and afterwards left the deck without turning his head her way -after this first silent exchange of glances. -</p> - -<p> -I asked Mr. Powell what did he do then, the captain being out of the way. “I -went over and talked to Mrs. Anthony. I was thinking that it must be very dull -for her. She seemed to be such a stranger to the ship.” -</p> - -<p> -“The father was there of course?” -</p> - -<p> -“Always,” said Powell. “He was always there sitting on the skylight, as if he -were keeping watch over her. And I think,” he added, “that he was worrying her. -Not that she showed it in any way. Mrs. Anthony was always very quiet and -always ready to look one straight in the face.” -</p> - -<p> -“You talked together a lot?” I pursued my inquiries. “She mostly let me talk to -her,” confessed Mr. Powell. “I don’t know that she was very much interested—but -still she let me. She never cut me short.” -</p> - -<p> -All the sympathies of Mr. Powell were for Flora Anthony née de Barral. -She was the only human being younger than himself on board that ship since the -<i>Ferndale</i> carried no boys and was manned by a full crew of able seamen. -Yes! their youth had created a sort of bond between them. Mr. Powell’s open -countenance must have appeared to her distinctly pleasing amongst the mature, -rough, crabbed or even inimical faces she saw around her. With the warm -generosity of his age young Powell was on her side, as it were, even before he -knew that there were sides to be taken on board that ship, and what this taking -sides was about. There was a girl. A nice girl. He asked himself no questions. -Flora de Barral was not so much younger in years than himself; but for some -reason, perhaps by contrast with the accepted idea of a captain’s wife, he -could not regard her otherwise but as an extremely youthful creature. At the -same time, apart from her exalted position, she exercised over him the -supremacy a woman’s earlier maturity gives her over a young man of her own age. -As a matter of fact we can see that, without ever having more than a half an -hour’s consecutive conversation together, and the distances duly preserved, -these two were becoming friends—under the eye of the old man, I suppose. -</p> - -<p> -How he first got in touch with his captain’s wife Powell relates in this way. -It was long before his memorable conversation with the mate and shortly after -getting clear of the channel. It was gloomy weather; dead head wind, blowing -quite half a gale; the <i>Ferndale</i> under reduced sail was stretching -close-hauled across the track of the homeward bound ships, just moving through -the water and no more, since there was no object in pressing her and the -weather looked threatening. About ten o’clock at night he was alone on the -poop, in charge, keeping well aft by the weather rail and staring to windward, -when amongst the white, breaking seas, under the black sky, he made out the -lights of a ship. He watched them for some time. She was running dead before -the wind of course. She will pass jolly close—he said to himself; and then -suddenly he felt a great mistrust of that approaching ship. She’s heading -straight for us—he thought. It was not his business to get out of the way. On -the contrary. And his uneasiness grew by the recollection of the forty tons of -dynamite in the body of the <i>Ferndale</i>; not the sort of cargo one thinks -of with equanimity in connection with a threatened collision. He gazed at the -two small lights in the dark immensity filled with the angry noise of the seas. -They fascinated him till their plainness to his sight gave him a conviction -that there was danger there. He knew in his mind what to do in the emergency, -but very properly he felt that he must call the captain out at once. -</p> - -<p> -He crossed the deck in one bound. By the immemorial custom and usage of the sea -the captain’s room is on the starboard side. You would just as soon expect your -captain to have his nose at the back of his head as to have his state-room on -the port side of the ship. Powell forgot all about the direction on that point -given him by the chief. He flew over as I said, stamped with his foot and then -putting his face to the cowl of the big ventilator shouted down there: “Please -come on deck, sir,” in a voice which was not trembling or scared but which we -may call fairly expressive. There could not be a mistake as to the urgence of -the call. But instead of the expected alert “All right!” and the sound of a -rush down there, he heard only a faint exclamation—then silence. -</p> - -<p> -Think of his astonishment! He remained there, his ear in the cowl of the -ventilator, his eyes fastened on those menacing sidelights dancing on the gusts -of wind which swept the angry darkness of the sea. It was as though he had -waited an hour but it was something much less than a minute before he fairly -bellowed into the wide tube “Captain Anthony!” An agitated “What is it?” was -what he heard down there in Mrs. Anthony’s voice, light rapid footsteps . . . -Why didn’t she try to wake him up! “I want the captain,” he shouted, then gave -it up, making a dash at the companion where a blue light was kept, resolved to -act for himself. -</p> - -<p> -On the way he glanced at the helmsman whose face lighted up by the binnacle -lamps was calm. He said rapidly to him: “Stand by to spin that helm up at the -first word.” The answer “Aye, aye, sir,” was delivered in a steady voice. Then -Mr. Powell after a shout for the watch on deck to “lay aft,” ran to the ship’s -side and struck the blue light on the rail. -</p> - -<p> -A sort of nasty little spitting of sparks was all that came. The light (perhaps -affected by damp) had failed to ignite. The time of all these various acts must -be counted in seconds. Powell confessed to me that at this failure he -experienced a paralysis of thought, of voice, of limbs. The unexpectedness of -this misfire positively overcame his faculties. It was the only thing for which -his imagination was not prepared. It was knocked clean over. When it got up it -was with the suggestion that he must do something at once or there would be a -broadside smash accompanied by the explosion of dynamite, in which both ships -would be blown up and every soul on board of them would vanish off the earth in -an enormous flame and uproar. -</p> - -<p> -He saw the catastrophe happening and at the same moment, before he could open -his mouth or stir a limb to ward off the vision, a voice very near his ear, the -measured voice of Captain Anthony said: “Wouldn’t light—eh? Throw it down! Jump -for the flare-up.” -</p> - -<p> -The spring of activity in Mr. Powell was released with great force. He jumped. -The flare-up was kept inside the companion with a box of matches ready to hand. -Almost before he knew he had moved he was diving under the companion slide. He -got hold of the can in the dark and tried to strike a light. But he had to -press the flare-holder to his breast with one arm, his fingers were damp and -stiff, his hands trembled a little. One match broke. Another went out. In its -flame he saw the colourless face of Mrs. Anthony a little below him, standing -on the cabin stairs. Her eyes which were very close to his (he was in a -crouching posture on the top step) seemed to burn darkly in the vanishing -light. On deck the captain’s voice was heard sudden and unexpectedly sardonic: -“You had better look sharp, if you want to be in time.” -</p> - -<p> -“Let me have the box,” said Mrs. Anthony in a hurried and familiar whisper -which sounded amused as if they had been a couple of children up to some lark -behind a wall. He was glad of the offer which seemed to him very natural, and -without ceremony— -</p> - -<p> -“Here you are. Catch hold.” -</p> - -<p> -Their hands touched in the dark and she took the box while he held the paraffin -soaked torch in its iron holder. He thought of warning her: “Look out for -yourself.” But before he had the time to finish the sentence the flare blazed -up violently between them and he saw her throw herself back with an arm across -her face. “Hallo,” he exclaimed; only he could not stop a moment to ask if she -was hurt. He bolted out of the companion straight into his captain who took the -flare from him and held it high above his head. -</p> - -<p> -The fierce flame fluttered like a silk flag, throwing an angry swaying glare -mingled with moving shadows over the poop, lighting up the concave surfaces of -the sails, gleaming on the wet paint of the white rails. And young Powell -turned his eyes to windward with a catch in his breath. -</p> - -<p> -The strange ship, a darker shape in the night, did not seem to be moving -onwards but only to grow more distinct right abeam, staring at the -<i>Ferndale</i> with one green and one red eye which swayed and tossed as if -they belonged to the restless head of some invisible monster ambushed in the -night amongst the waves. A moment, long like eternity, elapsed, and, suddenly, -the monster which seemed to take to itself the shape of a mountain shut its -green eye without as much as a preparatory wink. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell drew a free breath. “All right now,” said Captain Anthony in a quiet -undertone. He gave the blazing flare to Powell and walked aft to watch the -passing of that menace of destruction coming blindly with its parti-coloured -stare out of a blind night on the wings of a sweeping wind. Her very form could -be distinguished now black and elongated amongst the hissing patches of foam -bursting along her path. -</p> - -<p> -As is always the case with a ship running before wind and sea she did not seem -to an onlooker to move very fast; but to be progressing indolently in long -leisurely bounds and pauses in the midst of the overtaking waves. It was only -when actually passing the stern within easy hail of the <i>Ferndale</i>, that -her headlong speed became apparent to the eye. With the red light shut off and -soaring like an immense shadow on the crest of a wave she was lost to view in -one great, forward swing, melting into the lightless space. -</p> - -<p> -“Close shave,” said Captain Anthony in an indifferent voice just raised enough -to be heard in the wind. “A blind lot on board that ship. Put out the flare -now.” -</p> - -<p> -Silently Mr. Powell inverted the holder, smothering the flame in the can, -bringing about by the mere turn of his wrist the fall of darkness upon the -poop. And at the same time vanished out of his mind’s eye the vision of another -flame enormous and fierce shooting violently from a white churned patch of the -sea, lighting up the very clouds and carrying upwards in its volcanic rush -flying spars, corpses, the fragments of two destroyed ships. It vanished and -there was an immense relief. He told me he did not know how scared he had been, -not generally but of that very thing his imagination had conjured, till it was -all over. He measured it (for fear is a great tension) by the feeling of slack -weariness which came over him all at once. -</p> - -<p> -He walked to the companion and stooping low to put the flare in its usual place -saw in the darkness the motionless pale oval of Mrs. Anthony’s face. She -whispered quietly: -</p> - -<p> -“Is anything going to happen? What is it?” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s all over now,” he whispered back. -</p> - -<p> -He remained bent low, his head inside the cover staring at that white ghostly -oval. He wondered she had not rushed out on deck. She had remained quietly -there. This was pluck. Wonderful self-restraint. And it was not stupidity on -her part. She knew there was imminent danger and probably had some notion of -its nature. -</p> - -<p> -“You stayed here waiting for what would come,” he murmured admiringly. -</p> - -<p> -“Wasn’t that the best thing to do?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -He didn’t know. Perhaps. He confessed he could not have done it. Not he. His -flesh and blood could not have stood it. He would have felt he must see what -was coming. Then he remembered that the flare might have scorched her face, and -expressed his concern. -</p> - -<p> -“A bit. Nothing to hurt. Smell the singed hair?” -</p> - -<p> -There was a sort of gaiety in her tone. She might have been frightened but she -certainly was not overcome and suffered from no reaction. This confirmed and -augmented if possible Mr. Powell’s good opinion of her as a “jolly girl,” -though it seemed to him positively monstrous to refer in such terms to one’s -captain’s wife. “But she doesn’t look it,” he thought in extenuation and was -going to say something more to her about the lighting of that flare when -another voice was heard in the companion, saying some indistinct words. Its -tone was contemptuous; it came from below, from the bottom of the stairs. It -was a voice in the cabin. And the only other voice which could be heard in the -main cabin at this time of the evening was the voice of Mrs. Anthony’s father. -The indistinct white oval sank from Mr. Powell’s sight so swiftly as to take -him by surprise. For a moment he hung at the opening of the companion and now -that her slight form was no longer obstructing the narrow and winding staircase -the voices came up louder but the words were still indistinct. The old -gentleman was excited about something and Mrs. Anthony was “managing him” as -Powell expressed it. They moved away from the bottom of the stairs and Powell -went away from the companion. Yet he fancied he had heard the words “Lost to -me” before he withdrew his head. They had been uttered by Mr. Smith. -</p> - -<p> -Captain Anthony had not moved away from the taffrail. He remained in the very -position he took up to watch the other ship go by rolling and swinging all -shadowy in the uproar of the following seas. He stirred not; and Powell keeping -near by did not dare speak to him, so enigmatical in its contemplation of the -night did his figure appear to his young eyes: indistinct—and in its immobility -staring into gloom, the prey of some incomprehensible grief, longing or regret. -</p> - -<p> -Why is it that the stillness of a human being is often so impressive, so -suggestive of evil—as if our proper fate were a ceaseless agitation? The -stillness of Captain Anthony became almost intolerable to his second officer. -Mr. Powell loitering about the skylight wanted his captain off the deck now. -“Why doesn’t he go below?” he asked himself impatiently. He ventured a cough. -</p> - -<p> -Whether the effect of the cough or not Captain Anthony spoke. He did not move -the least bit. With his back remaining turned to the whole length of the ship -he asked Mr. Powell with some brusqueness if the chief mate had neglected to -instruct him that the captain was to be found on the port side. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Powell approaching his back. “The mate told me to stamp on -the port side when I wanted you; but I didn’t remember at the moment.” -</p> - -<p> -“You should remember,” the captain uttered with an effort. Then added mumbling -“I don’t want Mrs. Anthony frightened. Don’t you see? . . .” -</p> - -<p> -“She wasn’t this time,” Powell said innocently: “She lighted the flare-up for -me, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“This time,” Captain Anthony exclaimed and turned round. “Mrs. Anthony lighted -the flare? Mrs. Anthony! . . . ” Powell explained that she was in the companion -all the time. -</p> - -<p> -“All the time,” repeated the captain. It seemed queer to Powell that instead of -going himself to see the captain should ask him: -</p> - -<p> -“Is she there now?” -</p> - -<p> -Powell said that she had gone below after the ship had passed clear of the -<i>Ferndale</i>. Captain Anthony made a movement towards the companion himself, -when Powell added the information. “Mr. Smith called to Mrs. Anthony from the -saloon, sir. I believe they are talking there now.” -</p> - -<p> -He was surprised to see the captain give up the idea of going below after all. -</p> - -<p> -He began to walk the poop instead regardless of the cold, of the damp wind and -of the sprays. And yet he had nothing on but his sleeping suit and slippers. -Powell placing himself on the break of the poop kept a look-out. When after -some time he turned his head to steal a glance at his eccentric captain he -could not see his active and shadowy figure swinging to and fro. The second -mate of the <i>Ferndale</i> walked aft peering about and addressed the seaman -who steered. -</p> - -<p> -“Captain gone below?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir,” said the fellow who with a quid of tobacco bulging out his left -cheek kept his eyes on the compass card. “This minute. He laughed.” -</p> - -<p> -“Laughed,” repeated Powell incredulously. “Do you mean the captain did? You -must be mistaken. What would he want to laugh for?” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t know, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -The elderly sailor displayed a profound indifference towards human emotions. -However, after a longish pause he conceded a few words more to the second -officer’s weakness. “Yes. He was walking the deck as usual when suddenly he -laughed a little and made for the companion. Thought of something funny all at -once.” -</p> - -<p> -Something funny! That Mr. Powell could not believe. He did not ask himself why, -at the time. Funny thoughts come to men, though, in all sorts of situations; -they come to all sorts of men. Nevertheless Mr. Powell was shocked to learn -that Captain Anthony had laughed without visible cause on a certain night. The -impression for some reason was disagreeable. And it was then, while finishing -his watch, with the chilly gusts of wind sweeping at him out of the darkness -where the short sea of the soundings growled spitefully all round the ship, -that it occurred to his unsophisticated mind that perhaps things are not what -they are confidently expected to be; that it was possible that Captain Anthony -was not a happy man . . . In so far you will perceive he was to a certain -extent prepared for the apoplectic and sensitive Franklin’s lamentations about -his captain. And though he treated them with a contempt which was in a great -measure sincere, yet he admitted to me that deep down within him an -inexplicable and uneasy suspicion that all was not well in that cabin, so -unusually cut off from the rest of the ship, came into being and grew against -his will. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER FOUR—ANTHONY AND FLORA</h3> - -<p> -Marlow emerged out of the shadow of the book-case to get himself a cigar from a -box which stood on a little table by my side. In the full light of the room I -saw in his eyes that slightly mocking expression with which he habitually -covers up his sympathetic impulses of mirth and pity before the unreasonable -complications the idealism of mankind puts into the simple but poignant problem -of conduct on this earth. -</p> - -<p> -He selected and lit the cigar with affected care, then turned upon me, I had -been looking at him silently. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose,” he said, the mockery of his eyes giving a pellucid quality to his -tone, “that you think it’s high time I told you something definite. I mean -something about that psychological cabin mystery of discomfort (for it’s -obvious that it must be psychological) which affected so profoundly Mr. -Franklin the chief mate, and had even disturbed the serene innocence of Mr. -Powell, the second of the ship <i>Ferndale</i>, commanded by Roderick -Anthony—the son of the poet, you know.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are going to confess now that you have failed to find it out,” I said in -pretended indignation. -</p> - -<p> -“It would serve you right if I told you that I have. But I won’t. I haven’t -failed. I own though that for a time, I was puzzled. However, I have now seen -our Powell many times under the most favourable conditions—and besides I came -upon a most unexpected source of information . . . But never mind that. The -means don’t concern you except in so far as they belong to the story. I’ll -admit that for some time the old-maiden-lady-like occupation of putting two and -two together failed to procure a coherent theory. I am speaking now as an -investigator—a man of deductions. With what we know of Roderick Anthony and -Flora de Barral I could not deduct an ordinary marital quarrel beautifully -matured in less than a year—could I? If you ask me what is an ordinary marital -quarrel I will tell you, that it is a difference about nothing; I mean, these -nothings which, as Mr. Powell told us when we first met him, shore people are -so prone to start a row about, and nurse into hatred from an idle sense of -wrong, from perverted ambition, for spectacular reasons too. There are on earth -no actors too humble and obscure not to have a gallery; that gallery which -envenoms the play by stealthy jeers, counsels of anger, amused comments or -words of perfidious compassion. However, the Anthonys were free from all -demoralizing influences. At sea, you know, there is no gallery. You hear no -tormenting echoes of your own littleness there, where either a great elemental -voice roars defiantly under the sky or else an elemental silence seems to be -part of the infinite stillness of the universe. -</p> - -<p> -Remembering Flora de Barral in the depths of moral misery, and Roderick Anthony -carried away by a gust of tempestuous tenderness, I asked myself, Is it all -forgotten already? What could they have found to estrange them from each other -with this rapidity and this thoroughness so far from all temptations, in the -peace of the sea and in an isolation so complete that if it had not been the -jealous devotion of the sentimental Franklin stimulating the attention of -Powell, there would have been no record, no evidence of it at all. -</p> - -<p> -I must confess at once that it was Flora de Barral whom I suspected. In this -world as at present organized women are the suspected half of the population. -There are good reasons for that. These reasons are so discoverable with a -little reflection that it is not worth my while to set them out for you. I will -only mention this: that the part falling to women’s share being all “influence” -has an air of occult and mysterious action, something not altogether -trustworthy like all natural forces which, for us, work in the dark because of -our imperfect comprehension. -</p> - -<p> -If women were not a force of nature, blind in its strength and capricious in -its power, they would not be mistrusted. As it is one can’t help it. You will -say that this force having been in the person of Flora de Barral captured by -Anthony . . . Why yes. He had dealt with her masterfully. But man has captured -electricity too. It lights him on his way, it warms his home, it will even cook -his dinner for him—very much like a woman. But what sort of conquest would you -call it? He knows nothing of it. He has got to be mighty careful what he is -about with his captive. And the greater the demand he makes on it in the -exultation of his pride the more likely it is to turn on him and burn him to a -cinder . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“A far-fetched enough parallel,” I observed coldly to Marlow. He had returned -to the arm-chair in the shadow of the bookcase. “But accepting the meaning you -have in your mind it reduces itself to the knowledge of how to use it. And if -you mean that this ravenous Anthony—” -</p> - -<p> -“Ravenous is good,” interrupted Marlow. “He was a-hungering and a-thirsting for -femininity to enter his life in a way no mere feminist could have the slightest -conception of. I reckon that this accounts for much of Fyne’s disgust with him. -Good little Fyne. You have no idea what infernal mischief he had worked during -his call at the hotel. But then who could have suspected Anthony of being a -heroic creature. There are several kinds of heroism and one of them at least is -idiotic. It is the one which wears the aspect of sublime delicacy. It is -apparently the one of which the son of the delicate poet was capable. -</p> - -<p> -He certainly resembled his father, who, by the way, wore out two women without -any satisfaction to himself, because they did not come up to his supra-refined -standard of the delicacy which is so perceptible in his verses. That’s your -poet. He demands too much from others. The inarticulate son had set up a -standard for himself with that need for embodying in his conduct the dreams, -the passion, the impulses the poet puts into arrangements of verses, which are -dearer to him than his own self—and may make his own self appear sublime in the -eyes of other people, and even in his own eyes. -</p> - -<p> -Did Anthony wish to appear sublime in his own eyes? I should not like to make -that charge; though indeed there are other, less noble, ambitions at which the -world does not dare to smile. But I don’t think so; I do not even think that -there was in what he did a conscious and lofty confidence in himself, a -particularly pronounced sense of power which leads men so often into impossible -or equivocal situations. Looked at abstractedly (the way in which truth is -often seen in its real shape) his life had been a life of solitude and -silence—and desire. -</p> - -<p> -Chance had thrown that girl in his way; and if we may smile at his violent -conquest of Flora de Barral we must admit also that this eager appropriation -was truly the act of a man of solitude and desire; a man also, who, unless a -complete imbecile, must have been a man of long and ardent reveries wherein the -faculty of sincere passion matures slowly in the unexplored recesses of the -heart. And I know also that a passion, dominating or tyrannical, invading the -whole man and subjugating all his faculties to its own unique end, may conduct -him whom it spurs and drives, into all sorts of adventures, to the brink of -unfathomable dangers, to the limits of folly, and madness, and death. -</p> - -<p> -To the man then of a silence made only more impressive by the inarticulate -thunders and mutters of the great seas, an utter stranger to the clatter of -tongues, there comes the muscular little Fyne, the most marked representative -of that mankind whose voice is so strange to him, the husband of his sister, a -personality standing out from the misty and remote multitude. He comes and -throws at him more talk than he had ever heard boomed out in an hour, and -certainly touching the deepest things Anthony had ever discovered in himself, -and flings words like “unfair” whose very sound is abhorrent to him. Unfair! -Undue advantage! He! Unfair to that girl? Cruel to her! -</p> - -<p> -No scorn could stand against the impression of such charges advanced with heat -and conviction. They shook him. They were yet vibrating in the air of that -stuffy hotel-room, terrific, disturbing, impossible to get rid of, when the -door opened and Flora de Barral entered. -</p> - -<p> -He did not even notice that she was late. He was sitting on a sofa plunged in -gloom. Was it true? Having himself always said exactly what he meant he -imagined that people (unless they were liars, which of course his -brother-in-law could not be) never said more than they meant. The deep chest -voice of little Fyne was still in his ear. “He knows,” Anthony said to himself. -He thought he had better go away and never see her again. But she stood there -before him accusing and appealing. How could he abandon her? That was out of -the question. She had no one. Or rather she had someone. That father. Anthony -was willing to take him at her valuation. This father may have been the victim -of the most atrocious injustice. But what could a man coming out of jail do? An -old man too. And then—what sort of man? What would become of them both? Anthony -shuddered slightly and the faint smile with which Flora had entered the room -faded on her lips. She was used to his impetuous tenderness. She was no longer -afraid of it. But she had never seen him look like this before, and she -suspected at once some new cruelty of life. He got up with his usual ardour but -as if sobered by a momentous resolve and said: -</p> - -<p> -“No. I can’t let you out of my sight. I have seen you. You have told me your -story. You are honest. You have never told me you loved me.” -</p> - -<p> -She waited, saying to herself that he had never given her time, that he had -never asked her! And that, in truth, she did not know! -</p> - -<p> -I am inclined to believe that she did not. As abundance of experience is not -precisely her lot in life, a woman is seldom an expert in matters of sentiment. -It is the man who can and generally does “see himself” pretty well inside and -out. Women’s self-possession is an outward thing; inwardly they flutter, -perhaps because they are, or they feel themselves to be, engaged. All this -speaking generally. In Flora de Barral’s particular case ever since Anthony had -suddenly broken his way into her hopeless and cruel existence she lived like a -person liberated from a condemned cell by a natural cataclysm, a tempest, an -earthquake; not absolutely terrified, because nothing can be worse than the eve -of execution, but stunned, bewildered—abandoning herself passively. She did not -want to make a sound, to move a limb. She hadn’t the strength. What was the -good? And deep down, almost unconsciously she was seduced by the feeling of -being supported by this violence. A sensation she had never experienced before -in her life. -</p> - -<p> -She felt as if this whirlwind were calming down somehow! As if this feeling of -support, which was tempting her to close her eyes deliciously and let herself -be carried on and on into the unknown undefiled by vile experiences, were less -certain, had wavered threateningly. She tried to read something in his face, in -that energetic kindly face to which she had become accustomed so soon. But she -was not yet capable of understanding its expression. Scared, discouraged on the -threshold of adolescence, plunged in moral misery of the bitterest kind, she -had not learned to read—not that sort of language. -</p> - -<p> -If Anthony’s love had been as egoistic as love generally is, it would have been -greater than the egoism of his vanity—or of his generosity, if you like—and all -this could not have happened. He would not have hit upon that renunciation at -which one does not know whether to grin or shudder. It is true too that then -his love would not have fastened itself upon the unhappy daughter of de Barral. -But it was a love born of that rare pity which is not akin to contempt because -rooted in an overwhelmingly strong capacity for tenderness—the tenderness of -the fiery kind—the tenderness of silent solitary men, the voluntary, passionate -outcasts of their kind. At the time I am forced to think that his vanity must -have been enormous. -</p> - -<p> -“What big eyes she has,” he said to himself amazed. No wonder. She was staring -at him with all the might of her soul awakening slowly from a poisoned sleep, -in which it could only quiver with pain but could neither expand nor move. He -plunged into them breathless and tense, deep, deep, like a mad sailor taking a -desperate dive from the masthead into the blue unfathomable sea so many men -have execrated and loved at the same time. And his vanity was immense. It had -been touched to the quick by that muscular little feminist, Fyne. “I! I! Take -advantage of her helplessness. I! Unfair to that creature—that wisp of mist, -that white shadow homeless in an ugly dirty world. I could blow her away with a -breath,” he was saying to himself with horror. “Never!” All the supremely -refined delicacy of tenderness, expressed in so many fine lines of verse by -Carleon Anthony, grew to the size of a passion filling with inward sobs the big -frame of the man who had never in his life read a single one of those famous -sonnets singing of the most highly civilized, chivalrous love, of those sonnets -which . . . You know there’s a volume of them. My edition has the portrait of -the author at thirty, and when I showed it to Mr. Powell the other day he -exclaimed: “Wonderful! One would think this the portrait of Captain Anthony -himself if . . .” I wanted to know what that if was. But Powell could not say. -There was something—a difference. No doubt there was—in fineness perhaps. The -father, fastidious, cerebral, morbidly shrinking from all contacts, could only -sing in harmonious numbers of what the son felt with a dumb and reckless -sincerity. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Possessed by most strong men’s touching illusion as to the frailness of women -and their spiritual fragility, it seemed to Anthony that he would be -destroying, breaking something very precious inside that being. In fact nothing -less than partly murdering her. This seems a very extreme effect to flow from -Fyne’s words. But Anthony, unaccustomed to the chatter of the firm earth, never -stayed to ask himself what value these words could have in Fyne’s mouth. And -indeed the mere dark sound of them was utterly abhorrent to his native -rectitude, sea-salted, hardened in the winds of wide horizons, open as the day. -</p> - -<p> -He wished to blurt out his indignation but she regarded him with an expectant -air which checked him. His visible discomfort made her uneasy. He could only -repeat “Oh yes. You are perfectly honest. You might have, but I dare say you -are right. At any rate you have never said anything to me which you didn’t -mean.” -</p> - -<p> -“Never,” she whispered after a pause. -</p> - -<p> -He seemed distracted, choking with an emotion she could not understand because -it resembled embarrassment, a state of mind inconceivable in that man. -</p> - -<p> -She wondered what it was she had said; remembering that in very truth she had -hardly spoken to him except when giving him the bare outline of her story which -he seemed to have hardly had the patience to hear, waving it perpetually aside -with exclamations of horror and anger, with fiercely sombre mutters “Enough! -Enough!” and with alarming starts from a forced stillness, as though he meant -to rush out at once and take vengeance on somebody. She was saying to herself -that he caught her words in the air, never letting her finish her thought. -Honest. Honest. Yes certainly she had been that. Her letter to Mrs. Fyne had -been prompted by honesty. But she reflected sadly that she had never known what -to say to him. That perhaps she had nothing to say. -</p> - -<p> -“But you’ll find out that I can be honest too,” he burst out in a menacing -tone, she had learned to appreciate with an amused thrill. -</p> - -<p> -She waited for what was coming. But he hung in the wind. He looked round the -room with disgust as if he could see traces on the walls of all the casual -tenants that had ever passed through it. People had quarrelled in that room; -they had been ill in it, there had been misery in that room, wickedness, crime -perhaps—death most likely. This was not a fit place. He snatched up his hat. He -had made up his mind. The ship—the ship he had known ever since she came off -the stocks, his home—her shelter—the uncontaminated, honest ship, was the -place. -</p> - -<p> -“Let us go on board. We’ll talk there,” he said. “And you will have to listen -to me. For whatever happens, no matter what they say, I cannot let you go.” -</p> - -<p> -You can’t say that (misgivings or no misgivings) she could have done anything -else but go on board. It was the appointed business of that morning. During the -drive he was silent. Anthony was the last man to condemn conventionally any -human being, to scorn and despise even deserved misfortune. He was ready to -take old de Barral—the convict—on his daughter’s valuation without the -slightest reserve. But love like his, though it may drive one into risky folly -by the proud consciousness of its own strength, has a sagacity of its own. And -now, as if lifted up into a higher and serene region by its purpose of -renunciation, it gave him leisure to reflect for the first time in these last -few days. He said to himself: “I don’t know that man. She does not know him -either. She was barely sixteen when they locked him up. She was a child. What -will he say? What will he do? No, he concluded, I cannot leave her behind with -that man who would come into the world as if out of a grave. -</p> - -<p> -They went on board in silence, and it was after showing her round and when they -had returned to the saloon that he assailed her in his fiery, masterful -fashion. At first she did not understand. Then when she understood that he was -giving her her liberty she went stiff all over, her hand resting on the edge of -the table, her face set like a carving of white marble. It was all over. It was -as that abominable governess had said. She was insignificant, contemptible. -Nobody could love her. Humiliation clung to her like a cold shroud—never to be -shaken off, unwarmed by this madness of generosity. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Here. Your home. I can’t give it to you and go away, but it is big enough -for us two. You need not be afraid. If you say so I shall not even look at you. -Remember that grey head of which you have been thinking night and day. Where is -it going to rest? Where else if not here, where nothing evil can touch it. -Don’t you understand that I won’t let you buy shelter from me at the cost of -your very soul. I won’t. You are too much part of me. I have found myself since -I came upon you and I would rather sell my own soul to the devil than let you -go out of my keeping. But I must have the right.” -</p> - -<p> -He went away brusquely to shut the door leading on deck and came back the whole -length of the cabin repeating: -</p> - -<p> -“I must have the legal right. Are you ashamed of letting people think you are -my wife?” -</p> - -<p> -He opened his arms as if to clasp her to his breast but mastered the impulse -and shook his clenched hands at her, repeating: “I must have the right if only -for your father’s sake. I must have the right. Where would you take him? To -that infernal cardboard box-maker. I don’t know what keeps me from hunting him -up in his virtuous home and bashing his head in. I can’t bear the thought. -Listen to me, Flora! Do you hear what I am saying to you? You are not so proud -that you can’t understand that I as a man have my pride too?” -</p> - -<p> -He saw a tear glide down her white cheek from under each lowered eyelid. Then, -abruptly, she walked out of the cabin. He stood for a moment, concentrated, -reckoning his own strength, interrogating his heart, before he followed her -hastily. Already she had reached the wharf. -</p> - -<p> -At the sound of his pursuing footsteps her strength failed her. Where could she -escape from this? From this new perfidy of life taking upon itself the form of -magnanimity. His very voice was changed. The sustaining whirlwind had let her -down, to stumble on again, weakened by the fresh stab, bereft of moral support -which is wanted in life more than all the charities of material help. She had -never had it. Never. Not from the Fynes. But where to go? Oh yes, this dock—a -placid sheet of water close at hand. But there was that old man with whom she -had walked hand in hand on the parade by the sea. She seemed to see him coming -to meet her, pitiful, a little greyer, with an appealing look and an extended, -tremulous arm. It was for her now to take the hand of that wronged man more -helpless than a child. But where could she lead him? Where? And what was she to -say to him? What words of cheer, of courage and of hope? There were none. -Heaven and earth were mute, unconcerned at their meeting. But this other man -was coming up behind her. He was very close now. His fiery person seemed to -radiate heat, a tingling vibration into the atmosphere. She was exhausted, -careless, afraid to stumble, ready to fall. She fancied she could hear his -breathing. A wave of languid warmth overtook her, she seemed to lose touch with -the ground under her feet; and when she felt him slip his hand under her arm -she made no attempt to disengage herself from that grasp which closed upon her -limb, insinuating and firm. -</p> - -<p> -He conducted her through the dangers of the quayside. Her sight was dim. A -moving truck was like a mountain gliding by. Men passed by as if in a mist; and -the buildings, the sheds, the unexpected open spaces, the ships, had strange, -distorted, dangerous shapes. She said to herself that it was good not to be -bothered with what all these things meant in the scheme of creation (if indeed -anything had a meaning), or were just piled-up matter without any sense. She -felt how she had always been unrelated to this world. She was hanging on to it -merely by that one arm grasped firmly just above the elbow. It was a captivity. -So be it. Till they got out into the street and saw the hansom waiting outside -the gates Anthony spoke only once, beginning brusquely but in a much gentler -tone than she had ever heard from his lips. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I ought to have known that you could not care for a man like me, a -stranger. Silence gives consent. Yes? Eh? I don’t want any of that sort of -consent. And unless some day you find you can speak . . . No! No! I shall never -ask you. For all the sign I will give you you may go to your grave with sealed -lips. But what I have said you must do!” -</p> - -<p> -He bent his head over her with tender care. At the same time she felt her arm -pressed and shaken inconspicuously, but in an undeniable manner. “You must do -it.” A little shake that no passer-by could notice; and this was going on in a -deserted part of the dock. “It must be done. You are listening to me—eh? or -would you go again to my sister?” -</p> - -<p> -His ironic tone, perhaps from want of use, had an awful grating ferocity. -</p> - -<p> -“Would you go to her?” he pursued in the same strange voice. “Your best friend! -And say nicely—I am sorry. Would you? No! You couldn’t. There are things that -even you, poor dear lost girl, couldn’t stand. Eh? Die rather. That’s it. Of -course. Or can you be thinking of taking your father to that infernal cousin’s -house. No! Don’t speak. I can’t bear to think of it. I would follow you there -and smash the door!” -</p> - -<p> -The catch in his voice astonished her by its resemblance to a sob. It -frightened her too. The thought that came to her head was: “He mustn’t.” He was -putting her into the hansom. “Oh! He mustn’t, he mustn’t.” She was still more -frightened by the discovery that he was shaking all over. Bewildered, shrinking -into the far off corner, avoiding his eyes, she yet saw the quivering of his -mouth and made a wild attempt at a smile, which broke the rigidity of her lips -and set her teeth chattering suddenly. -</p> - -<p> -“I am not coming with you,” he was saying. “I’ll tell the man . . . I can’t. -Better not. What is it? Are you cold? Come! What is it? Only to go to a -confounded stuffy room, a hole of an office. Not a quarter of an hour. I’ll -come for you—in ten days. Don’t think of it too much. Think of no man, woman or -child of all that silly crowd cumbering the ground. Don’t think of me either. -Think of yourself. Ha! Nothing will be able to touch you then—at last. Say -nothing. Don’t move. I’ll have everything arranged; and as long as you don’t -hate the sight of me—and you don’t—there’s nothing to be frightened about. One -of their silly offices with a couple of ink-slingers of no consequence; poor, -scribbling devils.” -</p> - -<p> -The hansom drove away with Flora de Barral inside, without movement, without -thought, only too glad to rest, to be alone and still moving away without -effort, in solitude and silence. -</p> - -<p> -Anthony roamed the streets for hours without being able to remember in the -evening where he had been—in the manner of a happy and exulting lover. But -nobody could have thought so from his face, which bore no signs of blissful -anticipation. Exulting indeed he was but it was a special sort of exultation -which seemed to take him by the throat like an enemy. -</p> - -<p> -Anthony’s last words to Flora referred to the registry office where they were -married ten days later. During that time Anthony saw no one or anything, though -he went about restlessly, here and there, amongst men and things. This special -state is peculiar to common lovers, who are known to have no eyes for anything -except for the contemplation, actual or inward, of one human form which for -them contains the soul of the whole world in all its beauty, perfection, -variety and infinity. It must be extremely pleasant. But felicity was denied to -Roderick Anthony’s contemplation. He was not a common sort of lover; and he was -punished for it as if Nature (which it is said abhors a vacuum) were so very -conventional as to abhor every sort of exceptional conduct. Roderick Anthony -had begun already to suffer. That is why perhaps he was so industrious in going -about amongst his fellowmen who would have been surprised and humiliated, had -they known how little solidity and even existence they had in his eyes. But -they could not suspect anything so queer. They saw nothing extraordinary in him -during that fortnight. The proof of this is that they were willing to transact -business with him. Obviously they were; since it is then that the offer of -chartering his ship for the special purpose of proceeding to the Western -Islands was put in his way by a firm of shipbrokers who had no doubt of his -sanity. -</p> - -<p> -He probably looked sane enough for all the practical purposes of commercial -life. But I am not so certain that he really was quite sane at that time. -</p> - -<p> -However, he jumped at the offer. Providence itself was offering him this -opportunity to accustom the girl to sea-life by a comparatively short trip. -This was the time when everything that happened, everything he heard, casual -words, unrelated phrases, seemed a provocation or an encouragement, confirmed -him in his resolution. And indeed to be busy with material affairs is the best -preservative against reflection, fears, doubts—all these things which stand in -the way of achievement. I suppose a fellow proposing to cut his throat would -experience a sort of relief while occupied in stropping his razor carefully. -</p> - -<p> -And Anthony was extremely careful in preparing for himself and for the luckless -Flora, an impossible existence. He went about it with no more tremors than if -he had been stuffed with rags or made of iron instead of flesh and blood. An -existence, mind you, which, on shore, in the thick of mankind, of varied -interests, of distractions, of infinite opportunities to preserve your distance -from each other, is hardly conceivable; but on board ship, at sea, <i>en -tête-à-tête</i> for days and weeks and months together, -could mean nothing but mental torture, an exquisite absurdity of torment. He -was a simple soul. His hopelessly masculine ingenuousness is displayed in a -touching way by his care to procure some woman to attend on Flora. The -condition of guaranteed perfect respectability gave him moments of anxious -thought. When he remembered suddenly his steward’s wife he must have exclaimed -<i>eureka</i> with particular exultation. One does not like to call Anthony an -ass. But really to put any woman within scenting distance of such a secret and -suppose that she would not track it out! -</p> - -<p> -No woman, however simple, could be as ingenuous as that. I don’t know how Flora -de Barral qualified him in her thoughts when he told her of having done this -amongst other things intended to make her comfortable. I should think that, for -all <i>her</i> simplicity, she must have been appalled. He stood before her on -the appointed day outwardly calmer than she had ever seen him before. And this -very calmness, that scrupulous attitude which he felt bound in honour to assume -then and for ever, unless she would condescend to make a sign at some future -time, added to the heaviness of her heart innocent of the most pardonable -guile. -</p> - -<p> -The night before she had slept better than she had done for the past ten -nights. Both youth and weariness will assert themselves in the end against the -tyranny of nerve-racking stress. She had slept but she woke up with her eyes -full of tears. There were no traces of them when she met him in the shabby -little parlour downstairs. She had swallowed them up. She was not going to let -him see. She felt bound in honour to accept the situation for ever and ever -unless . . . Ah, unless . . . She dissembled all her sentiments but it was not -duplicity on her part. All she wanted was to get at the truth; to see what -would come of it. -</p> - -<p> -She beat him at his own honourable game and the thoroughness of her serenity -disconcerted Anthony a bit. It was he who stammered when it came to talking. -The suppressed fierceness of his character carried him on after the first word -or two masterfully enough. But it was as if they both had taken a bite of the -same bitter fruit. He was thinking with mournful regret not unmixed with -surprise: “That fellow Fyne has been telling me the truth. She does not care -for me a bit.” It humiliated him and also increased his compassion for the girl -who in this darkness of life, buffeted and despairing, had fallen into the grip -of his stronger will, abandoning herself to his arms as on a night of -shipwreck. Flora on her side with partial insight (for women are never blind -with the complete masculine blindness) looked on him with some pity; and she -felt pity for herself too. It was a rejection, a casting out; nothing new to -her. But she who supposed all her sensibility dead by this time, discovered in -herself a resentment of this ultimate betrayal. She had no resignation for this -one. With a sort of mental sullenness she said to herself: “Well, I am here. I -am here without any nonsense. It is not my fault that I am a mere worthless -object of pity.” -</p> - -<p> -And these things which she could tell herself with a clear conscience served -her better than the passionate obstinacy of purpose could serve Roderick -Anthony. She was much more sure of herself than he was. Such are the advantages -of mere rectitude over the most exalted generosity. -</p> - -<p> -And so they went out to get married, the people of the house where she lodged -having no suspicion of anything of the sort. They were only excited at a -“gentleman friend” (a very fine man too) calling on Miss Smith for the first -time since she had come to live in the house. When she returned, for she did -come back alone, there were allusions made to that outing. She had to take her -meals with these rather vulgar people. The woman of the house, a scraggy, -genteel person, tried even to provoke confidences. Flora’s white face with the -deep blue eyes did not strike their hearts as it did the heart of Captain -Anthony, as the very face of the suffering world. Her pained reserve had no -power to awe them into decency. -</p> - -<p> -Well, she returned alone—as in fact might have been expected. After leaving the -Registry Office Flora de Barral and Roderick Anthony had gone for a walk in a -park. It must have been an East-End park but I am not sure. Anyway that’s what -they did. It was a sunny day. He said to her: “Everything I have in the world -belongs to you. I have seen to that without troubling my brother-in-law. They -have no call to interfere.” -</p> - -<p> -She walked with her hand resting lightly on his arm. He had offered it to her -on coming out of the Registry Office, and she had accepted it silently. Her -head drooped, she seemed to be turning matters over in her mind. She said, -alluding to the Fynes: “They have been very good to me.” At that he exclaimed: -</p> - -<p> -“They have never understood you. Well, not properly. My sister is not a bad -woman, but . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Flora didn’t protest; asking herself whether he imagined that he himself -understood her so much better. Anthony dismissing his family out of his -thoughts went on: “Yes. Everything is yours. I have kept nothing back. As to -the piece of paper we have just got from that miserable quill-driver if it -wasn’t for the law, I wouldn’t mind if you tore it up here, now, on this spot. -But don’t you do it. Unless you should some day feel that—” -</p> - -<p> -He choked, unexpectedly. She, reflective, hesitated a moment then making up her -mind bravely. -</p> - -<p> -“Neither am I keeping anything back from you.” -</p> - -<p> -She had said it! But he in his blind generosity assumed that she was alluding -to her deplorable history and hastened to mutter: -</p> - -<p> -“Of course! Of course! Say no more. I have been lying awake thinking of it all -no end of times.” -</p> - -<p> -He made a movement with his other arm as if restraining himself from shaking an -indignant fist at the universe; and she never even attempted to look at him. -His voice sounded strangely, incredibly lifeless in comparison with these -tempestuous accents that in the broad fields, in the dark garden had seemed to -shake the very earth under her weary and hopeless feet. -</p> - -<p> -She regretted them. Hearing the sigh which escaped her Anthony instead of -shaking his fist at the universe began to pat her hand resting on his arm and -then desisted, suddenly, as though he had burnt himself. Then after a silence: -</p> - -<p> -“You will have to go by yourself to-morrow. I . . . No, I think I mustn’t come. -Better not. What you two will have to say to each other—” -</p> - -<p> -She interrupted him quickly: -</p> - -<p> -“Father is an innocent man. He was cruelly wronged.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. That’s why,” Anthony insisted earnestly. “And you are the only human -being that can make it up to him. You alone must reconcile him with the world -if anything can. But of course you shall. You’ll have to find words. Oh you’ll -know. And then the sight of you, alone, would soothe—” -</p> - -<p> -“He’s the gentlest of men,” she interrupted again. -</p> - -<p> -Anthony shook his head. “It would take no end of generosity, no end of -gentleness to forgive such a dead set. For my part I would have liked better to -have been killed and done with at once. It could not have been worse for -you—and I suppose it was of you that he was thinking most while those infernal -lawyers were badgering him in court. Of you. And now I think of it perhaps the -sight of you may bring it all back to him. All these years, all these years—and -you his child left alone in the world. I would have gone crazy. For even if he -had done wrong—” -</p> - -<p> -“But he hasn’t,” insisted Flora de Barral with a quite unexpected fierceness. -“You mustn’t even suppose it. Haven’t you read the accounts of the trial?” -</p> - -<p> -“I am not supposing anything,” Anthony defended himself. He just remembered -hearing of the trial. He assured her that he was away from England, the second -voyage of the <i>Ferndale</i>. He was crossing the Pacific from Australia at -the time and didn’t see any papers for weeks and weeks. He interrupted himself -to suggest: -</p> - -<p> -“You had better tell him at once that you are happy.” -</p> - -<p> -He had stammered a little, and Flora de Barral uttered a deliberate and concise -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -A short silence ensued. She withdrew her hand from his arm. They stopped. -Anthony looked as if a totally unexpected catastrophe had happened. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah,” he said. “You mind . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“No! I think I had better,” she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -“I dare say. I dare say. Bring him along straight on board to-morrow. Stop -nowhere.” -</p> - -<p> -She had a movement of vague gratitude, a momentary feeling of peace which she -referred to the man before her. She looked up at Anthony. His face was sombre. -He was miles away and muttered as if to himself: -</p> - -<p> -“Where could he want to stop though?” -</p> - -<p> -“There’s not a single being on earth that I would want to look at his dear face -now, to whom I would willingly take him,” she said extending her hand frankly -and with a slight break in her voice, “but you—Roderick.” -</p> - -<p> -He took that hand, felt it very small and delicate in his broad palm. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s right. That’s right,” he said with a conscious and hasty heartiness -and, as if suddenly ashamed of the sound of his voice, turned half round and -absolutely walked away from the motionless girl. He even resisted the -temptation to look back till it was too late. The gravel path lay empty to the -very gate of the park. She was gone—vanished. He had an impression that he had -missed some sort of chance. He felt sad. That excited sense of his own conduct -which had kept him up for the last ten days buoyed him no more. He had -succeeded! -</p> - -<p> -He strolled on aimlessly a prey to gentle melancholy. He walked and walked. -There were but few people about in this breathing space of a poor -neighbourhood. Under certain conditions of life there is precious little time -left for mere breathing. But still a few here and there were indulging in that -luxury; yet few as they were Captain Anthony, though the least exclusive of -men, resented their presence. Solitude had been his best friend. He wanted some -place where he could sit down and be alone. And in his need his thoughts turned -to the sea which had given him so much of that congenial solitude. There, if -always with his ship (but that was an integral part of him) he could always be -as solitary as he chose. Yes. Get out to sea! -</p> - -<p> -The night of the town with its strings of lights, rigid, and crossed like a net -of flames, thrown over the sombre immensity of walls, closed round him, with -its artificial brilliance overhung by an emphatic blackness, its unnatural -animation of a restless, overdriven humanity. His thoughts which somehow were -inclined to pity every passing figure, every single person glimpsed under a -street lamp, fixed themselves at last upon a figure which certainly could not -have been seen under the lamps on that particular night. A figure unknown to -him. A figure shut up within high unscaleable walls of stone or bricks till -next morning . . . The figure of Flora de Barral’s father. De Barral the -financier—the convict. -</p> - -<p> -There is something in that word with its suggestions of guilt and retribution -which arrests the thought. We feel ourselves in the presence of the power of -organized society—a thing mysterious in itself and still more mysterious in its -effect. Whether guilty or innocent, it was as if old de Barral had been down to -the Nether Regions. Impossible to imagine what he would bring out from there to -the light of this world of uncondemned men. What would he think? What would he -have to say? And what was one to say to him? -</p> - -<p> -Anthony, a little awed, as one is by a range of feelings stretching beyond -one’s grasp, comforted himself by the thought that probably the old fellow -would have little to say. He wouldn’t want to talk about it. No man would. It -must have been a real hell to him. -</p> - -<p> -And then Anthony, at the end of the day in which he had gone through a marriage -ceremony with Flora de Barral, ceased to think of Flora’s father except, as in -some sort, the captive of his triumph. He turned to the mental contemplation of -the white, delicate and appealing face with great blue eyes which he had seen -weep and wonder and look profoundly at him, sometimes with incredulity, -sometimes with doubt and pain, but always irresistible in the power to find -their way right into his breast, to stir there a deep response which was -something more than love—he said to himself,—as men understand it. More? Or was -it only something other? Yes. It was something other. More or less. Something -as incredible as the fulfilment of an amazing and startling dream in which he -could take the world in his arms—all the suffering world—not to possess its -pathetic fairness but to console and cherish its sorrow. -</p> - -<p> -Anthony walked slowly to the ship and that night slept without dreams. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER FIVE—THE GREAT DE BARRAL</h3> - -<p> -Renovated certainly the saloon of the <i>Ferndale</i> was to receive the -“strange woman.” The mellowness of its old-fashioned, tarnished decoration was -gone. And Anthony looking round saw the glitter, the gleams, the colour of new -things, untried, unused, very bright—too bright. The workmen had gone only last -night; and the last piece of work they did was the hanging of the heavy -curtains which looped midway the length of the saloon—divided it in two if -released, cutting off the after end with its companion-way leading direct on -the poop, from the forepart with its outlet on the deck; making a privacy -within a privacy, as though Captain Anthony could not place obstacles enough -between his new happiness and the men who shared his life at sea. He inspected -that arrangement with an approving eye then made a particular visitation of the -whole, ending by opening a door which led into a large state-room made of two -knocked into one. It was very well furnished and had, instead of the usual -bedplace of such cabins, an elaborate swinging cot of the latest pattern. -Anthony tilted it a little by way of trial. “The old man will be very -comfortable in here,” he said to himself, and stepped back into the saloon -closing the door gently. Then another thought occurred to him obvious under the -circumstances but strangely enough presenting itself for the first time. “Jove! -Won’t he get a shock,” thought Roderick Anthony. -</p> - -<p> -He went hastily on deck. “Mr. Franklin, Mr. Franklin.” The mate was not very -far. “Oh! Here you are. Miss . . . Mrs. Anthony’ll be coming on board -presently. Just give me a call when you see the cab.” -</p> - -<p> -Then, without noticing the gloominess of the mate’s countenance he went in -again. Not a friendly word, not a professional remark, or a small joke, not as -much as a simple and inane “fine day.” Nothing. Just turned about and went in. -</p> - -<p> -We know that, when the moment came, he thought better of it and decided to meet -Flora’s father in that privacy of the main cabin which he had been so careful -to arrange. Why Anthony appeared to shrink from the contact, he who was -sufficiently self-confident not only to face but to absolutely create a -situation almost insane in its audacious generosity, is difficult to explain. -Perhaps when he came on the poop for a glance he found that man so different -outwardly from what he expected that he decided to meet him for the first time -out of everybody’s sight. Possibly the general secrecy of his relation to the -girl might have influenced him. Truly he may well have been dismayed. That -man’s coming brought him face to face with the necessity to speak and act a -lie; to appear what he was not and what he could never be, unless, unless— -</p> - -<p> -In short, we’ll say if you like that for various reasons, all having to do with -the delicate rectitude of his nature, Roderick Anthony (a man of whom his chief -mate used to say: he doesn’t know what fear is) was frightened. There is a -Nemesis which overtakes generosity too, like all the other imprudences of men -who dare to be lawless and proud . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Why do you say this?” I inquired, for Marlow had stopped abruptly and kept -silent in the shadow of the bookcase. -</p> - -<p> -“I say this because that man whom chance had thrown in Flora’s way was both: -lawless and proud. Whether he knew anything about it or not it does not matter. -Very likely not. One may fling a glove in the face of nature and in the face of -one’s own moral endurance quite innocently, with a simplicity which wears the -aspect of perfectly Satanic conceit. However, as I have said it does not -matter. It’s a transgression all the same and has got to be paid for in the -usual way. But never mind that. I paused because, like Anthony, I find a -difficulty, a sort of dread in coming to grips with old de Barral. -</p> - -<p> -You remember I had a glimpse of him once. He was not an imposing personality: -tall, thin, straight, stiff, faded, moving with short steps and with a gliding -motion, speaking in an even low voice. When the sea was rough he wasn’t much -seen on deck—at least not walking. He caught hold of things then and dragged -himself along as far as the after skylight where he would sit for hours. Our, -then young, friend offered once to assist him and this service was the first -beginning of a sort of friendship. He clung hard to one—Powell says, with no -figurative intention. Powell was always on the lookout to assist, and to assist -mainly Mrs. Anthony, because he clung so jolly hard to her that Powell was -afraid of her being dragged down notwithstanding that she very soon became very -sure-footed in all sorts of weather. And Powell was the only one ready to -assist at hand because Anthony (by that time) seemed to be afraid to come near -them; the unforgiving Franklin always looked wrathfully the other way; the -boatswain, if up there, acted likewise but sheepishly; and any hands that -happened to be on the poop (a feeling spreads mysteriously all over a ship) -shunned him as though he had been the devil. -</p> - -<p> -We know how he arrived on board. For my part I know so little of prisons that I -haven’t the faintest notion how one leaves them. It seems as abominable an -operation as the other, the shutting up with its mental suggestions of bang, -snap, crash and the empty silence outside—where an instant before you were—you -<i>were</i>—and now no longer are. Perfectly devilish. And the release! I don’t -know which is worse. How do they do it? Pull the string, door flies open, man -flies through: Out you go! <i>Adios</i>! And in the space where a second before -you were not, in the silent space there is a figure going away, limping. Why -limping? I don’t know. That’s how I see it. One has a notion of a maiming, -crippling process; of the individual coming back damaged in some subtle way. I -admit it is a fantastic hallucination, but I can’t help it. Of course I know -that the proceedings of the best machine-made humanity are employed with -judicious care and so on. I am absurd, no doubt, but still . . . Oh yes it’s -idiotic. When I pass one of these places . . . did you notice that there is -something infernal about the aspect of every individual stone or brick of them, -something malicious as if matter were enjoying its revenge of the contemptuous -spirit of man. Did you notice? You didn’t? Eh? Well I am perhaps a little mad -on that point. When I pass one of these places I must avert my eyes. I couldn’t -have gone to meet de Barral. I should have shrunk from the ordeal. You’ll -notice that it looks as if Anthony (a brave man indubitably) had shirked it -too. Little Fyne’s flight of fancy picturing three people in the fatal four -wheeler—you remember?—went wide of the truth. There were only two people in the -four wheeler. Flora did not shrink. Women can stand anything. The dear -creatures have no imagination when it comes to solid facts of life. In -sentimental regions—I won’t say. It’s another thing altogether. There they -shrink from or rush to embrace ghosts of their own creation just the same as -any fool-man would. -</p> - -<p> -No. I suppose the girl Flora went on that errand reasonably. And then, why! -This was the moment for which she had lived. It was her only point of contact -with existence. Oh yes. She had been assisted by the Fynes. And kindly. -Certainly. Kindly. But that’s not enough. There is a kind way of assisting our -fellow-creatures which is enough to break their hearts while it saves their -outer envelope. How cold, how infernally cold she must have felt—unless when -she was made to burn with indignation or shame. Man, we know, cannot live by -bread alone but hang me if I don’t believe that some women could live by love -alone. If there be a flame in human beings fed by varied ingredients earthly -and spiritual which tinge it in different hues, then I seem to see the colour -of theirs. It is azure . . . What the devil are you laughing at . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow jumped up and strode out of the shadow as if lifted by indignation but -there was the flicker of a smile on his lips. “You say I don’t know women. -Maybe. It’s just as well not to come too close to the shrine. But I have a -clear notion of <i>woman</i>. In all of them, termagant, flirt, crank, -washerwoman, blue-stocking, outcast and even in the ordinary fool of the -ordinary commerce there is something left, if only a spark. And when there is a -spark there can always be a flame . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -He went back into the shadow and sat down again. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t mean to say that Flora de Barral was one of the sort that could live -by love alone. In fact she had managed to live without. But still, in the -distrust of herself and of others she looked for love, any kind of love, as -women will. And that confounded jail was the only spot where she could see -it—for she had no reason to distrust her father. -</p> - -<p> -She was there in good time. I see her gazing across the road at these walls -which are, properly speaking, awful. You do indeed seem to feel along the very -lines and angles of the unholy bulk, the fall of time, drop by drop, hour by -hour, leaf by leaf, with a gentle and implacable slowness. And a voiceless -melancholy comes over one, invading, overpowering like a dream, penetrating and -mortal like poison. -</p> - -<p> -When de Barral came out she experienced a sort of shock to see that he was -exactly as she remembered him. Perhaps a little smaller. Otherwise unchanged. -You come out in the same clothes, you know. I can’t tell whether he was looking -for her. No doubt he was. Whether he recognized her? Very likely. She crossed -the road and at once there was reproduced at a distance of years, as if by some -mocking witchcraft, the sight so familiar on the Parade at Brighton of the -financier de Barral walking with his only daughter. One comes out of prison in -the same clothes one wore on the day of condemnation, no matter how long one -has been put away there. Oh, they last! They last! But there is something which -is preserved by prison life even better than one’s discarded clothing. It is -the force, the vividness of one’s sentiments. A monastery will do that too; but -in the unholy claustration of a jail you are thrown back wholly upon -yourself—for God and Faith are not there. The people outside disperse their -affections, you hoard yours, you nurse them into intensity. What they let slip, -what they forget in the movement and changes of free life, you hold on to, -amplify, exaggerate into a rank growth of memories. They can look with a smile -at the troubles and pains of the past; but you can’t. Old pains keep on gnawing -at your heart, old desires, old deceptions, old dreams, assailing you in the -dead stillness of your present where nothing moves except the irrecoverable -minutes of your life. -</p> - -<p> -De Barral was out and, for a time speechless, being led away almost before he -had taken possession of the free world, by his daughter. Flora controlled -herself well. They walked along quickly for some distance. The cab had been -left round the corner—round several corners for all I know. He was flustered, -out of breath, when she helped him in and followed herself. Inside that rolling -box, turning towards that recovered presence with her heart too full for words -she felt the desire of tears she had managed to keep down abandon her suddenly, -her half-mournful, half-triumphant exultation subside, every fibre of her body, -relaxed in tenderness, go stiff in the close look she took at his face. He -<i>was</i> different. There was something. Yes, there was something between -them, something hard and impalpable, the ghost of these high walls. -</p> - -<p> -How old he was, how unlike! -</p> - -<p> -She shook off this impression, amazed and frightened by it of course. And -remorseful too. Naturally. She threw her arms round his neck. He returned that -hug awkwardly, as if not in perfect control of his arms, with a fumbling and -uncertain pressure. She hid her face on his breast. It was as though she were -pressing it against a stone. They released each other and presently the cab was -rolling along at a jog-trot to the docks with those two people as far apart as -they could get from each other, in opposite corners. -</p> - -<p> -After a silence given up to mutual examination he uttered his first coherent -sentence outside the walls of the prison. -</p> - -<p> -“What has done for me was envy. Envy. There was a lot of them just bursting -with it every time they looked my way. I was doing too well. So they went to -the Public Prosecutor—” -</p> - -<p> -She said hastily “Yes! Yes! I know,” and he glared as if resentful that the -child had turned into a young woman without waiting for him to come out. “What -do you know about it?” he asked. “You were too young.” His speech was soft. The -old voice, the old voice! It gave her a thrill. She recognized its pointless -gentleness always the same no matter what he had to say. And she remembered -that he never had much to say when he came down to see her. It was she who -chattered, chattered, on their walks, while stiff and with a rigidly-carried -head, he dropped a gentle word now and then. -</p> - -<p> -Moved by these recollections waking up within her, she explained to him that -within the last year she had read and studied the report of the trial. -</p> - -<p> -“I went through the files of several papers, papa.” -</p> - -<p> -He looked at her suspiciously. The reports were probably very incomplete. No -doubt the reporters had garbled his evidence. They were determined to give him -no chance either in court or before the public opinion. It was a conspiracy . . -. “My counsel was a fool too,” he added. “Did you notice? A perfect fool.” -</p> - -<p> -She laid her hand on his arm soothingly. “Is it worth while talking about that -awful time? It is so far away now.” She shuddered slightly at the thought of -all the horrible years which had passed over her young head; never guessing -that for him the time was but yesterday. He folded his arms on his breast, -leaned back in his corner and bowed his head. But in a little while he made her -jump by asking suddenly: -</p> - -<p> -“Who has got hold of the Lone Valley Railway? That’s what they were after -mainly. Somebody has got it. Parfitts and Co. grabbed it—eh? Or was it that -fellow Warner . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“I—I don’t know,” she said quite scared by the twitching of his lips. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t know!” he exclaimed softly. Hadn’t her cousin told her? Oh yes. She had -left them—of course. Why did she? It was his first question about herself but -she did not answer it. She did not want to talk of these horrors. They were -impossible to describe. She perceived though that he had not expected an -answer, because she heard him muttering to himself that: “There was half a -million’s worth of work done and material accumulated there.” -</p> - -<p> -“You mustn’t think of these things, papa,” she said firmly. And he asked her -with that invariable gentleness, in which she seemed now to detect some rather -ugly shades, what else had he to think about? Another year or two, if they had -only left him alone, he and everybody else would have been all right, rolling -in money; and she, his daughter, could have married anybody—anybody. A lord. -</p> - -<p> -All this was to him like yesterday, a long yesterday, a yesterday gone over -innumerable times, analysed, meditated upon for years. It had a vividness and -force for that old man of which his daughter who had not been shut out of the -world could have no idea. She was to him the only living figure out of that -past, and it was perhaps in perfect good faith that he added, coldly, -inexpressive and thin-lipped: “I lived only for you, I may say. I suppose you -understand that. There were only you and me.” -</p> - -<p> -Moved by this declaration, wondering that it did not warm her heart more, she -murmured a few endearing words while the uppermost thought in her mind was that -she must tell him now of the situation. She had expected to be questioned -anxiously about herself—and while she desired it she shrank from the answers -she would have to make. But her father seemed strangely, unnaturally incurious. -It looked as if there would be no questions. Still this was an opening. This -seemed to be the time for her to begin. And she began. She began by saying that -she had always felt like that. There were two of them, to live for each other. -And if he only knew what she had gone through! -</p> - -<p> -Ensconced in his corner, with his arms folded, he stared out of the cab window -at the street. How little he was changed after all. It was the unmovable -expression, the faded stare she used to see on the esplanade whenever walking -by his side hand in hand she raised her eyes to his face—while she chattered, -chattered. It was the same stiff, silent figure which at a word from her would -turn rigidly into a shop and buy her anything it occurred to her that she would -like to have. Flora de Barral’s voice faltered. He bent on her that -well-remembered glance in which she had never read anything as a child, except -the consciousness of her existence. And that was enough for a child who had -never known demonstrative affection. But she had lived a life so starved of all -feeling that this was no longer enough for her. What was the good of telling -him the story of all these miseries now past and gone, of all those bewildering -difficulties and humiliations? What she must tell him was difficult enough to -say. She approached it by remarking cheerfully: -</p> - -<p> -“You haven’t even asked me where I am taking you.” He started like a -somnambulist awakened suddenly, and there was now some meaning in his stare; a -sort of alarmed speculation. He opened his mouth slowly. Flora struck in with -forced gaiety. “You would never, guess.” -</p> - -<p> -He waited, still more startled and suspicious. “Guess! Why don’t you tell me?” -</p> - -<p> -He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward towards her. She got hold of one of -his hands. “You must know first . . . ” She paused, made an effort: “I am -married, papa.” -</p> - -<p> -For a moment they kept perfectly still in that cab rolling on at a steady -jog-trot through a narrow city street full of bustle. Whatever she expected she -did not expect to feel his hand snatched away from her grasp as if from a burn -or a contamination. De Barral fresh from the stagnant torment of the prison -(where nothing happens) had not expected that sort of news. It seemed to stick -in his throat. In strangled low tones he cried out, “You—married? You, Flora! -When? Married! What for? Who to? Married!” -</p> - -<p> -His eyes which were blue like hers, only faded, without depth, seemed to start -out of their orbits. He did really look as if he were choking. He even put his -hand to his collar . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“You know,” continued Marlow out of the shadow of the bookcase and nearly -invisible in the depths of the arm-chair, “the only time I saw him he had given -me the impression of absolute rigidity, as though he had swallowed a poker. But -it seems that he could collapse. I can hardly picture this to myself. I -understand that he did collapse to a certain extent in his corner of the cab. -The unexpected had crumpled him up. She regarded him perplexed, pitying, a -little disillusioned, and nodded at him gravely: Yes. Married. What she did not -like was to see him smile in a manner far from encouraging to the devotion of a -daughter. There was something unintentionally savage in it. Old de Barral could -not quite command his muscles, as yet. But he had recovered command of his -gentle voice. -</p> - -<p> -“You were just saying that in this wide world there we were, only you and I, to -stick to each other.” -</p> - -<p> -She was dimly aware of the scathing intention lurking in these soft low tones, -in these words which appealed to her poignantly. She defended herself. Never, -never for a single moment had she ceased to think of him. Neither did he cease -to think of her, he said, with as much sinister emphasis as he was capable of. -</p> - -<p> -“But, papa,” she cried, “I haven’t been shut up like you.” She didn’t mind -speaking of it because he was innocent. He hadn’t been understood. It was a -misfortune of the most cruel kind but no more disgraceful than an illness, a -maiming accident or some other visitation of blind fate. “I wish I had been -too. But I was alone out in the world, the horrid world, that very world which -had used you so badly.” -</p> - -<p> -“And you couldn’t go about in it without finding somebody to fall in love -with?” he said. A jealous rage affected his brain like the fumes of wine, -rising from some secret depths of his being so long deprived of all emotions. -The hollows at the corners of his lips became more pronounced in the puffy -roundness of his cheeks. Images, visions, obsess with particular force, men -withdrawn from the sights and sounds of active life. “And I did nothing but -think of you!” he exclaimed under his breath, contemptuously. “Think of you! -You haunted me, I tell you.” -</p> - -<p> -Flora said to herself that there was a being who loved her. “Then we have been -haunting each other,” she declared with a pang of remorse. For indeed he had -haunted her nearly out of the world, into a final and irremediable desertion. -“Some day I shall tell you . . . No. I don’t think I can ever tell you. There -was a time when I was mad. But what’s the good? It’s all over now. We shall -forget all this. There shall be nothing to remind us.” -</p> - -<p> -De Barral moved his shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -“I should think you were mad to tie yourself to . . . How long is it since you -are married?” -</p> - -<p> -She answered “Not long” that being the only answer she dared to make. -Everything was so different from what she imagined it would be. He wanted to -know why she had said nothing of it in any of her letters; in her last letter. -She said: -</p> - -<p> -“It was after.” -</p> - -<p> -“So recently!” he wondered. “Couldn’t you wait at least till I came out? You -could have told me; asked me; consulted me! Let me see—” -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head negatively. And he was appalled. He thought to himself: Who -can he be? Some miserable, silly youth without a penny. Or perhaps some -scoundrel? Without making any expressive movement he wrung his loosely-clasped -hands till the joints cracked. He looked at her. She was pretty. Some low -scoundrel who will cast her off. Some plausible vagabond . . . “You couldn’t -wait—eh?” -</p> - -<p> -Again she made a slight negative sign. -</p> - -<p> -“Why not? What was the hurry?” She cast down her eyes. “It had to be. Yes. It -was sudden, but it had to be.” -</p> - -<p> -He leaned towards her, his mouth open, his eyes wild with virtuous anger, but -meeting the absolute candour of her raised glance threw himself back into his -corner again. -</p> - -<p> -“So tremendously in love with each other—was that it? Couldn’t let a father -have his daughter all to himself even for a day after—after such a separation. -And you know I never had anyone, I had no friends. What did I want with those -people one meets in the City. The best of them are ready to cut your throat. -Yes! Business men, gentlemen, any sort of men and women—out of spite, or to get -something. Oh yes, they can talk fair enough if they think there’s something to -be got out of you . . . ” His voice was a mere breath yet every word came to -Flora as distinctly as if charged with all the moving power of passion . . . -“My girl, I looked at them making up to me and I would say to myself: What do I -care for all that! I am a business man. I am the great Mr. de Barral (yes, yes, -some of them twisted their mouths at it, but I <i>was</i> the great Mr. de -Barral) and I have my little girl. I wanted nobody and I have never had -anybody.” -</p> - -<p> -A true emotion had unsealed his lips but the words that came out of them were -no louder than the murmur of a light wind. It died away. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s just it,” said Flora de Barral under her breath. Without removing his -eyes from her he took off his hat. It was a tall hat. The hat of the trial. The -hat of the thumb-nail sketches in the illustrated papers. One comes out in the -same clothes, but seclusion counts! It is well known that lurid visions haunt -secluded men, monks, hermits—then why not prisoners? De Barral the convict took -off the silk hat of the financier de Barral and deposited it on the front seat -of the cab. Then he blew out his cheeks. He was red in the face. -</p> - -<p> -“And then what happens?” he began again in his contained voice. “Here I am, -overthrown, broken by envy, malice and all uncharitableness. I come out—and -what do I find? I find that my girl Flora has gone and married some man or -other, perhaps a fool, how do I know; or perhaps—anyway not good enough.” -</p> - -<p> -“Stop, papa.” -</p> - -<p> -“A silly love affair as likely as not,” he continued monotonously, his thin -lips writhing between the ill-omened sunk corners. “And a very suspicious thing -it is too, on the part of a loving daughter.” -</p> - -<p> -She tried to interrupt him but he went on till she actually clapped her hand on -his mouth. He rolled his eyes a bit but when she took her hand away he remained -silent. -</p> - -<p> -“Wait. I must tell you . . . And first of all, papa, understand this, for -everything’s in that: he is the most generous man in the world. He is . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -De Barral very still in his corner uttered with an effort “You are in love with -him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Papa! He came to me. I was thinking of you. I had no eyes for anybody. I could -no longer bear to think of you. It was then that he came. Only then. At that -time when—when I was going to give up.” -</p> - -<p> -She gazed into his faded blue eyes as if yearning to be understood, to be given -encouragement, peace—a word of sympathy. He declared without animation “I would -like to break his neck.” -</p> - -<p> -She had the mental exclamation of the overburdened. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh my God!” and watched him with frightened eyes. But he did not appear insane -or in any other way formidable. This comforted her. The silence lasted for some -little time. Then suddenly he asked: -</p> - -<p> -“What’s your name then?” -</p> - -<p> -For a moment in the profound trouble of the task before her she did not -understand what the question meant. Then, her face faintly flushing, she -whispered: “Anthony.” -</p> - -<p> -Her father, a red spot on each cheek, leaned his head back wearily in the -corner of the cab. -</p> - -<p> -“Anthony. What is he? Where did he spring from?” -</p> - -<p> -“Papa, it was in the country, on a road—” -</p> - -<p> -He groaned, “On a road,” and closed his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s too long to explain to you now. We shall have lots of time. There are -things I could not tell you now. But some day. Some day. For now nothing can -part us. Nothing. We are safe as long as we live—nothing can ever come between -us.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are infatuated with the fellow,” he remarked, without opening his eyes. -And she said: “I believe in him,” in a low voice. “You and I must believe in -him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who the devil is he?” -</p> - -<p> -“He’s the brother of the lady—you know Mrs. Fyne, she knew mother—who was so -kind to me. I was staying in the country, in a cottage, with Mr. and Mrs. Fyne. -It was there that we met. He came on a visit. He noticed me. I—well—we are -married now.” -</p> - -<p> -She was thankful that his eyes were shut. It made it easier to talk of the -future she had arranged, which now was an unalterable thing. She did not enter -on the path of confidences. That was impossible. She felt he would not -understand her. She felt also that he suffered. Now and then a great anxiety -gripped her heart with a mysterious sense of guilt—as though she had betrayed -him into the hands of an enemy. With his eyes shut he had an air of weary and -pious meditation. She was a little afraid of it. Next moment a great pity for -him filled her heart. And in the background there was remorse. His face -twitched now and then just perceptibly. He managed to keep his eyelids down -till he heard that the ‘husband’ was a sailor and that he, the father, was -being taken straight on board ship ready to sail away from this abominable -world of treacheries, and scorns and envies and lies, away, away over the blue -sea, the sure, the inaccessible, the uncontaminated and spacious refuge for -wounded souls. -</p> - -<p> -Something like that. Not the very words perhaps but such was the general sense -of her overwhelming argument—the argument of refuge. -</p> - -<p> -I don’t think she gave a thought to material conditions. But as part of that -argument set forth breathlessly, as if she were afraid that if she stopped for -a moment she could never go on again, she mentioned that generosity of a stormy -type, which had come to her from the sea, had caught her up on the brink of -unmentionable failure, had whirled her away in its first ardent gust and could -be trusted now, implicitly trusted, to carry them both, side by side, into -absolute safety. -</p> - -<p> -She believed it, she affirmed it. He understood thoroughly at last, and at once -the interior of that cab, of an aspect so pacific in the eyes of the people on -the pavements, became the scene of a great agitation. The generosity of -Roderick Anthony—the son of the poet—affected the ex-financier de Barral in a -manner which must have brought home to Flora de Barral the extreme arduousness -of the business of being a woman. Being a woman is a terribly difficult trade -since it consists principally of dealings with men. This man—the man inside the -cab—cast oft his stiff placidity and behaved like an animal. I don’t mean it in -an offensive sense. What he did was to give way to an instinctive panic. Like -some wild creature scared by the first touch of a net falling on its back, old -de Barral began to struggle, lank and angular, against the empty air—as much of -it as there was in the cab—with staring eyes and gasping mouth from which his -daughter shrank as far as she could in the confined space. -</p> - -<p> -“Stop the cab. Stop him I tell you. Let me get out!” were the strangled -exclamations she heard. Why? What for? To do what? He would hear nothing. She -cried to him “Papa! Papa! What do you want to do?” And all she got from him -was: “Stop. I must get out. I want to think. I must get out to think.” -</p> - -<p> -It was a mercy that he didn’t attempt to open the door at once. He only stuck -his head and shoulders out of the window crying to the cabman. She saw the -consequences, the cab stopping, a crowd collecting around a raving old -gentleman . . . In this terrible business of being a woman so full of fine -shades, of delicate perplexities (and very small rewards) you can never know -what rough work you may have to do, at any moment. Without hesitation Flora -seized her father round the body and pulled back—being astonished at the ease -with which she managed to make him drop into his seat again. She kept him there -resolutely with one hand pressed against his breast, and leaning across him, -she, in her turn put her head and shoulders out of the window. By then the cab -had drawn up to the curbstone and was stopped. “No! I’ve changed my mind. Go on -please where you were told first. To the docks.” -</p> - -<p> -She wondered at the steadiness of her own voice. She heard a grunt from the -driver and the cab began to roll again. Only then she sank into her place -keeping a watchful eye on her companion. He was hardly anything more by this -time. Except for her childhood’s impressions he was just—a man. Almost a -stranger. How was one to deal with him? And there was the other too. Also -almost a stranger. The trade of being a woman was very difficult. Too -difficult. Flora closed her eyes saying to herself: “If I think too much about -it I shall go mad.” And then opening them she asked her father if the prospect -of living always with his daughter and being taken care of by her affection -away from the world, which had no honour to give to his grey hairs, was such an -awful prospect. -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me, is it so bad as that?” -</p> - -<p> -She put that question sadly, without bitterness. The famous—or notorious—de -Barral had lost his rigidity now. He was bent. Nothing more deplorably futile -than a bent poker. He said nothing. She added gently, suppressing an uneasy -remorseful sigh: -</p> - -<p> -“And it might have been worse. You might have found no one, no one in all this -town, no one in all the world, not even me! Poor papa!” -</p> - -<p> -She made a conscience-stricken movement towards him thinking: “Oh! I am -horrible, I am horrible.” And old de Barral, scared, tired, bewildered by the -extraordinary shocks of his liberation, swayed over and actually leaned his -head on her shoulder, as if sorrowing over his regained freedom. -</p> - -<p> -The movement by itself was touching. Flora supporting him lightly imagined that -he was crying; and at the thought that had she smashed in a quarry that -shoulder, together with some other of her bones, this grey and pitiful head -would have had nowhere to rest, she too gave way to tears. They flowed quietly, -easing her overstrained nerves. Suddenly he pushed her away from him so that -her head struck the side of the cab, pushing himself away too from her as if -something had stung him. -</p> - -<p> -All the warmth went out of her emotion. The very last tears turned cold on her -cheek. But their work was done. She had found courage, resolution, as women do, -in a good cry. With his hand covering the upper part of his face whether to -conceal his eyes or to shut out an unbearable sight, he was stiffening up in -his corner to his usual poker-like consistency. She regarded him in silence. -His thin obstinate lips moved. He uttered the name of the cousin—the man, you -remember, who did not approve of the Fynes, and whom rightly or wrongly little -Fyne suspected of interested motives, in view of de Barral having possibly put -away some plunder, somewhere before the smash. -</p> - -<p> -I may just as well tell you at once that I don’t know anything more of him. But -de Barral was of the opinion, speaking in his low voice from under his hand, -that this relation would have been only too glad to have secured his guidance. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I could not come forward in my own name, or person. But the advice -of a man of my experience is as good as a fortune to anybody wishing to venture -into finance. The same sort of thing can be done again.” -</p> - -<p> -He shuffled his feet a little, let fall his hand; and turning carefully toward -his daughter his puffy round cheeks, his round chin resting on his collar, he -bent on her the faded, resentful gaze of his pale eyes, which were wet. -</p> - -<p> -“The start is really only a matter of judicious advertising. There’s no -difficulty. And here you go and . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -He turned his face away. “After all I am still de Barral, <i>the</i> de Barral. -Didn’t you remember that?” -</p> - -<p> -“Papa,” said Flora; “listen. It’s you who must remember that there is no longer -a de Barral . . . ” He looked at her sideways anxiously. “There is Mr. Smith, -whom no harm, no trouble, no wicked lies of evil people can ever touch.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Smith,” he breathed out slowly. “Where does he belong to? There’s not even -a Miss Smith.” -</p> - -<p> -“There is your Flora.” -</p> - -<p> -“My Flora! You went and . . . I can’t bear to think of it. It’s horrible.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. It was horrible enough at times,” she said with feeling, because somehow, -obscurely, what this man said appealed to her as if it were her own thought -clothed in an enigmatic emotion. “I think with shame sometimes how I . . . No -not yet. I shall not tell you. At least not now.” -</p> - -<p> -The cab turned into the gateway of the dock. Flora handed the tall hat to her -father. “Here, papa. And please be good. I suppose you love me. If you don’t, -then I wonder who—” -</p> - -<p> -He put the hat on, and stiffened hard in his corner, kept a sidelong glance on -his girl. “Try to be nice for my sake. Think of the years I have been waiting -for you. I do indeed want support—and peace. A little peace.” -</p> - -<p> -She clasped his arm suddenly with both hands pressing with all her might as if -to crush the resistance she felt in him. “I could not have peace if I did not -have you with me. I won’t let you go. Not after all I went through. I won’t.” -The nervous force of her grip frightened him a little. She laughed suddenly. -“It’s absurd. It’s as if I were asking you for a sacrifice. What am I afraid -of? Where could you go? I mean now, to-day, to-night? You can’t tell me. Have -you thought of it? Well I have been thinking of it for the last year. Longer. I -nearly went mad trying to find out. I believe I was mad for a time or else I -should never have thought . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“This was as near as she came to a confession,” remarked Marlow in a changed -tone. “The confession I mean of that walk to the top of the quarry which she -reproached herself with so bitterly. And he made of it what his fancy -suggested. It could not possibly be a just notion. The cab stopped alongside -the ship and they got out in the manner described by the sensitive Franklin. I -don’t know if they suspected each other’s sanity at the end of that drive. But -that is possible. We all seem a little mad to each other; an excellent -arrangement for the bulk of humanity which finds in it an easy motive of -forgiveness. Flora crossed the quarter-deck with a rapidity born of -apprehension. It had grown unbearable. She wanted this business over. She was -thankful on looking back to see he was following her. “If he bolts away,” she -thought, “then I shall know that I am of no account indeed! That no one loves -me, that words and actions and protestations and everything in the world is -false—and I shall jump into the dock. <i>That</i> at least won’t lie.” -</p> - -<p> -Well I don’t know. If it had come to that she would have been most likely -fished out, what with her natural want of luck and the good many people on the -quay and on board. And just where the <i>Ferndale</i> was moored there hung on -a wall (I know the berth) a coil of line, a pole, and a life-buoy kept there on -purpose to save people who tumble into the dock. It’s not so easy to get away -from life’s betrayals as she thought. However it did not come to that. He -followed her with his quick gliding walk. Mr. Smith! The liberated convict de -Barral passed off the solid earth for the last time, vanished for ever, and -there was Mr. Smith added to that world of waters which harbours so many queer -fishes. An old gentleman in a silk hat, darting wary glances. He followed, -because mere existence has its claims which are obeyed mechanically. I have no -doubt he presented a respectable figure. Father-in-law. Nothing more -respectable. But he carried in his heart the confused pain of dismay and -affection, of involuntary repulsion and pity. Very much like his daughter. Only -in addition he felt a furious jealousy of the man he was going to see. -</p> - -<p> -A residue of egoism remains in every affection—even paternal. And this man in -the seclusion of his prison had thought himself into such a sense of ownership -of that single human being he had to think about, as may well be inconceivable -to us who have not had to serve a long (and wickedly unjust) sentence of penal -servitude. She was positively the only thing, the one point where his thoughts -found a resting-place, for years. She was the only outlet for his imagination. -He had not much of that faculty to be sure, but there was in it the force of -concentration. He felt outraged, and perhaps it was an absurdity on his part, -but I venture to suggest rather in degree than in kind. I have a notion that no -usual, normal father is pleased at parting with his daughter. No. Not even when -he rationally appreciates “Jane being taken off his hands” or perhaps is able -to exult at an excellent match. At bottom, quite deep down, down in the dark -(in some cases only by digging), there is to be found a certain repugnance . . -. With mothers of course it is different. Women are more loyal, not to each -other, but to their common femininity which they behold triumphant with a -secret and proud satisfaction. -</p> - -<p> -The circumstances of that match added to Mr. Smith’s indignation. And if he -followed his daughter into that ship’s cabin it was as if into a house of -disgrace and only because he was still bewildered by the suddenness of the -thing. His will, so long lying fallow, was overborne by her determination and -by a vague fear of that regained liberty. -</p> - -<p> -You will be glad to hear that Anthony, though he did shirk the welcome on the -quay, behaved admirably, with the simplicity of a man who has no small -meannesses and makes no mean reservations. His eyes did not flinch and his -tongue did not falter. He was, I have it on the best authority, admirable in -his earnestness, in his sincerity and also in his restraint. He was perfect. -Nevertheless the vital force of his unknown individuality addressing him so -familiarly was enough to fluster Mr. Smith. Flora saw her father trembling in -all his exiguous length, though he held himself stiffer than ever if that was -possible. He muttered a little and at last managed to utter, not loud of course -but very distinctly: “I am here under protest,” the corners of his mouth sunk -disparagingly, his eyes stony. “I am here under protest. I have been locked up -by a conspiracy. I—” -</p> - -<p> -He raised his hands to his forehead—his silk hat was on the table rim upwards; -he had put it there with a despairing gesture as he came in—he raised his hands -to his forehead. “It seems to me unfair. I—” He broke off again. Anthony looked -at Flora who stood by the side of her father. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, sir, you will soon get used to me. Surely you and she must have had -enough of shore-people and their confounded half-and-half ways to last you both -for a life-time. A particularly merciful lot they are too. You ask Flora. I am -alluding to my own sister, her best friend, and not a bad woman either as they -go.” -</p> - -<p> -The captain of the <i>Ferndale</i> checked himself. “Lucky thing I was there to -step in. I want you to make yourself at home, and before long—” -</p> - -<p> -The faded stare of the Great de Barral silenced Anthony by its inexpressive -fixity. He signalled with his eyes to Flora towards the door of the state-room -fitted specially to receive Mr. Smith, the free man. She seized the free man’s -hat off the table and took him caressingly under the arm. “Yes! This is home, -come and see your room, papa!” -</p> - -<p> -Anthony himself threw open the door and Flora took care to shut it carefully -behind herself and her father. “See,” she began but desisted because it was -clear that he would look at none of the contrivances for his comfort. She -herself had hardly seen them before. He was looking only at the new carpet and -she waited till he should raise his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -He didn’t do that but spoke in his usual voice. “So this is your husband, that -. . . And I locked up!” -</p> - -<p> -“Papa, what’s the good of harping on that,” she remonstrated no louder. “He is -kind.” -</p> - -<p> -“And you went and . . . married him so that he should be kind to me. Is that -it? How did you know that I wanted anybody to be kind to me?” -</p> - -<p> -“How strange you are!” she said thoughtfully. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s hard for a man who has gone through what I have gone through to feel like -other people. Has that occurred to you? . . . ” He looked up at last . . . -“Mrs. Anthony, I can’t bear the sight of the fellow.” She met his eyes without -flinching and he added, “You want to go to him now.” His mild automatic manner -seemed the effect of tremendous self-restraint—and yet she remembered him -always like that. She felt cold all over. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, of course, I must go to him,” she said with a slight start. -</p> - -<p> -He gnashed his teeth at her and she went out. -</p> - -<p> -Anthony had not moved from the spot. One of his hands was resting on the table. -She went up to him, stopped, then deliberately moved still closer. “Thank you, -Roderick.” -</p> - -<p> -“You needn’t thank me,” he murmured. “It’s I who . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“No, perhaps I needn’t. You do what you like. But you are doing it well.” -</p> - -<p> -He sighed then hardly above a whisper because they were near the state-room -door, “Upset, eh?” -</p> - -<p> -She made no sign, no sound of any kind. The thorough falseness of the position -weighed on them both. But he was the braver of the two. “I dare say. At first. -Did you think of telling him you were happy?” -</p> - -<p> -“He never asked me,” she smiled faintly at him. She was disappointed by his -quietness. “I did not say more than I was absolutely obliged to say—of myself.” -She was beginning to be irritated with this man a little. “I told him I had -been very lucky,” she said suddenly despondent, missing Anthony’s masterful -manner, that something arbitrary and tender which, after the first scare, she -had accustomed herself to look forward to with pleasurable apprehension. He was -contemplating her rather blankly. She had not taken off her outdoor things, -hat, gloves. She was like a caller. And she had a movement suggesting the end -of a not very satisfactory business call. “Perhaps it would be just as well if -we went ashore. Time yet.” -</p> - -<p> -He gave her a glimpse of his unconstrained self in the low vehement “You dare!” -which sprang to his lips and out of them with a most menacing inflexion. -</p> - -<p> -“You dare . . . What’s the matter now?” -</p> - -<p> -These last words were shot out not at her but at some target behind her back. -Looking over her shoulder she saw the bald head with black bunches of hair of -the congested and devoted Franklin (he had his cap in his hand) gazing -sentimentally from the saloon doorway with his lobster eyes. He was heard from -the distance in a tone of injured innocence reporting that the berthing master -was alongside and that he wanted to move the ship into the basin before the -crew came on board. -</p> - -<p> -His captain growled “Well, let him,” and waved away the ulcerated and pathetic -soul behind these prominent eyes which lingered on the offensive woman while -the mate backed out slowly. Anthony turned to Flora. -</p> - -<p> -“You could not have meant it. You are as straight as they make them.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am trying to be.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then don’t joke in that way. Think of what would become of—me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes. I forgot. No, I didn’t mean it. It wasn’t a joke. It was -forgetfulness. You wouldn’t have been wronged. I couldn’t have gone. I—I am too -tired.” -</p> - -<p> -He saw she was swaying where she stood and restrained himself violently from -taking her into his arms, his frame trembling with fear as though he had been -tempted to an act of unparalleled treachery. He stepped aside and lowering his -eyes pointed to the door of the stern-cabin. It was only after she passed by -him that he looked up and thus he did not see the angry glance she gave him -before she moved on. He looked after her. She tottered slightly just before -reaching the door and flung it to behind her nervously. -</p> - -<p> -Anthony—he had felt this crash as if the door had been slammed inside his very -breast—stood for a moment without moving and then shouted for Mrs. Brown. This -was the steward’s wife, his lucky inspiration to make Flora comfortable. “Mrs. -Brown! Mrs. Brown!” At last she appeared from somewhere. “Mrs. Anthony has come -on board. Just gone into the cabin. Hadn’t you better see if you can be of any -assistance?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -And again he was alone with the situation he had created in the hardihood and -inexperience of his heart. He thought he had better go on deck. In fact he -ought to have been there before. At any rate it would be the usual thing for -him to be on deck. But a sound of muttering and of faint thuds somewhere near -by arrested his attention. They proceeded from Mr. Smith’s room, he perceived. -It was very extraordinary. “He’s talking to himself,” he thought. “He seems to -be thumping the bulkhead with his fists—or his head.” -</p> - -<p> -Anthony’s eyes grew big with wonder while he listened to these noises. He -became so attentive that he did not notice Mrs. Brown till she actually stopped -before him for a moment to say: -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Anthony doesn’t want any assistance, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -This was you understand the voyage before Mr. Powell—young Powell then—joined -the <i>Ferndale</i>; chance having arranged that he should get his start in -life in that particular ship of all the ships then in the port of London. The -most unrestful ship that ever sailed out of any port on earth. I am not -alluding to her sea-going qualities. Mr. Powell tells me she was as steady as a -church. I mean unrestful in the sense, for instance in which this planet of -ours is unrestful—a matter of an uneasy atmosphere disturbed by passions, -jealousies, loves, hates and the troubles of transcendental good intentions, -which, though ethically valuable, I have no doubt cause often more unhappiness -than the plots of the most evil tendency. For those who refuse to believe in -chance he, I mean Mr. Powell, must have been obviously predestined to add his -native ingenuousness to the sum of all the others carried by the honest ship -<i>Ferndale</i>. He was too ingenuous. Everybody on board was, exception being -made of Mr. Smith who, however, was simple enough in his way, with that -terrible simplicity of the fixed idea, for which there is also another name men -pronounce with dread and aversion. His fixed idea was to save his girl from the -man who had possessed himself of her (I use these words on purpose because the -image they suggest was clearly in Mr. Smith’s mind), possessed himself unfairly -of her while he, the father, was locked up. -</p> - -<p> -“I won’t rest till I have got you away from that man,” he would murmur to her -after long periods of contemplation. We know from Powell how he used to sit on -the skylight near the long deck-chair on which Flora was reclining, gazing into -her face from above with an air of guardianship and investigation at the same -time. -</p> - -<p> -It is almost impossible to say if he ever had considered the event rationally. -The avatar of de Barral into Mr. Smith had not been effected without a -shock—that much one must recognize. It may be that it drove all practical -considerations out of his mind, making room for awful and precise visions which -nothing could dislodge afterwards. -</p> - -<p> -And it might have been the tenacity, the unintelligent tenacity, of the man who -had persisted in throwing millions of other people’s thrift into the Lone -Valley Railway, the Labrador Docks, the Spotted Leopard Copper Mine, and other -grotesque speculations exposed during the famous de Barral trial, amongst -murmurs of astonishment mingled with bursts of laughter. For it is in the -Courts of Law that Comedy finds its last refuge in our deadly serious world. As -to tears and lamentations, these were not heard in the august precincts of -comedy, because they were indulged in privately in several thousand homes, -where, with a fine dramatic effect, hunger had taken the place of Thrift. -</p> - -<p> -But there was one at least who did not laugh in court. That person was the -accused. The notorious de Barral did not laugh because he was indignant. He was -impervious to words, to facts, to inferences. It would have been impossible to -make him see his guilt or his folly—either by evidence or argument—if anybody -had tried to argue. -</p> - -<p> -Neither did his daughter Flora try to argue with him. The cruelty of her -position was so great, its complications so thorny, if I may express myself so, -that a passive attitude was yet her best refuge—as it had been before her of so -many women. -</p> - -<p> -For that sort of inertia in woman is always enigmatic and therefore menacing. -It makes one pause. A woman may be a fool, a sleepy fool, an agitated fool, a -too awfully noxious fool, and she may even be simply stupid. But she is never -dense. She’s never made of wood through and through as some men are. There is -in woman always, somewhere, a spring. Whatever men don’t know about women (and -it may be a lot or it may be very little) men and even fathers do know that -much. And that is why so many men are afraid of them. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Smith I believe was afraid of his daughter’s quietness though of course he -interpreted it in his own way. -</p> - -<p> -He would, as Mr. Powell depicts, sit on the skylight and bend over the -reclining girl, wondering what there was behind the lost gaze under the -darkened eyelids in the still eyes. He would look and look and then he would -say, whisper rather, it didn’t take much for his voice to drop to a mere -breath—he would declare, transferring his faded stare to the horizon, that he -would never rest till he had “got her away from that man.” -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t know what you are saying, papa.” -</p> - -<p> -She would try not to show her weariness, the nervous strain of these two men’s -antagonism around her person which was the cause of her languid attitudes. For -as a matter of fact the sea agreed with her. -</p> - -<p> -As likely as not Anthony would be walking on the other side of the deck. The -strain was making him restless. He couldn’t sit still anywhere. He had tried -shutting himself up in his cabin; but that was no good. He would jump up to -rush on deck and tramp, tramp up and down that poop till he felt ready to drop, -without being able to wear down the agitation of his soul, generous indeed, but -weighted by its envelope of blood and muscle and bone; handicapped by the brain -creating precise images and everlastingly speculating, speculating—looking out -for signs, watching for symptoms. -</p> - -<p> -And Mr. Smith with a slight backward jerk of his small head at the footsteps on -the other side of the skylight would insist in his awful, hopelessly gentle -voice that he knew very well what he was saying. Hadn’t she given herself to -that man while he was locked up. -</p> - -<p> -“Helpless, in jail, with no one to think of, nothing to look forward to, but my -daughter. And then when they let me out at last I find her gone—for it amounts -to this. Sold. Because you’ve sold yourself; you know you have.” -</p> - -<p> -With his round unmoved face, a lot of fine white hair waving in the wind-eddies -of the spanker, his glance levelled over the sea he seemed to be addressing the -universe across her reclining form. She would protest sometimes. -</p> - -<p> -“I wish you would not talk like this, papa. You are only tormenting me, and -tormenting yourself.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I am tormented enough,” he admitted meaningly. But it was not talking -about it that tormented him. It was thinking of it. And to sit and look at it -was worse for him than it possibly could have been for her to go and give -herself up, bad as that must have been. -</p> - -<p> -“For of course you suffered. Don’t tell me you didn’t? You must have.” -</p> - -<p> -She had renounced very soon all attempts at protests. It was useless. It might -have made things worse; and she did not want to quarrel with her father, the -only human being that really cared for her, absolutely, evidently, -completely—to the end. There was in him no pity, no generosity, nothing -whatever of these fine things—it was for her, for her very own self such as it -was, that this human being cared. This certitude would have made her put up -with worse torments. For, of course, she too was being tormented. She felt also -helpless, as if the whole enterprise had been too much for her. This is the -sort of conviction which makes for quietude. She was becoming a fatalist. -</p> - -<p> -What must have been rather appalling were the necessities of daily life, the -intercourse of current trifles. That naturally had to go on. They wished good -morning to each other, they sat down together to meals—and I believe there -would be a game of cards now and then in the evening, especially at first. What -frightened her most was the duplicity of her father, at least what looked like -duplicity, when she remembered his persistent, insistent whispers on deck. -However her father was a taciturn person as far back as she could remember him -best—on the Parade. It was she who chattered, never troubling herself to -discover whether he was pleased or displeased. And now she couldn’t fathom his -thoughts. Neither did she chatter to him. Anthony with a forced friendly smile -as if frozen to his lips seemed only too thankful at not being made to speak. -Mr. Smith sometimes forgot himself while studying his hand so long that Flora -had to recall him to himself by a murmured “Papa—your lead.” Then he apologized -by a faint as if inward ejaculation “Beg your pardon, Captain.” Naturally she -addressed Anthony as Roderick and he addressed her as Flora. This was all the -acting that was necessary to judge from the wincing twitch of the old man’s -mouth at every uttered “Flora.” On hearing the rare “Rodericks” he had -sometimes a scornful grimace as faint and faded and colourless as his whole -stiff personality. -</p> - -<p> -He would be the first to retire. He was not infirm. With him too the life on -board ship seemed to agree; but from a sense of duty, of affection, or to -placate his hidden fury, his daughter always accompanied him to his state-room -“to make him comfortable.” She lighted his lamp, helped him into his -dressing-gown or got him a book from a bookcase fitted in there—but this last -rarely, because Mr. Smith used to declare “I am no reader” with something like -pride in his low tones. Very often after kissing her good-night on the forehead -he would treat her to some such fretful remark: “It’s like being in jail—’pon -my word. I suppose that man is out there waiting for you. Head jailer! Ough!” -</p> - -<p> -She would smile vaguely; murmur a conciliatory “How absurd.” But once, out of -patience, she said quite sharply “Leave off. It hurts me. One would think you -hate me.” -</p> - -<p> -“It isn’t you I hate,” he went on monotonously breathing at her. “No, it isn’t -you. But if I saw that you loved that man I think I could hate you too.” -</p> - -<p> -That word struck straight at her heart. “You wouldn’t be the first then,” she -muttered bitterly. But he was busy with his fixed idea and uttered an awfully -equable “But you don’t! Unfortunate girl!” -</p> - -<p> -She looked at him steadily for a time then said “Good-night, papa.” -</p> - -<p> -As a matter of fact Anthony very seldom waited for her alone at the table with -the scattered cards, glasses, water-jug, bottles and soon. He took no more -opportunities to be alone with her than was absolutely necessary for the -edification of Mrs. Brown. Excellent, faithful woman; the wife of his still -more excellent and faithful steward. And Flora wished all these excellent -people, devoted to Anthony, she wished them all further; and especially the -nice, pleasant-spoken Mrs. Brown with her beady, mobile eyes and her “Yes -certainly, ma’am,” which seemed to her to have a mocking sound. And so this -short trip—to the Western Islands only—came to an end. It was so short that -when young Powell joined the <i>Ferndale</i> by a memorable stroke of chance, -no more than seven months had elapsed since the—let us say the liberation of -the convict de Barral and his avatar into Mr. Smith. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -For the time the ship was loading in London Anthony took a cottage near a -little country station in Essex, to house Mr. Smith and Mr. Smith’s daughter. -It was altogether his idea. How far it was necessary for Mr. Smith to seek -rural retreat I don’t know. Perhaps to some extent it was a judicious -arrangement. There were some obligations incumbent on the liberated de Barral -(in connection with reporting himself to the police I imagine) which Mr. Smith -was not anxious to perform. De Barral had to vanish; the theory was that de -Barral had vanished, and it had to be upheld. Poor Flora liked the country, -even if the spot had nothing more to recommend it than its retired character. -</p> - -<p> -Now and then Captain Anthony ran down; but as the station was a real wayside -one, with no early morning trains up, he could never stay for more than the -afternoon. It appeared that he must sleep in town so as to be early on board -his ship. The weather was magnificent and whenever the captain of the -<i>Ferndale</i> was seen on a brilliant afternoon coming down the road Mr. -Smith would seize his stick and toddle off for a solitary walk. But whether he -would get tired or because it gave him some satisfaction to see “that man” go -away—or for some cunning reason of his own, he was always back before the hour -of Anthony’s departure. On approaching the cottage he would see generally “that -man” lying on the grass in the orchard at some distance from his daughter -seated in a chair brought out of the cottage’s living room. Invariably Mr. -Smith made straight for them and as invariably had the feeling that his -approach was not disturbing a very intimate conversation. He sat with them, -through a silent hour or so, and then it would be time for Anthony to go. Mr. -Smith, perhaps from discretion, would casually vanish a minute or so before, -and then watch through the diamond panes of an upstairs room “that man” take a -lingering look outside the gate at the invisible Flora, lift his hat, like a -caller, and go off down the road. Then only Mr. Smith would join his daughter -again. -</p> - -<p> -These were the bad moments for her. Not always, of course, but frequently. It -was nothing extraordinary to hear Mr. Smith begin gently with some observation -like this: -</p> - -<p> -“That man is getting tired of you.” -</p> - -<p> -He would never pronounce Anthony’s name. It was always “that man.” -</p> - -<p> -Generally she would remain mute with wide open eyes gazing at nothing between -the gnarled fruit trees. Once, however, she got up and walked into the cottage. -Mr. Smith followed her carrying the chair. He banged it down resolutely and in -that smooth inexpressive tone so many ears used to bend eagerly to catch when -it came from the Great de Barral he said: -</p> - -<p> -“Let’s get away.” -</p> - -<p> -She had the strength of mind not to spin round. On the contrary she went on to -a shabby bit of a mirror on the wall. In the greenish glass her own face looked -far off like the livid face of a drowned corpse at the bottom of a pool. She -laughed faintly. -</p> - -<p> -“I tell you that man’s getting—” -</p> - -<p> -“Papa,” she interrupted him. “I have no illusions as to myself. It has happened -to me before but—” -</p> - -<p> -Her voice failing her suddenly her father struck in with quite an unwonted -animation. “Let’s make a rush for it, then.” -</p> - -<p> -Having mastered both her fright and her bitterness, she turned round, sat down -and allowed her astonishment to be seen. Mr. Smith sat down too, his knees -together and bent at right angles, his thin legs parallel to each other and his -hands resting on the arms of the wooden arm-chair. His hair had grown long, his -head was set stiffly, there was something fatuously venerable in his aspect. -</p> - -<p> -“You can’t care for him. Don’t tell me. I understand your motive. And I have -called you an unfortunate girl. You are that as much as if you had gone on the -streets. Yes. Don’t interrupt me, Flora. I was everlastingly being interrupted -at the trial and I can’t stand it any more. I won’t be interrupted by my own -child. And when I think that it is on the very day before they let me out that -you . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -He had wormed this fact out of her by that time because Flora had got tired of -evading the question. He had been very much struck and distressed. Was that the -trust she had in him? Was that a proof of confidence and love? The very day -before! Never given him even half a chance. It was as at the trial. They never -gave him a chance. They would not give him time. And there was his own daughter -acting exactly as his bitterest enemies had done. Not giving him time! -</p> - -<p> -The monotony of that subdued voice nearly lulled her dismay to sleep. She -listened to the unavoidable things he was saying. -</p> - -<p> -“But what induced that man to marry you? Of course he’s a gentleman. One can -see that. And that makes it worse. Gentlemen don’t understand anything about -city affairs—finance. Why!—the people who started the cry after me were a firm -of gentlemen. The counsel, the judge—all gentlemen—quite out of it! No notion -of . . . And then he’s a sailor too. Just a skipper—” -</p> - -<p> -“My grandfather was nothing else,” she interrupted. And he made an angular -gesture of impatience. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. But what does a silly sailor know of business? Nothing. No conception. He -can have no idea of what it means to be the daughter of Mr. de Barral—even -after his enemies had smashed him. What on earth induced him—” -</p> - -<p> -She made a movement because the level voice was getting on her nerves. And he -paused, but only to go on again in the same tone with the remark: -</p> - -<p> -“Of course you are pretty. And that’s why you are lost—like many other poor -girls. Unfortunate is the word for you.” -</p> - -<p> -She said: “It may be. Perhaps it is the right word; but listen, papa. I mean to -be honest.” -</p> - -<p> -He began to exhale more speeches. -</p> - -<p> -“Just the sort of man to get tired and then leave you and go off with his -beastly ship. And anyway you can never be happy with him. Look at his face. I -want to save you. You see I was not perhaps a very good husband to your poor -mother. She would have done better to have left me long before she died. I have -been thinking it all over. I won’t have you unhappy.” -</p> - -<p> -He ran his eyes over her with an attention which was surprisingly noticeable. -Then said, “H’m! Yes. Let’s clear out before it is too late. Quietly, you and -I.” -</p> - -<p> -She said as if inspired and with that calmness which despair often gives: -“There is no money to go away with, papa.” -</p> - -<p> -He rose up straightening himself as though he were a hinged figure. She said -decisively: -</p> - -<p> -“And of course you wouldn’t think of deserting me, papa?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course not,” sounded his subdued tone. And he left her, gliding away with -his walk which Mr. Powell described to me as being as level and wary as his -voice. He walked as if he were carrying a glass full of water on his head. -</p> - -<p> -Flora naturally said nothing to Anthony of that edifying conversation. His -generosity might have taken alarm at it and she did not want to be left behind -to manage her father alone. And moreover she was too honest. She would be -honest at whatever cost. She would not be the first to speak. Never. And the -thought came into her head: “I am indeed an unfortunate creature!” -</p> - -<p> -It was by the merest coincidence that Anthony coming for the afternoon two days -later had a talk with Mr. Smith in the orchard. Flora for some reason or other -had left them for a moment; and Anthony took that opportunity to be frank with -Mr. Smith. He said: “It seems to me, sir, that you think Flora has not done -very well for herself. Well, as to that I can’t say anything. All I want you to -know is that I have tried to do the right thing.” And then he explained that he -had willed everything he was possessed of to her. “She didn’t tell you, I -suppose?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Smith shook his head slightly. And Anthony, trying to be friendly, was just -saying that he proposed to keep the ship away from home for at least two years. -“I think, sir, that from every point of view it would be best,” when Flora came -back and the conversation, cut short in that direction, languished and died. -Later in the evening, after Anthony had been gone for hours, on the point of -separating for the night, Mr. Smith remarked suddenly to his daughter after a -long period of brooding: -</p> - -<p> -“A will is nothing. One tears it up. One makes another.” Then after reflecting -for a minute he added unemotionally: -</p> - -<p> -“One tells lies about it.” -</p> - -<p> -Flora, patient, steeled against every hurt and every disgust to the point of -wondering at herself, said: “You push your dislike of—of—Roderick too far, -papa. You have no regard for me. You hurt me.” -</p> - -<p> -He, as ever inexpressive to the point of terrifying her sometimes by the -contrast of his placidity and his words, turned away from her a pair of faded -eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder how far your dislike goes,” he began. “His very name sticks in your -throat. I’ve noticed it. It hurts me. What do you think of that? You might -remember that you are not the only person that’s hurt by your folly, by your -hastiness, by your recklessness.” He brought back his eyes to her face. “And -the very day before they were going to let me out.” His feeble voice failed him -altogether, the narrow compressed lips only trembling for a time before he -added with that extraordinary equanimity of tone, “I call it sinful.” -</p> - -<p> -Flora made no answer. She judged it simpler, kinder and certainly safer to let -him talk himself out. This, Mr. Smith, being naturally taciturn, never took -very long to do. And we must not imagine that this sort of thing went on all -the time. She had a few good days in that cottage. The absence of Anthony was a -relief and his visits were pleasurable. She was quieter. He was quieter too. -She was almost sorry when the time to join the ship arrived. It was a moment of -anguish, of excitement; they arrived at the dock in the evening and Flora after -“making her father comfortable” according to established usage lingered in the -state-room long enough to notice that he was surprised. She caught his pale -eyes observing her quite stonily. Then she went out after a cheery good-night. -</p> - -<p> -Contrary to her hopes she found Anthony yet in the saloon. Sitting in his -arm-chair at the head of the table he was picking up some business papers which -he put hastily in his breast pocket and got up. He asked her if her day, -travelling up to town and then doing some shopping, had tired her. She shook -her head. Then he wanted to know in a half-jocular way how she felt about going -away, and for a long voyage this time. -</p> - -<p> -“Does it matter how I feel?” she asked in a tone that cast a gloom over his -face. He answered with repressed violence which she did not expect: -</p> - -<p> -“No, it does not matter, because I cannot go without you. I’ve told you . . . -You know it. You don’t think I could.” -</p> - -<p> -“I assure you I haven’t the slightest wish to evade my obligations,” she said -steadily. “Even if I could. Even if I dared, even if I had to die for it!” -</p> - -<p> -He looked thunderstruck. They stood facing each other at the end of the saloon. -Anthony stuttered. “Oh no. You won’t die. You don’t mean it. You have taken -kindly to the sea.” -</p> - -<p> -She laughed, but she felt angry. -</p> - -<p> -“No, I don’t mean it. I tell you I don’t mean to evade my obligations. I shall -live on . . . feeling a little crushed, nevertheless.” -</p> - -<p> -“Crushed!” he repeated. “What’s crushing you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Your magnanimity,” she said sharply. But her voice was softened after a time. -“Yet I don’t know. There is a perfection in it—do you understand me, -Roderick?—which makes it almost possible to bear.” -</p> - -<p> -He sighed, looked away, and remarked that it was time to put out the lamp in -the saloon. The permission was only till ten o’clock. -</p> - -<p> -“But you needn’t mind that so much in your cabin. Just see that the curtains of -the ports are drawn close and that’s all. The steward might have forgotten to -do it. He lighted your reading lamp in there before he went ashore for a last -evening with his wife. I don’t know if it was wise to get rid of Mrs. Brown. -You will have to look after yourself, Flora.” -</p> - -<p> -He was quite anxious; but Flora as a matter of fact congratulated herself on -the absence of Mrs. Brown. No sooner had she closed the door of her state-room -than she murmured fervently, “Yes! Thank goodness, she is gone.” There would be -no gentle knock, followed by her appearance with her equivocal stare and the -intolerable: “Can I do anything for you, ma’am?” which poor Flora had learned -to fear and hate more than any voice or any words on board that ship—her only -refuge from the world which had no use for her, for her imperfections and for -her troubles. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Brown had been very much vexed at her dismissal. The Browns were a -childless couple and the arrangement had suited them perfectly. Their -resentment was very bitter. Mrs. Brown had to remain ashore alone with her -rage, but the steward was nursing his on board. Poor Flora had no greater -enemy, the aggrieved mate had no greater sympathizer. And Mrs. Brown, with a -woman’s quick power of observation and inference (the putting of two and two -together) had come to a certain conclusion which she had imparted to her -husband before leaving the ship. The morose steward permitted himself once to -make an allusion to it in Powell’s hearing. It was in the officers’ mess-room -at the end of a meal while he lingered after putting a fruit pie on the table. -He and the chief mate started a dialogue about the alarming change in the -captain, the sallow steward looking down with a sinister frown, Franklin -rolling upwards his eyes, sentimental in a red face. Young Powell had heard a -lot of that sort of thing by that time. It was growing monotonous; it had -always sounded to him a little absurd. He struck in impatiently with the remark -that such lamentations over a man merely because he had taken a wife seemed to -him like lunacy. -</p> - -<p> -Franklin muttered, “Depends on what the wife is up to.” The steward leaning -against the bulkhead near the door glowered at Powell, that newcomer, that -ignoramus, that stranger without right or privileges. He snarled: -</p> - -<p> -“Wife! Call her a wife, do you?” -</p> - -<p> -“What the devil do you mean by this?” exclaimed young Powell. -</p> - -<p> -“I know what I know. My old woman has not been six months on board for nothing. -You had better ask her when we get back.” -</p> - -<p> -And meeting sullenly the withering stare of Mr. Powell the steward retreated -backwards. -</p> - -<p> -Our young friend turned at once upon the mate. “And you let that confounded -bottle-washer talk like this before you, Mr. Franklin. Well, I am astonished.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, it isn’t what you think. It isn’t what you think.” Mr. Franklin looked -more apoplectic than ever. “If it comes to that I could astonish you. But it’s -no use. I myself can hardly . . . You couldn’t understand. I hope you won’t try -to make mischief. There was a time, young fellow, when I would have dared any -man—any man, you hear?—to make mischief between me and Captain Anthony. But not -now. Not now. There’s a change! Not in me though . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell rejected with indignation any suggestion of making mischief. “Who -do you take me for?” he cried. “Only you had better tell that steward to be -careful what he says before me or I’ll spoil his good looks for him for a month -and will leave him to explain the why of it to the captain the best way he -can.” -</p> - -<p> -This speech established Powell as a champion of Mrs. Anthony. Nothing more -bearing on the question was ever said before him. He did not care for the -steward’s black looks; Franklin, never conversational even at the best of times -and avoiding now the only topic near his heart, addressed him only on matters -of duty. And for that, too, Powell cared very little. The woes of the -apoplectic mate had begun to bore him long before. Yet he felt lonely a bit at -times. Therefore the little intercourse with Mrs. Anthony either in one -dog-watch or the other was something to be looked forward to. The captain did -not mind it. That was evident from his manner. One night he inquired (they were -then alone on the poop) what they had been talking about that evening? Powell -had to confess that it was about the ship. Mrs. Anthony had been asking him -questions. -</p> - -<p> -“Takes interest—eh?” jerked out the captain moving rapidly up and down the -weather side of the poop. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir. Mrs. Anthony seems to get hold wonderfully of what one’s telling -her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Sailor’s granddaughter. One of the old school. Old sea-dog of the best kind, I -believe,” ejaculated the captain, swinging past his motionless second officer -and leaving the words behind him like a trail of sparks succeeded by a perfect -conversational darkness, because, for the next two hours till he left the deck, -he didn’t open his lips again. -</p> - -<p> -On another occasion . . . we mustn’t forget that the ship had crossed the line -and was adding up south latitude every day by then . . . on another occasion, -about seven in the evening, Powell on duty, heard his name uttered softly in -the companion. The captain was on the stairs, thin-faced, his eyes sunk, on his -arm a Shetland wool wrap. -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Powell—here.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Give this to Mrs. Anthony. Evenings are getting chilly.” -</p> - -<p> -And the haggard face sank out of sight. Mrs. Anthony was surprised on seeing -the shawl. -</p> - -<p> -“The captain wants you to put this on,” explained young Powell, and as she -raised herself in her seat he dropped it on her shoulders. She wrapped herself -up closely. -</p> - -<p> -“Where was the captain?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -“He was in the companion. Called me on purpose,” said Powell, and then -retreated discreetly, because she looked as though she didn’t want to talk any -more that evening. Mr. Smith—the old gentleman—was as usual sitting on the -skylight near her head, brooding over the long chair but by no means inimical, -as far as his unreadable face went, to those conversations of the two youngest -people on board. In fact they seemed to give him some pleasure. Now and then he -would raise his faded china eyes to the animated face of Mr. Powell -thoughtfully. When the young sailor was by, the old man became less rigid, and -when his daughter, on rare occasions, smiled at some artless tale of Mr. -Powell, the inexpressive face of Mr. Smith reflected dimly that flash of -evanescent mirth. For Mr. Powell had come now to entertain his captain’s wife -with anecdotes from the not very distant past when he was a boy, on board -various ships,—funny things do happen on board ship. Flora was quite surprised -at times to find herself amused. She was even heard to laugh twice in the -course of a month. It was not a loud sound but it was startling enough at the -after-end of the <i>Ferndale</i> where low tones or silence were the rule. The -second time this happened the captain himself must have been startled somewhere -down below; because he emerged from the depths of his unobtrusive existence and -began his tramping on the opposite side of the poop. -</p> - -<p> -Almost immediately he called his young second officer over to him. This was not -done in displeasure. The glance he fastened on Mr. Powell conveyed a sort of -approving wonder. He engaged him in desultory conversation as if for the only -purpose of keeping a man who could provoke such a sound, near his person. Mr. -Powell felt himself liked. He felt it. Liked by that haggard, restless man who -threw at him disconnected phrases to which his answers were, “Yes, sir,” “No, -sir,” “Oh, certainly,” “I suppose so, sir,”—and might have been clearly -anything else for all the other cared. -</p> - -<p> -It was then, Mr. Powell told me, that he discovered in himself an already -old-established liking for Captain Anthony. He also felt sorry for him without -being able to discover the origins of that sympathy of which he had become so -suddenly aware. -</p> - -<p> -Meantime Mr. Smith, bending forward stiffly as though he had a hinged back, was -speaking to his daughter. -</p> - -<p> -She was a child no longer. He wanted to know if she believed in—in hell. In -eternal punishment? -</p> - -<p> -His peculiar voice, as if filtered through cotton-wool was inaudible on the -other side of the deck. Poor Flora, taken very much unawares, made an -inarticulate murmur, shook her head vaguely, and glanced in the direction of -the pacing Anthony who was not looking her way. It was no use glancing in that -direction. Of young Powell, leaning against the mizzen-mast and facing his -captain she could only see the shoulder and part of a blue serge back. -</p> - -<p> -And the unworried, unaccented voice of her father went on tormenting her. -</p> - -<p> -“You see, you must understand. When I came out of jail it was with joy. That -is, my soul was fairly torn in two—but anyway to see you happy—I had made up my -mind to that. Once I could be sure that you were happy then of course I would -have had no reason to care for life—strictly speaking—which is all right for an -old man; though naturally . . . no reason to wish for death either. But this -sort of life! What sense, what meaning, what value has it either for you or for -me? It’s just sitting down to look at the death, that’s coming, coming. What -else is it? I don’t know how you can put up with that. I don’t think you can -stand it for long. Some day you will jump overboard.” -</p> - -<p> -Captain Anthony had stopped for a moment staring ahead from the break of the -poop, and poor Flora sent at his back a look of despairing appeal which would -have moved a heart of stone. But as though she had done nothing he did not stir -in the least. She got out of the long chair and went towards the companion. Her -father followed carrying a few small objects, a handbag, her handkerchief, a -book. They went down together. -</p> - -<p> -It was only then that Captain Anthony turned, looked at the place they had -vacated and resumed his tramping, but not his desultory conversation with his -second officer. His nervous exasperation had grown so much that now very often -he used to lose control of his voice. If he did not watch himself it would -suddenly die in his throat. He had to make sure before he ventured on the -simplest saying, an order, a remark on the wind, a simple good-morning. That’s -why his utterance was abrupt, his answers to people startlingly brusque and -often not forthcoming at all. -</p> - -<p> -It happens to the most resolute of men to find himself at grips not only with -unknown forces, but with a well-known force the real might of which he had not -understood. Anthony had discovered that he was not the proud master but the -chafing captive of his generosity. It rose in front of him like a wall which -his respect for himself forbade him to scale. He said to himself: “Yes, I was a -fool—but she has trusted me!” Trusted! A terrible word to any man somewhat -exceptional in a world in which success has never been found in renunciation -and good faith. And it must also be said, in order not to make Anthony more -stupidly sublime than he was, that the behaviour of Flora kept him at a -distance. The girl was afraid to add to the exasperation of her father. It was -her unhappy lot to be made more wretched by the only affection which she could -not suspect. She could not be angry with it, however, and out of deference for -that exaggerated sentiment she hardly dared to look otherwise than by stealth -at the man whose masterful compassion had carried her off. And quite unable to -understand the extent of Anthony’s delicacy, she said to herself that “he -didn’t care.” He probably was beginning at bottom to detest her—like the -governess, like the maiden lady, like the German woman, like Mrs. Fyne, like -Mr. Fyne—only he was extraordinary, he was generous. At the same time she had -moments of irritation. He was violent, headstrong—perhaps stupid. Well, he had -had his way. -</p> - -<p> -A man who has had his way is seldom happy, for generally he finds that the way -does not lead very far on this earth of desires which can never be fully -satisfied. Anthony had entered with extreme precipitation the enchanted gardens -of Armida saying to himself “At last!” As to Armida, herself, he was not going -to offer her any violence. But now he had discovered that all the enchantment -was in Armida herself, in Armida’s smiles. This Armida did not smile. She -existed, unapproachable, behind the blank wall of his renunciation. His force, -fit for action, experienced the impatience, the indignation, almost the despair -of his vitality arrested, bound, stilled, progressively worn down, frittered -away by Time; by that force blind and insensible, which seems inert and yet -uses one’s life up by its imperceptible action, dropping minute after minute on -one’s living heart like drops of water wearing down a stone. -</p> - -<p> -He upbraided himself. What else could he have expected? He had rushed in like a -ruffian; he had dragged the poor defenceless thing by the hair of her head, as -it were, on board that ship. It was really atrocious. Nothing assured him that -his person could be attractive to this or any other woman. And his proceedings -were enough in themselves to make anyone odious. He must have been bereft of -his senses. She must fatally detest and fear him. Nothing could make up for -such brutality. And yet somehow he resented this very attitude which seemed to -him completely justifiable. Surely he was not too monstrous (morally) to be -looked at frankly sometimes. But no! She wouldn’t. Well, perhaps, some day . . -. Only he was not going ever to attempt to beg for forgiveness. With the -repulsion she felt for his person she would certainly misunderstand the most -guarded words, the most careful advances. Never! Never! -</p> - -<p> -It would occur to Anthony at the end of such meditations that death was not an -unfriendly visitor after all. No wonder then that even young Powell, his -faculties having been put on the alert, began to think that there was something -unusual about the man who had given him his chance in life. Yes, decidedly, his -captain was “strange.” There was something wrong somewhere, he said to himself, -never guessing that his young and candid eyes were in the presence of a passion -profound, tyrannical and mortal, discovering its own existence, astounded at -feeling itself helpless and dismayed at finding itself incurable. -</p> - -<p> -Powell had never before felt this mysterious uneasiness so strongly as on that -evening when it had been his good fortune to make Mrs. Anthony laugh a little -by his artless prattle. Standing out of the way, he had watched his captain -walk the weather-side of the poop, he took full cognizance of his liking for -that inexplicably strange man and saw him swerve towards the companion and go -down below with sympathetic if utterly uncomprehending eyes. -</p> - -<p> -Shortly afterwards, Mr. Smith came up alone and manifested a desire for a -little conversation. He, too, if not so mysterious as the captain, was not very -comprehensible to Mr. Powell’s uninformed candour. He often favoured thus the -second officer. His talk alluded somewhat enigmatically and often without -visible connection to Mr. Powell’s friendliness towards himself and his -daughter. “For I am well aware that we have no friends on board this ship, my -dear young man,” he would add, “except yourself. Flora feels that too.” -</p> - -<p> -And Mr. Powell, flattered and embarrassed, could but emit a vague murmur of -protest. For the statement was true in a sense, though the fact was in itself -insignificant. The feelings of the ship’s company could not possibly matter to -the captain’s wife and to Mr. Smith—her father. Why the latter should so often -allude to it was what surprised our Mr. Powell. This was by no means the first -occasion. More like the twentieth rather. And in his weak voice, with his -monotonous intonation, leaning over the rail and looking at the water the other -continued this conversation, or rather his remarks, remarks of such a monstrous -nature that Mr. Powell had no option but to accept them for gruesome jesting. -</p> - -<p> -“For instance,” said Mr. Smith, “that mate, Franklin, I believe he would just -as soon see us both overboard as not.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s not so bad as that,” laughed Mr. Powell, feeling uncomfortable, because -his mind did not accommodate itself easily to exaggeration of statement. “He -isn’t a bad chap really,” he added, very conscious of Mr. Franklin’s offensive -manner of which instances were not far to seek. “He’s such a fool as to be -jealous. He has been with the captain for years. It’s not for me to say, -perhaps, but I think the captain has spoiled all that gang of old servants. -They are like a lot of pet old dogs. Wouldn’t let anybody come near him if they -could help it. I’ve never seen anything like it. And the second mate, I -believe, was like that too.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, he isn’t here, luckily. There would have been one more enemy,” said Mr. -Smith. “There’s enough of them without him. And you being here instead of him -makes it much more pleasant for my daughter and myself. One feels there may be -a friend in need. For really, for a woman all alone on board ship amongst a lot -of unfriendly men . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“But Mrs Anthony is not alone,” exclaimed Powell. “There’s you, and there’s the -. . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Smith interrupted him. -</p> - -<p> -“Nobody’s immortal. And there are times when one feels ashamed to live. Such an -evening as this for instance.” -</p> - -<p> -It was a lovely evening; the colours of a splendid sunset had died out and the -breath of a warm breeze seemed to have smoothed out the sea. Away to the south -the sheet lightning was like the flashing of an enormous lantern hidden under -the horizon. In order to change the conversation Mr. Powell said: -</p> - -<p> -“Anyway no one can charge you with being a Jonah, Mr. Smith. We have had a -magnificent quick passage so far. The captain ought to be pleased. And I -suppose you are not sorry either.” -</p> - -<p> -This diversion was not successful. Mr. Smith emitted a sort of bitter chuckle -and said: “Jonah! That’s the fellow that was thrown overboard by some sailors. -It seems to me it’s very easy at sea to get rid of a person one does not like. -The sea does not give up its dead as the earth does.” -</p> - -<p> -“You forget the whale, sir,” said young Powell. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Smith gave a start. “Eh? What whale? Oh! Jonah. I wasn’t thinking of Jonah. -I was thinking of this passage which seems so quick to you. But only think what -it is to me? It isn’t a life, going about the sea like this. And, for instance, -if one were to fall ill, there isn’t a doctor to find out what’s the matter -with one. It’s worrying. It makes me anxious at times.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is Mrs. Anthony not feeling well?” asked Powell. But Mr. Smith’s remark was -not meant for Mrs. Anthony. She was well. He himself was well. It was the -captain’s health that did not seem quite satisfactory. Had Mr. Powell noticed -his appearance? -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell didn’t know enough of the captain to judge. He couldn’t tell. But he -observed thoughtfully that Mr. Franklin had been saying the same thing. And -Franklin had known the captain for years. The mate was quite worried about it. -</p> - -<p> -This intelligence startled Mr. Smith considerably. “Does he think he is in -danger of dying?” he exclaimed with an animation quite extraordinary for him, -which horrified Mr. Powell. -</p> - -<p> -“Heavens! Die! No! Don’t you alarm yourself, sir. I’ve never heard a word about -danger from Mr. Franklin.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, well,” sighed Mr. Smith and left the poop for the saloon rather -abruptly. -</p> - -<p> -As a matter of fact Mr. Franklin had been on deck for some considerable time. -He had come to relieve young Powell; but seeing him engaged in talk with the -“enemy”—with one of the “enemies” at least—had kept at a distance, which, the -poop of the <i>Ferndale</i> being aver seventy feet long, he had no difficulty -in doing. Mr. Powell saw him at the head of the ladder leaning on his elbow, -melancholy and silent. “Oh! Here you are, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Here I am. Here I’ve been ever since six o’clock. Didn’t want to interrupt the -pleasant conversation. If you like to put in half of your watch below jawing -with a dear friend, that’s not my affair. Funny taste though.” -</p> - -<p> -“He isn’t a bad chap,” said the impartial Powell. -</p> - -<p> -The mate snorted angrily, tapping the deck with his foot; then: “Isn’t he? -Well, give him my love when you come together again for another nice long -yarn.” -</p> - -<p> -“I say, Mr. Franklin, I wonder the captain don’t take offence at your manners.” -</p> - -<p> -“The captain. I wish to goodness he would start a row with me. Then I should -know at least I am somebody on board. I’d welcome it, Mr. Powell. I’d rejoice. -And dam’ me I would talk back too till I roused him. He’s a shadow of himself. -He walks about his ship like a ghost. He’s fading away right before our eyes. -But of course you don’t see. You don’t care a hang. Why should you?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell did not wait for more. He went down on the main deck. Without taking -the mate’s jeremiads seriously he put them beside the words of Mr. Smith. He -had grown already attached to Captain Anthony. There was something not only -attractive but compelling in the man. Only it is very difficult for youth to -believe in the menace of death. Not in the fact itself, but in its proximity to -a breathing, moving, talking, superior human being, showing no sign of disease. -And Mr. Powell thought that this talk was all nonsense. But his curiosity was -awakened. There was something, and at any time some circumstance might occur . -. . No, he would never find out . . . There was nothing to find out, most -likely. Mr. Powell went to his room where he tried to read a book he had -already read a good many times. Presently a bell rang for the officers’ supper. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER SIX—. . . A MOONLESS NIGHT, THICK WITH STARS ABOVE, VERY DARK ON -THE WATER</h3> - -<p> -In the mess-room Powell found Mr. Franklin hacking at a piece of cold salt beef -with a table knife. The mate, fiery in the face and rolling his eyes over that -task, explained that the carver belonging to the mess-room could not be found. -The steward, present also, complained savagely of the cook. The fellow got -things into his galley and then lost them. Mr. Franklin tried to pacify him -with mournful firmness. -</p> - -<p> -“There, there! That will do. We who have been all these years together in the -ship have other things to think about than quarrelling among ourselves.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell thought with exasperation: “Here he goes again,” for this utterance -had nothing cryptic for him. The steward having withdrawn morosely, he was not -surprised to hear the mate strike the usual note. That morning the mizzen -topsail tie had carried away (probably a defective link) and something like -forty feet of chain and wire-rope, mixed up with a few heavy iron blocks, had -crashed down from aloft on the poop with a terrifying racket. -</p> - -<p> -“Did you notice the captain then, Mr. Powell. Did you notice?” -</p> - -<p> -Powell confessed frankly that he was too scared himself when all that lot of -gear came down on deck to notice anything. -</p> - -<p> -“The gin-block missed his head by an inch,” went on the mate impressively. “I -wasn’t three feet from him. And what did he do? Did he shout, or jump, or even -look aloft to see if the yard wasn’t coming down too about our ears in a dozen -pieces? It’s a marvel it didn’t. No, he just stopped short—no wonder; he must -have felt the wind of that iron gin-block on his face—looked down at it, there, -lying close to his foot—and went on again. I believe he didn’t even blink. It -isn’t natural. The man is stupefied.” -</p> - -<p> -He sighed ridiculously and Mr. Powell had suppressed a grin, when the mate -added as if he couldn’t contain himself: -</p> - -<p> -“He will be taking to drink next. Mark my words. That’s the next thing.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell was disgusted. -</p> - -<p> -“You are so fond of the captain and yet you don’t seem to care what you say -about him. I haven’t been with him for seven years, but I know he isn’t the -sort of man that takes to drink. And then—why the devil should he?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why the devil, you ask. Devil—eh? Well, no man is safe from the devil—and -that’s answer enough for you,” wheezed Mr. Franklin not unkindly. “There was a -time, a long time ago, when I nearly took to drink myself. What do you say to -that?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell expressed a polite incredulity. The thick, congested mate seemed on -the point of bursting with despondency. “That was bad example though. I was -young and fell into dangerous company, made a fool of myself—yes, as true as -you see me sitting here. Drank to forget. Thought it a great dodge.” -</p> - -<p> -Powell looked at the grotesque Franklin with awakened interest and with that -half-amused sympathy with which we receive unprovoked confidences from men with -whom we have no sort of affinity. And at the same time he began to look upon -him more seriously. Experience has its prestige. And the mate continued: -</p> - -<p> -“If it hadn’t been for the old lady, I would have gone to the devil. I -remembered her in time. Nothing like having an old lady to look after to steady -a chap and make him face things. But as bad luck would have it, Captain Anthony -has no mother living, not a blessed soul belonging to him as far as I know. Oh, -aye, I fancy he said once something to me of a sister. But she’s married. She -don’t need him. Yes. In the old days he used to talk to me as if we had been -brothers,” exaggerated the mate sentimentally. “‘Franklin,’—he would say—‘this -ship is my nearest relation and she isn’t likely to turn against me. And I -suppose you are the man I’ve known the longest in the world.’ That’s how he -used to speak to me. Can I turn my back on him? He has turned his back on his -ship; that’s what it has come to. He has no one now but his old Franklin. But -what’s a fellow to do to put things back as they were and should be. Should -be—I say!” -</p> - -<p> -His starting eyes had a terrible fixity. Mr. Powell’s irresistible thought, “he -resembles a boiled lobster in distress,” was followed by annoyance. “Good -Lord,” he said, “you don’t mean to hint that Captain Anthony has fallen into -bad company. What is it you want to save him from?” -</p> - -<p> -“I do mean it,” affirmed the mate, and the very absurdity of the statement made -it impressive—because it seemed so absolutely audacious. “Well, you have a -cheek,” said young Powell, feeling mentally helpless. “I have a notion the -captain would half kill you if he were to know how you carry on.” -</p> - -<p> -“And welcome,” uttered the fervently devoted Franklin. “I am willing, if he -would only clear the ship afterwards of that . . . You are but a youngster and -you may go and tell him what you like. Let him knock the stuffing out of his -old Franklin first and think it over afterwards. Anything to pull him together. -But of course you wouldn’t. You are all right. Only you don’t know that things -are sometimes different from what they look. There are friendships that are no -friendships, and marriages that are no marriages. Phoo! Likely to be -right—wasn’t it? Never a hint to me. I go off on leave and when I come back, -there it is—all over, settled! Not a word beforehand. No warning. If only: -‘What do you think of it, Franklin?’—or anything of the sort. And that’s a man -who hardly ever did anything without asking my advice. Why! He couldn’t take -over a new coat from the tailor without . . . first thing, directly the fellow -came on board with some new clothes, whether in London or in China, it would -be: ‘Pass the word along there for Mr. Franklin. Mr. Franklin wanted in the -cabin.’ In I would go. ‘Just look at my back, Franklin. Fits all right, doesn’t -it?’ And I would say: ‘First rate, sir,’ or whatever was the truth of it. That -or anything else. Always the truth of it. Always. And well he knew it; and -that’s why he dared not speak right out. Talking about workmen, alterations, -cabins . . . Phoo! . . . instead of a straightforward—‘Wish me joy, Mr. -Franklin!’ Yes, that was the way to let me know. God only knows what they -are—perhaps she isn’t his daughter any more than she is . . . She doesn’t -resemble that old fellow. Not a bit. Not a bit. It’s very awful. You may well -open your mouth, young man. But for goodness’ sake, you who are mixed up with -that lot, keep your eyes and ears open too in case—in case of . . . I don’t -know what. Anything. One wonders what can happen here at sea! Nothing. Yet when -a man is called a jailer behind his back.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Franklin hid his face in his hands for a moment and Powell shut his mouth, -which indeed had been open. He slipped out of the mess-room noiselessly. “The -mate’s crazy,” he thought. It was his firm conviction. Nevertheless, that -evening, he felt his inner tranquillity disturbed at last by the force and -obstinacy of this craze. He couldn’t dismiss it with the contempt it deserved. -Had the word “jailer” really been pronounced? A strange word for the mate to -even <i>imagine</i> he had heard. A senseless, unlikely word. But this word -being the only clear and definite statement in these grotesque and dismal -ravings was comparatively restful to his mind. Powell’s mind rested on it still -when he came up at eight o’clock to take charge of the deck. It was a moonless -night, thick with stars above, very dark on the water. A steady air from the -west kept the sails asleep. Franklin mustered both watches in low tones as if -for a funeral, then approaching Powell: -</p> - -<p> -“The course is east-south-east,” said the chief mate distinctly. -</p> - -<p> -“East-south-east, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Everything’s set, Mr. Powell.” -</p> - -<p> -“All right, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -The other lingered, his sentimental eyes gleamed silvery in the shadowy face. -“A quiet night before us. I don’t know that there are any special orders. A -settled, quiet night. I dare say you won’t see the captain. Once upon a time -this was the watch he used to come up and start a chat with either of us then -on deck. But now he sits in that infernal stern-cabin and mopes. Jailer—eh?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell walked away from the mate and when at some distance said, “Damn!” -quite heartily. It was a confounded nuisance. It had ceased to be funny; that -hostile word “jailer” had given the situation an air of reality. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Franklin’s grotesque mortal envelope had disappeared from the poop to seek its -needful repose, if only the worried soul would let it rest a while. Mr. Powell, -half sorry for the thick little man, wondered whether it would let him. For -himself, he recognized that the charm of a quiet watch on deck when one may let -one’s thoughts roam in space and time had been spoiled without remedy. What -shocked him most was the implied aspersion of complicity on Mrs. Anthony. It -angered him. In his own words to me, he felt very “enthusiastic” about Mrs. -Anthony. “Enthusiastic” is good; especially as he couldn’t exactly explain to -me what he meant by it. But he felt enthusiastic, he says. That silly Franklin -must have been dreaming. That was it. He had dreamed it all. Ass. Yet the -injurious word stuck in Powell’s mind with its associated ideas of prisoner, of -escape. He became very uncomfortable. And just then (it might have been half an -hour or more since he had relieved Franklin) just then Mr. Smith came up on the -poop alone, like a gliding shadow and leaned over the rail by his side. Young -Powell was affected disagreeably by his presence. He made a movement to go away -but the other began to talk—and Powell remained where he was as if retained by -a mysterious compulsion. The conversation started by Mr. Smith had nothing -peculiar. He began to talk of mail-boats in general and in the end seemed -anxious to discover what were the services from Port Elizabeth to London. Mr. -Powell did not know for certain but imagined that there must be communication -with England at least twice a month. “Are you thinking of leaving us, sir; of -going home by steam? Perhaps with Mrs. Anthony,” he asked anxiously. -</p> - -<p> -“No! No! How can I?” Mr. Smith got quite agitated, for him, which did not -amount to much. He was just asking for the sake of something to talk about. No -idea at all of going home. One could not always do what one wanted and that’s -why there were moments when one felt ashamed to live. This did not mean that -one did not want to live. Oh no! -</p> - -<p> -He spoke with careless slowness, pausing frequently and in such a low voice -that Powell had to strain his hearing to catch the phrases dropped overboard as -it were. And indeed they seemed not worth the effort. It was like the aimless -talk of a man pursuing a secret train of thought far removed from the idle -words we so often utter only to keep in touch with our fellow beings. An hour -passed. It seemed as though Mr. Smith could not make up his mind to go below. -He repeated himself. Again he spoke of lives which one was ashamed of. It was -necessary to put up with such lives as long as there was no way out, no -possible issue. He even alluded once more to mail-boat services on the East -coast of Africa and young Powell had to tell him once more that he knew nothing -about them. -</p> - -<p> -“Every fortnight, I thought you said,” insisted Mr. Smith. He stirred, seemed -to detach himself from the rail with difficulty. His long, slender figure -straightened into stiffness, as if hostile to the enveloping soft peace of air -and sea and sky, emitted into the night a weak murmur which Mr. Powell fancied -was the word, “Abominable” repeated three times, but which passed into the -faintly louder declaration: “The moment has come—to go to bed,” followed by a -just audible sigh. -</p> - -<p> -“I sleep very well,” added Mr. Smith in his restrained tone. “But it is the -moment one opens one’s eyes that is horrible at sea. These days! Oh, these -days! I wonder how anybody can . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“I like the life,” observed Mr. Powell. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, you. You have only yourself to think of. You have made your bed. Well, -it’s very pleasant to feel that you are friendly to us. My daughter has taken -quite a liking to you, Mr. Powell.” -</p> - -<p> -He murmured, “Good-night” and glided away rigidly. Young Powell asked himself -with some distaste what was the meaning of these utterances. His mind had been -worried at last into that questioning attitude by no other person than the -grotesque Franklin. Suspicion was not natural to him. And he took good care to -carefully separate in his thoughts Mrs. Anthony from this man of enigmatic -words—her father. Presently he observed that the sheen of the two deck -dead-lights of Mr. Smith’s room had gone out. The old gentleman had been -surprisingly quick in getting into bed. Shortly afterwards the lamp in the -foremost skylight of the saloon was turned out; and this was the sign that the -steward had taken in the tray and had retired for the night. -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell had settled down to the regular officer-of-the-watch tramp in the -dense shadow of the world decorated with stars high above his head, and on -earth only a few gleams of light about the ship. The lamp in the after skylight -was kept burning through the night. There were also the dead-lights of the -stern-cabins glimmering dully in the deck far aft, catching his eye when he -turned to walk that way. The brasses of the wheel glittered too, with the dimly -lit figure of the man detached, as if phosphorescent, against the black and -spangled background of the horizon. -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell, in the silence of the ship, reinforced by the great silent -stillness of the world, said to himself that there was something mysterious in -such beings as the absurd Franklin, and even in such beings as himself. It was -a strange and almost improper thought to occur to the officer of the watch of a -ship on the high seas on no matter how quiet a night. Why on earth was he -bothering his head? Why couldn’t he dismiss all these people from his mind? It -was as if the mate had infected him with his own diseased devotion. He would -not have believed it possible that he should be so foolish. But he was—clearly. -He was foolish in a way totally unforeseen by himself. Pushing this -self-analysis further, he reflected that the springs of his conduct were just -as obscure. -</p> - -<p> -“I may be catching myself any time doing things of which I have no conception,” -he thought. And as he was passing near the mizzen-mast he perceived a coil of -rope left lying on the deck by the oversight of the sweepers. By an impulse -which had nothing mysterious in it, he stooped as he went by with the intention -of picking it up and hanging it up on its proper pin. This movement brought his -head down to the level of the glazed end of the after skylight—the lighted -skylight of the most private part of the saloon, consecrated to the -exclusiveness of Captain Anthony’s married life; the part, let me remind you, -cut off from the rest of that forbidden space by a pair of heavy curtains. I -mention these curtains because at this point Mr. Powell himself recalled the -existence of that unusual arrangement to my mind. -</p> - -<p> -He recalled them with simple-minded compunction at that distance of time. He -said: “You understand that directly I stooped to pick up that coil of running -gear—the spanker foot-outhaul, it was—I perceived that I could see right into -that part of the saloon the curtains were meant to make particularly private. -Do you understand me?” he insisted. -</p> - -<p> -I told him that I understood; and he proceeded to call my attention to the -wonderful linking up of small facts, with something of awe left yet, after all -these years, at the precise workmanship of chance, fate, providence, call it -what you will! “For, observe, Marlow,” he said, making at me very round eyes -which contrasted funnily with the austere touch of grey on his temples, -“observe, my dear fellow, that everything depended on the men who cleared up -the poop in the evening leaving that coil of rope on the deck, and on the -topsail-tie carrying away in a most incomprehensible and surprising manner -earlier in the day, and the end of the chain whipping round the coaming and -shivering to bits the coloured glass-pane at the end of the skylight. It had -the arms of the city of Liverpool on it; I don’t know why unless because the -<i>Ferndale</i> was registered in Liverpool. It was very thick plate glass. -Anyhow, the upper part got smashed, and directly we had attended to things -aloft Mr. Franklin had set the carpenter to patch up the damage with some -pieces of plain glass. I don’t know where they got them; I think the people who -fitted up new bookcases in the captain’s room had left some spare panes. Chips -was there the whole afternoon on his knees, messing with putty and red-lead. It -wasn’t a neat job when it was done, not by any means, but it would serve to -keep the weather out and let the light in. Clear glass. And of course I was not -thinking of it. I just stooped to pick up that rope and found my head within -three inches of that clear glass, and—dash it all! I found myself out. Not half -an hour before I was saying to myself that it was impossible to tell what was -in people’s heads or at the back of their talk, or what they were likely to be -up to. And here I found myself up to as low a trick as you can well think of. -For, after I had stooped, there I remained prying, spying, anyway looking, -where I had no business to look. Not consciously at first, may be. He who has -eyes, you know, nothing can stop him from seeing things as long as there are -things to see in front of him. What I saw at first was the end of the table and -the tray clamped on to it, a patent tray for sea use, fitted with holders for a -couple of decanters, water-jug and glasses. The glitter of these things caught -my eye first; but what I saw next was the captain down there, alone as far as I -could see; and I could see pretty well the whole of that part up to the cottage -piano, dark against the satin-wood panelling of the bulkhead. And I remained -looking. I did. And I don’t know that I was ashamed of myself either, then. It -was the fault of that Franklin, always talking of the man, making free with him -to that extent that really he seemed to have become our property, his and mine, -in a way. It’s funny, but one had that feeling about Captain Anthony. To watch -him was not so much worse than listening to Franklin talking him over. Well, -it’s no use making excuses for what’s inexcusable. I watched; but I dare say -you know that there could have been nothing inimical in this low behaviour of -mine. On the contrary. I’ll tell you now what he was doing. He was helping -himself out of a decanter. I saw every movement, and I said to myself mockingly -as though jeering at Franklin in my thoughts, ‘Hallo! Here’s the captain taking -to drink at last.’ He poured a little brandy or whatever it was into a long -glass, filled it with water, drank about a fourth of it and stood the glass -back into the holder. Every sign of a bad drinking bout, I was saying to -myself, feeling quite amused at the notions of that Franklin. He seemed to me -an enormous ass, with his jealousy and his fears. At that rate a month would -not have been enough for anybody to get drunk. The captain sat down in one of -the swivel arm-chairs fixed around the table; I had him right under me and as -he turned the chair slightly, I was looking, I may say, down his back. He took -another little sip and then reached for a book which was lying on the table. I -had not noticed it before. Altogether the proceedings of a desperate -drunkard—weren’t they? He opened the book and held it before his face. If this -was the way he took to drink, then I needn’t worry. He was in no danger from -that, and as to any other, I assure you no human being could have looked safer -than he did down there. I felt the greatest contempt for Franklin just then, -while I looked at Captain Anthony sitting there with a glass of weak -brandy-and-water at his elbow and reading in the cabin of his ship, on a quiet -night—the quietest, perhaps the finest, of a prosperous passage. And if you -wonder why I didn’t leave off my ugly spying I will tell you how it was. -Captain Anthony was a great reader just about that time; and I, too, I have a -great liking for books. To this day I can’t come near a book but I must know -what it is about. It was a thickish volume he had there, small close print, -double columns—I can see it now. What I wanted to make out was the title at the -top of the page. I have very good eyes but he wasn’t holding it conveniently—I -mean for me up there. Well, it was a history of some kind, that much I read and -then suddenly he bangs the book face down on the table, jumps up as if -something had bitten him and walks away aft. -</p> - -<p> -“Funny thing shame is. I had been behaving badly and aware of it in a way, but -I didn’t feel really ashamed till the fright of being found out in my -honourable occupation drove me from it. I slunk away to the forward end of the -poop and lounged about there, my face and ears burning and glad it was a dark -night, expecting every moment to hear the captain’s footsteps behind me. For I -made sure he was coming on deck. Presently I thought I had rather meet him face -to face and I walked slowly aft prepared to see him emerge from the companion -before I got that far. I even thought of his having detected me by some means. -But it was impossible, unless he had eyes in the top of his head. I had never -had a view of his face down there. It was impossible; I was safe; and I felt -very mean, yet, explain it as you may, I seemed not to care. And the captain -not appearing on deck, I had the impulse to go on being mean. I wanted another -peep. I really don’t know what was the beastly influence except that Mr. -Franklin’s talk was enough to demoralize any man by raising a sort of unhealthy -curiosity which did away in my case with all the restraints of common decency. -</p> - -<p> -“I did not mean to run the risk of being caught squatting in a suspicious -attitude by the captain. There was also the helmsman to consider. So what I -did—I am surprised at my low cunning—was to sit down naturally on the -skylight-seat and then by bending forward I found that, as I expected, I could -look down through the upper part of the end-pane. The worst that could happen -to me then, if I remained too long in that position, was to be suspected by the -seaman aft at the wheel of having gone to sleep there. For the rest my ears -would give me sufficient warning of any movements in the companion. -</p> - -<p> -“But in that way my angle of view was changed. The field too was smaller. The -end of the table, the tray and the swivel-chair I had right under my eyes. The -captain had not come back yet. The piano I could not see now; but on the other -hand I had a very oblique downward view of the curtains drawn across the cabin -and cutting off the forward part of it just about the level of the skylight-end -and only an inch or so from the end of the table. They were heavy stuff, -travelling on a thick brass rod with some contrivance to keep the rings from -sliding to and fro when the ship rolled. But just then the ship was as still -almost as a model shut up in a glass case while the curtains, joined closely, -and, perhaps on purpose, made a little too long moved no more than a solid -wall.” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Marlow got up to get another cigar. The night was getting on to what I may call -its deepest hour, the hour most favourable to evil purposes of men’s hate, -despair or greed—to whatever can whisper into their ears the unlawful counsels -of protest against things that are; the hour of ill-omened silence and chill -and stagnation, the hour when the criminal plies his trade and the victim of -sleeplessness reaches the lowest depth of dreadful discouragement; the hour -before the first sight of dawn. I know it, because while Marlow was crossing -the room I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. He however never looked that -way though it is possible that he, too, was aware of the passage of time. He -sat down heavily. -</p> - -<p> -“Our friend Powell,” he began again, “was very anxious that I should understand -the topography of that cabin. I was interested more by its moral atmosphere, -that tension of falsehood, of desperate acting, which tainted the pure -sea-atmosphere into which the magnanimous Anthony had carried off his conquest -and—well—his self-conquest too, trying to act at the same time like a beast of -prey, a pure spirit and the “most generous of men.” Too big an order clearly -because he was nothing of a monster but just a common mortal, a little more -self-willed and self-confident than most, may be, both in his roughness and in -his delicacy. -</p> - -<p> -As to the delicacy of Mr. Powell’s proceedings I’ll say nothing. He found a -sort of depraved excitement in watching an unconscious man—and such an -attractive and mysterious man as Captain Anthony at that. He wanted another -peep at him. He surmised that the captain must come back soon because of the -glass two-thirds full and also of the book put down so brusquely. God knows -what sudden pang had made Anthony jump up so. I am convinced he used reading as -an opiate against the pain of his magnanimity which like all abnormal growths -was gnawing at his healthy substance with cruel persistence. Perhaps he had -rushed into his cabin simply to groan freely in absolute and delicate secrecy. -At any rate he tarried there. And young Powell would have grown weary and -compunctious at last if it had not become manifest to him that he had not been -alone in the highly incorrect occupation of watching the movements of Captain -Anthony. -</p> - -<p> -Powell explained to me that no sound did or perhaps could reach him from the -saloon. The first sign—and we must remember that he was using his eyes for all -they were worth—was an unaccountable movement of the curtain. It was wavy and -very slight; just perceptible in fact to the sharpened faculties of a secret -watcher; for it can’t be denied that our wits are much more alert when engaged -in wrong-doing (in which one mustn’t be found out) than in a righteous -occupation. -</p> - -<p> -He became suspicious, with no one and nothing definite in his mind. He was -suspicious of the curtain itself and observed it. It looked very innocent. Then -just as he was ready to put it down to a trick of imagination he saw trembling -movements where the two curtains joined. Yes! Somebody else besides himself had -been watching Captain Anthony. He owns artlessly that this roused his -indignation. It was really too much of a good thing. In this state of intense -antagonism he was startled to observe tips of fingers fumbling with the dark -stuff. Then they grasped the edge of the further curtain and hung on there, -just fingers and knuckles and nothing else. It made an abominable sight. He was -looking at it with unaccountable repulsion when a hand came into view; a short, -puffy, old, freckled hand projecting into the lamplight, followed by a white -wrist, an arm in a grey coat-sleeve, up to the elbow, beyond the elbow, -extended tremblingly towards the tray. Its appearance was weird and nauseous, -fantastic and silly. But instead of grabbing the bottle as Powell expected, -this hand, tremulous with senile eagerness, swerved to the glass, rested on its -edge for a moment (or so it looked from above) and went back with a jerk. The -gripping fingers of the other hand vanished at the same time, and young Powell -staring at the motionless curtains could indulge for a moment the notion that -he had been dreaming. -</p> - -<p> -But that notion did not last long. Powell, after repressing his first impulse -to spring for the companion and hammer at the captain’s door, took steps to -have himself relieved by the boatswain. He was in a state of distraction as to -his feelings and yet lucid as to his mind. He remained on the skylight so as to -keep his eye on the tray. -</p> - -<p> -Still the captain did not appear in the saloon. “If he had,” said Mr. Powell, -“I knew what to do. I would have put my elbow through the pane -instantly—crash.” -</p> - -<p> -I asked him why? -</p> - -<p> -“It was the quickest dodge for getting him away from that tray,” he explained. -“My throat was so dry that I didn’t know if I could shout loud enough. And this -was not a case for shouting, either.” -</p> - -<p> -The boatswain, sleepy and disgusted, arriving on the poop, found the second -officer doubled up over the end of the skylight in a pose which might have been -that of severe pain. And his voice was so changed that the man, though -naturally vexed at being turned out, made no comment on the plea of sudden -indisposition which young Powell put forward. -</p> - -<p> -The rapidity with which the sick man got off the poop must have astonished the -boatswain. But Powell, at the moment he opened the door leading into the saloon -from the quarter-deck, had managed to control his agitation. He entered swiftly -but without noise and found himself in the dark part of the saloon, the strong -sheen of the lamp on the other side of the curtains visible only above the rod -on which they ran. The door of Mr. Smith’s cabin was in that dark part. He -passed by it assuring himself by a quick side glance that it was imperfectly -closed. “Yes,” he said to me. “The old man must have been watching through the -crack. Of that I am certain; but it was not for me that he was watching and -listening. Horrible! Surely he must have been startled to hear and see somebody -he did not expect. He could not possibly guess why I was coming in, but I -suppose he must have been concerned.” Concerned indeed! He must have been -thunderstruck, appalled. -</p> - -<p> -Powell’s only distinct aim was to remove the suspected tumbler. He had no other -plan, no other intention, no other thought. Do away with it in some manner. -Snatch it up and run out with it. -</p> - -<p> -You know that complete mastery of one fixed idea, not a reasonable but an -emotional mastery, a sort of concentrated exaltation. Under its empire men rush -blindly through fire and water and opposing violence, and nothing can stop -them—unless, sometimes, a grain of sand. For his blind purpose (and clearly the -thought of Mrs. Anthony was at the bottom of it) Mr. Powell had plenty of time. -What checked him at the crucial moment was the familiar, harmless aspect of -common things, the steady light, the open book on the table, the solitude, the -peace, the home-like effect of the place. He held the glass in his hand; all he -had to do was to vanish back beyond the curtains, flee with it noiselessly into -the night on deck, fling it unseen overboard. A minute or less. And then all -that would have happened would have been the wonder at the utter disappearance -of a glass tumbler, a ridiculous riddle in pantry-affairs beyond the wit of -anyone on board to solve. The grain of sand against which Powell stumbled in -his headlong career was a moment of incredulity as to the truth of his own -conviction because it had failed to affect the safe aspect of familiar things. -He doubted his eyes too. He must have dreamt it all! “I am dreaming now,” he -said to himself. And very likely for a few seconds he must have looked like a -man in a trance or profoundly asleep on his feet, and with a glass of -brandy-and-water in his hand. -</p> - -<p> -What woke him up and, at the same time, fixed his feet immovably to the spot, -was a voice asking him what he was doing there in tones of thunder. Or so it -sounded to his ears. Anthony, opening the door of his stern-cabin had naturally -exclaimed. What else could you expect? And the exclamation must have been -fairly loud if you consider the nature of the sight which met his eye. There, -before him, stood his second officer, a seemingly decent, well-bred young man, -who, being on duty, had left the deck and had sneaked into the saloon, -apparently for the inexpressibly mean purpose of drinking up what was left of -his captain’s brandy-and-water. There he was, caught absolutely with the glass -in his hand. -</p> - -<p> -But the very monstrosity of appearances silenced Anthony after the first -exclamation; and young Powell felt himself pierced through and through by the -overshadowed glance of his captain. Anthony advanced quietly. The first impulse -of Mr. Powell, when discovered, had been to dash the glass on the deck. He was -in a sort of panic. But deep down within him his wits were working, and the -idea that if he did that he could prove nothing and that the story he had to -tell was completely incredible, restrained him. The captain came forward -slowly. With his eyes now close to his, Powell, spell-bound, numb all over, -managed to lift one finger to the deck above mumbling the explanatory words, -“Boatswain on the poop.” -</p> - -<p> -The captain moved his head slightly as much as to say, “That’s all right”—and -this was all. Powell had no voice, no strength. The air was unbreathable, -thick, sticky, odious, like hot jelly in which all movements became difficult. -He raised the glass a little with immense difficulty and moved his trammelled -lips sufficiently to form the words: -</p> - -<p> -“Doctored.” -</p> - -<p> -Anthony glanced at it for an instant, only for an instant, and again fastened -his eyes on the face of his second mate. Powell added a fervent “I believe” and -put the glass down on the tray. The captain’s glance followed the movement and -returned sternly to his face. The young man pointed a finger once more upwards -and squeezed out of his iron-bound throat six consecutive words of further -explanation. “Through the skylight. The white pane.” -</p> - -<p> -The captain raised his eyebrows very much at this, while young Powell, ashamed -but desperate, nodded insistently several times. He meant to say that: Yes. -Yes. He had done that thing. He had been spying . . . The captain’s gaze became -thoughtful. And, now the confession was over, the iron-bound feeling of -Powell’s throat passed away giving place to a general anxiety which from his -breast seemed to extend to all the limbs and organs of his body. His legs -trembled a little, his vision was confused, his mind became blankly expectant. -But he was alert enough. At a movement of Anthony he screamed in a strangled -whisper. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t, sir! Don’t touch it.” -</p> - -<p> -The captain pushed aside Powell’s extended arm, took up the glass and raised it -slowly against the lamplight. The liquid, of very pale amber colour, was clear, -and by a glance the captain seemed to call Powell’s attention to the fact. -Powell tried to pronounce the word, “dissolved” but he only thought of it with -great energy which however failed to move his lips. Only when Anthony had put -down the glass and turned to him he recovered such a complete command of his -voice that he could keep it down to a hurried, forcible whisper—a whisper that -shook him. -</p> - -<p> -“Doctored! I swear it! I have seen. Doctored! I have seen.” -</p> - -<p> -Not a feature of the captain’s face moved. His was a calm to take one’s breath -away. It did so to young Powell. Then for the first time Anthony made himself -heard to the point. -</p> - -<p> -“You did! . . . Who was it?” -</p> - -<p> -And Powell gasped freely at last. “A hand,” he whispered fearfully, “a hand and -the arm—only the arm—like that.” -</p> - -<p> -He advanced his own, slow, stealthy, tremulous in faithful reproduction, the -tips of two fingers and the thumb pressed together and hovering above the glass -for an instant—then the swift jerk back, after the deed. -</p> - -<p> -“Like that,” he repeated growing excited. “From behind this.” He grasped the -curtain and glaring at the silent Anthony flung it back disclosing the forepart -of the saloon. There was on one to be seen. -</p> - -<p> -Powell had not expected to see anybody. “But,” he said to me, “I knew very well -there was an ear listening and an eye glued to the crack of a cabin door. Awful -thought. And that door was in that part of the saloon remaining in the shadow -of the other half of the curtain. I pointed at it and I suppose that old man -inside saw me pointing. The captain had a wonderful self-command. You couldn’t -have guessed anything from his face. Well, it was perhaps more thoughtful than -usual. And indeed this was something to think about. But I couldn’t think -steadily. My brain would give a sort of jerk and then go dead again. I had lost -all notion of time, and I might have been looking at the captain for days and -months for all I knew before I heard him whisper to me fiercely: “Not a word!” -This jerked me out of that trance I was in and I said “No! No! I didn’t mean -even you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I wanted to explain my conduct, my intentions, but I read in his eyes that he -understood me and I was only too glad to leave off. And there we were looking -at each other, dumb, brought up short by the question “What next?” -</p> - -<p> -“I thought Captain Anthony was a man of iron till I saw him suddenly fling his -head to the right and to the left fiercely, like a wild animal at bay not -knowing which way to break out . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“Truly,” commented Marlow, “brought to bay was not a bad comparison; a better -one than Mr. Powell was aware of. At that moment the appearance of Flora could -not but bring the tension to the breaking point. She came out in all innocence -but not without vague dread. Anthony’s exclamation on first seeing Powell had -reached her in her cabin, where, it seems, she was brushing her hair. She had -heard the very words. “What are you doing here?” And the unwonted loudness of -the voice—his voice—breaking the habitual stillness of that hour would have -startled a person having much less reason to be constantly apprehensive, than -the captive of Anthony’s masterful generosity. She had no means to guess to -whom the question was addressed and it echoed in her heart, as Anthony’s voice -always did. Followed complete silence. She waited, anxious, expectant, till she -could stand the strain no longer, and with the weary mental appeal of the -overburdened. “My God! What is it now?” she opened the door of her room and -looked into the saloon. Her first glance fell on Powell. For a moment, seeing -only the second officer with Anthony, she felt relieved and made as if to draw -back; but her sharpened perception detected something suspicious in their -attitudes, and she came forward slowly. -</p> - -<p> -“I was the first to see Mrs. Anthony,” related Powell, “because I was facing -aft. The captain, noticing my eyes, looked quickly over his shoulder and at -once put his finger to his lips to caution me. As if I were likely to let out -anything before her! Mrs. Anthony had on a dressing-gown of some grey stuff -with red facings and a thick red cord round her waist. Her hair was down. She -looked a child; a pale-faced child with big blue eyes and a red mouth a little -open showing a glimmer of white teeth. The light fell strongly on her as she -came up to the end of the table. A strange child though; she hardly affected -one like a child, I remember. Do you know,” exclaimed Mr. Powell, who clearly -must have been, like many seamen, an industrious reader, “do you know what she -looked like to me with those big eyes and something appealing in her whole -expression. She looked like a forsaken elf. Captain Anthony had moved towards -her to keep her away from my end of the table, where the tray was. I had never -seen them so near to each other before, and it made a great contrast. It was -wonderful, for, with his beard cut to a point, his swarthy, sunburnt -complexion, thin nose and his lean head there was something African, something -Moorish in Captain Anthony. His neck was bare; he had taken off his coat and -collar and had drawn on his sleeping jacket in the time that he had been absent -from the saloon. I seem to see him now. Mrs. Anthony too. She looked from him -to me—I suppose I looked guilty or frightened—and from me to him, trying to -guess what there was between us two. Then she burst out with a “What has -happened?” which seemed addressed to me. I mumbled “Nothing! Nothing, ma’am,” -which she very likely did not hear. -</p> - -<p> -“You must not think that all this had lasted a long time. She had taken fright -at our behaviour and turned to the captain pitifully. “What is it you are -concealing from me?” A straight question—eh? I don’t know what answer the -captain would have made. Before he could even raise his eyes to her she cried -out “Ah! Here’s papa” in a sharp tone of relief, but directly afterwards she -looked to me as if she were holding her breath with apprehension. I was so -interested in her that, how shall I say it, her exclamation made no connection -in my brain at first. I also noticed that she had sidled up a little nearer to -Captain Anthony, before it occurred to me to turn my head. I can tell you my -neck stiffened in the twisted position from the shock of actually seeing that -old man! He had dared! I suppose you think I ought to have looked upon him as -mad. But I couldn’t. It would have been certainly easier. But I could -<i>not</i>. You should have seen him. First of all he was completely dressed -with his very cap still on his head just as when he left me on deck two hours -before, saying in his soft voice: “The moment has come to go to bed”—while he -meant to go and do that thing and hide in his dark cabin, and watch the stuff -do its work. A cold shudder ran down my back. He had his hands in the pockets -of his jacket, his arms were pressed close to his thin, upright body, and he -shuffled across the cabin with his short steps. There was a red patch on each -of his old soft cheeks as if somebody had been pinching them. He drooped his -head a little, and looked with a sort of underhand expectation at the captain -and Mrs. Anthony standing close together at the other end of the saloon. The -calculating horrible impudence of it! His daughter was there; and I am certain -he had seen the captain putting his finger on his lips to warn me. And then he -had coolly come out! He passed my imagination, I assure you. After that one -shiver his presence killed every faculty in me—wonder, horror, indignation. I -felt nothing in particular just as if he were still the old gentleman who used -to talk to me familiarly every day on deck. Would you believe it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Powell challenged my powers of wonder at this internal phenomenon,” went -on Marlow after a slight pause. “But even if they had not been fully engaged, -together with all my powers of attention in following the facts of the case, I -would not have been astonished by his statements about himself. Taking into -consideration his youth they were by no means incredible; or, at any rate, they -were the least incredible part of the whole. They were also the least -interesting part. The interest was elsewhere, and there of course all he could -do was to look at the surface. The inwardness of what was passing before his -eyes was hidden from him, who had looked on, more impenetrably than from me who -at a distance of years was listening to his words. What presently happened at -this crisis in Flora de Barral’s fate was beyond his power of comment, seemed -in a sense natural. And his own presence on the scene was so strangely motived -that it was left for me to marvel alone at this young man, a completely -chance-comer, having brought it about on that night. -</p> - -<p> -Each situation created either by folly or wisdom has its psychological moment. -The behaviour of young Powell with its mixture of boyish impulses combined with -instinctive prudence, had not created it—I can’t say that—but had discovered it -to the very people involved. What would have happened if he had made a noise -about his discovery? But he didn’t. His head was full of Mrs. Anthony and he -behaved with a discretion beyond his years. Some nice children often do; and -surely it is not from reflection. They have their own inspirations. Young -Powell’s inspiration consisted in being “enthusiastic” about Mrs. Anthony. -‘Enthusiastic’ is really good. And he was amongst them like a child, sensitive, -impressionable, plastic—but unable to find for himself any sort of comment. -</p> - -<p> -I don’t know how much mine may be worth; but I believe that just then the -tension of the false situation was at its highest. Of all the forms offered to -us by life it is the one demanding a couple to realize it fully, which is the -most imperative. Pairing off is the fate of mankind. And if two beings thrown -together, mutually attracted, resist the necessity, fail in understanding and -voluntarily stop short of the—the embrace, in the noblest meaning of the word, -then they are committing a sin against life, the call of which is simple. -Perhaps sacred. And the punishment of it is an invasion of complexity, a -tormenting, forcibly tortuous involution of feelings, the deepest form of -suffering from which indeed something significant may come at last, which may -be criminal or heroic, may be madness or wisdom—or even a straight if -despairing decision. -</p> - -<p> -Powell on taking his eyes off the old gentleman noticed Captain Anthony, -swarthy as an African, by the side of Flora whiter than the lilies, take his -handkerchief out and wipe off his forehead the sweat of anguish—like a man who -is overcome. “And no wonder,” commented Mr. Powell here. Then the captain said, -“Hadn’t you better go back to your room.” This was to Mrs. Anthony. He tried to -smile at her. “Why do you look startled? This night is like any other night.” -</p> - -<p> -“Which,” Powell again commented to me earnestly, “was a lie . . . No wonder he -sweated.” You see from this the value of Powell’s comments. Mrs. Anthony then -said: “Why are you sending me away?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why! That you should go to sleep. That you should rest.” And Captain Anthony -frowned. Then sharply, “You stay here, Mr. Powell. I shall want you presently.” -</p> - -<p> -As a matter of fact Powell had not moved. Flora did not mind his presence. He -himself had the feeling of being of no account to those three people. He was -looking at Mrs. Anthony as unabashed as the proverbial cat looking at a king. -Mrs. Anthony glanced at him. She did not move, gripped by an inexplicable -premonition. She had arrived at the very limit of her endurance as the object -of Anthony’s magnanimity; she was the prey of an intuitive dread of she did not -know what mysterious influence; she felt herself being pushed back into that -solitude, that moral loneliness, which had made all her life intolerable. And -then, in that close communion established again with Anthony, she felt—as on -that night in the garden—the force of his personal fascination. The passive -quietness with which she looked at him gave her the appearance of a person -bewitched—or, say, mesmerically put to sleep—beyond any notion of her -surroundings. -</p> - -<p> -After telling Mr. Powell not to go away the captain remained silent. Suddenly -Mrs. Anthony pushed back her loose hair with a decisive gesture of her arms and -moved still nearer to him. “Here’s papa up yet,” she said, but she did not look -towards Mr. Smith. “Why is it? And you? I can’t go on like this, -Roderick—between you two. Don’t.” -</p> - -<p> -Anthony interrupted her as if something had untied his tongue. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes. Here’s your father. And . . . Why not. Perhaps it is just as well you -came out. Between us two? Is that it? I won’t pretend I don’t understand. I am -not blind. But I can’t fight any longer for what I haven’t got. I don’t know -what you imagine has happened. Something has though. Only you needn’t be -afraid. No shadow can touch you—because I give up. I can’t say we had much talk -about it, your father and I, but, the long and the short of it is, that I must -learn to live without you—which I have told you was impossible. I was speaking -the truth. But I have done fighting, or waiting, or hoping. Yes. You shall go.” -</p> - -<p> -At this point Mr. Powell who (he confessed to me) was listening with -uncomprehending awe, heard behind his back a triumphant chuckling sound. It -gave him the shudders, he said, to mention it now; but at the time, except for -another chill down the spine, it had not the power to destroy his absorption in -the scene before his eyes, and before his ears too, because just then Captain -Anthony raised his voice grimly. Perhaps he too had heard the chuckle of the -old man. -</p> - -<p> -“Your father has found an argument which makes me pause, if it does not -convince me. No! I can’t answer it. I—I don’t want to answer it. I simply -surrender. He shall have his way with you—and with me. Only,” he added in a -gloomy lowered tone which struck Mr. Powell as if a pedal had been put down, -“only it shall take a little time. I have never lied to you. Never. I renounce -not only my chance but my life. In a few days, directly we get into port, the -very moment we do, I, who have said I could never let you go, I shall let you -go.” -</p> - -<p> -To the innocent beholder Anthony seemed at this point to become physically -exhausted. My view is that the utter falseness of his, I may say, aspirations, -the vanity of grasping the empty air, had come to him with an overwhelming -force, leaving him disarmed before the other’s mad and sinister sincerity. As -he had said himself he could not fight for what he did not possess; he could -not face such a thing as this for the sake of his mere magnanimity. The normal -alone can overcome the abnormal. He could not even reproach that man over -there. “I own myself beaten,” he said in a firmer tone. “You are free. I let -you off since I must.” -</p> - -<p> -Powell, the onlooker, affirms that at these incomprehensible words Mrs. Anthony -stiffened into the very image of astonishment, with a frightened stare and -frozen lips. But next minute a cry came out from her heart, not very loud but -of a quality which made not only Captain Anthony (he was not looking at her), -not only him but also the more distant (and equally unprepared) young man, -catch their breath: “But I don’t want to be let off,” she cried. -</p> - -<p> -She was so still that one asked oneself whether the cry had come from her. The -restless shuffle behind Powell’s back stopped short, the intermittent shadowy -chuckling ceased too. Young Powell, glancing round, saw Mr. Smith raise his -head with his faded eyes very still, puckered at the corners, like a man -perceiving something coming at him from a great distance. And Mrs. Anthony’s -voice reached Powell’s ears, entreating and indignant. -</p> - -<p> -“You can’t cast me off like this, Roderick. I won’t go away from you. I won’t—” -</p> - -<p> -Powell turned about and discovered then that what Mr. Smith was puckering his -eyes at, was the sight of his daughter clinging round Captain Anthony’s neck—a -sight not in itself improper, but which had the power to move young Powell with -a bashfully profound emotion. It was different from his emotion while spying at -the revelations of the skylight, but in this case too he felt the discomfort, -if not the guilt, of an unseen beholder. Experience was being piled up on his -young shoulders. Mrs. Anthony’s hair hung back in a dark mass like the hair of -a drowned woman. She looked as if she would let go and sink to the floor if the -captain were to withhold his sustaining arm. But the captain obviously had no -such intention. Standing firm and still he gazed with sombre eyes at Mr. Smith. -For a time the low convulsive sobbing of Mr. Smith’s daughter was the only -sound to trouble the silence. The strength of Anthony’s clasp pressing Flora to -his breast could not be doubted even at that distance, and suddenly, awakening -to his opportunity, he began to partly support her, partly carry her in the -direction of her cabin. His head was bent over her solicitously, then -recollecting himself, with a glance full of unwonted fire, his voice ringing in -a note unknown to Mr. Powell, he cried to him, “Don’t you go on deck yet. I -want you to stay down here till I come back. There are some instructions I want -to give you.” -</p> - -<p> -And before the young man could answer, Anthony had disappeared in the -stern-cabin, burdened and exulting. -</p> - -<p> -“Instructions,” commented Mr. Powell. “That was all right. Very likely; but -they would be such instructions as, I thought to myself, no ship’s officer -perhaps had ever been given before. It made me feel a little sick to think what -they would be dealing with, probably. But there! Everything that happens on -board ship on the high seas has got to be dealt with somehow. There are no -special people to fly to for assistance. And there I was with that old man left -in my charge. When he noticed me looking at him he started to shuffle again -athwart the saloon. He kept his hands rammed in his pockets, he was as -stiff-backed as ever, only his head hung down. After a bit he says in his -gentle soft tone: “Did you see it?” -</p> - -<p> -There were in Powell’s head no special words to fit the horror of his feelings. -So he said—he had to say something, “Good God! What were you thinking of, Mr. -Smith, to try to . . . ” And then he left off. He dared not utter the awful -word poison. Mr. Smith stopped his prowl. -</p> - -<p> -“Think! What do you know of thinking. I don’t think. There is something in my -head that thinks. The thoughts in men, it’s like being drunk with liquor or—You -can’t stop them. A man who thinks will think anything. No! But have you seen -it. Have you?” -</p> - -<p> -“I tell you I have! I am certain!” said Powell forcibly. “I was looking at you -all the time. You’ve done something to the drink in that glass.” -</p> - -<p> -Then Powell lost his breath somehow. Mr. Smith looked at him curiously, with -mistrust. -</p> - -<p> -“My good young man, I don’t know what you are talking about. I ask you—have you -seen? Who would have believed it? with her arms round his neck. When! Oh! Ha! -Ha! You did see! Didn’t you? It wasn’t a delusion—was it? Her arms round . . . -But I have never wholly trusted her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then I flew out at him, said Mr. Powell. I told him he was jolly lucky to have -fallen upon Captain Anthony. A man in a million. He started again shuffling to -and fro. “You too,” he said mournfully, keeping his eyes down. “Eh? Wonderful -man? But have you a notion who I am? Listen! I have been the Great Mr. de -Barral. So they printed it in the papers while they were getting up a -conspiracy. And I have been doing time. And now I am brought low.” His voice -died down to a mere breath. “Brought low.” -</p> - -<p> -He took his hands out of his pocket, dragged the cap down on his head and stuck -them back into his pockets, exactly as if preparing himself to go out into a -great wind. “But not so low as to put up with this disgrace, to see her, fast -in this fellow’s clutches, without doing something. She wouldn’t listen to me. -Frightened? Silly? I had to think of some way to get her out of this. Did you -think she cared for him? No! Would anybody have thought so? No! She pretended -it was for my sake. She couldn’t understand that if I hadn’t been an old man I -would have flown at his throat months ago. As it was I was tempted every time -he looked at her. My girl. Ough! Any man but this. And all the time the wicked -little fool was lying to me. It was their plot, their conspiracy! These -conspiracies are the devil. She has been leading me on, till she has fairly put -my head under the heel of that jailer, of that scoundrel, of her husband . . . -Treachery! Bringing me low. Lower than herself. In the dirt. That’s what it -means. Doesn’t it? Under his heel!” -</p> - -<p> -He paused in his restless shuffle and again, seizing his cap with both hands, -dragged it furiously right down on his ears. Powell had lost himself in -listening to these broken ravings, in looking at that old feverish face when, -suddenly, quick as lightning, Mr. Smith spun round, snatched up the captain’s -glass and with a stifled, hurried exclamation, “Here’s luck,” tossed the liquor -down his throat. -</p> - -<p> -“I know now the meaning of the word ‘Consternation,’” went on Mr. Powell. “That -was exactly my state of mind. I thought to myself directly: There’s nothing in -that drink. I have been dreaming, I have made the awfulest mistake! . . .” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Smith put the glass down. He stood before Powell unharmed, quieted down, in -a listening attitude, his head inclined on one side, chewing his thin lips. -Suddenly he blinked queerly, grabbed Powell’s shoulder and collapsed, subsiding -all at once as though he had gone soft all over, as a piece of silk stuff -collapses. Powell seized his arm instinctively and checked his fall; but as -soon as Mr. Smith was fairly on the floor he jerked himself free and backed -away. Almost as quick he rushed forward again and tried to lift up the body. -But directly he raised his shoulders he knew that the man was dead! Dead! -</p> - -<p> -He lowered him down gently. He stood over him without fear or any other -feeling, almost indifferent, far away, as it were. And then he made another -start and, if he had not kept Mrs. Anthony always in his mind, he would have -let out a yell for help. He staggered to her cabin-door, and, as it was, his -call for “Captain Anthony” burst out of him much too loud; but he made a great -effort of self-control. “I am waiting for my orders, sir,” he said outside that -door distinctly, in a steady tone. -</p> - -<p> -It was very still in there; still as death. Then he heard a shuffle of feet and -the captain’s voice “All right. Coming.” He leaned his back against the -bulkhead as you see a drunken man sometimes propped up against a wall, half -doubled up. In that attitude the captain found him, when he came out, pulling -the door to after him quickly. At once Anthony let his eyes run all over the -cabin. Powell, without a word, clutched his forearm, led him round the end of -the table and began to justify himself. “I couldn’t stop him,” he whispered -shakily. “He was too quick for me. He drank it up and fell down.” But the -captain was not listening. He was looking down at Mr. Smith, thinking perhaps -that it was a mere chance his own body was not lying there. They did not want -to speak. They made signs to each other with their eyes. The captain grasped -Powell’s shoulder as if in a vice and glanced at Mrs. Anthony’s cabin door, and -it was enough. He knew that the young man understood him. Rather! Silence! -Silence for ever about this. Their very glances became stealthy. Powell looked -from the body to the door of the dead man’s state-room. The captain nodded and -let him go; and then Powell crept over, hooked the door open and crept back -with fearful glances towards Mrs. Anthony’s cabin. They stooped over the -corpse. Captain Anthony lifted up the shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell shuddered. “I’ll never forget that interminable journey across the -saloon, step by step, holding our breath. For part of the way the drawn half of -the curtain concealed us from view had Mrs. Anthony opened her door; but I -didn’t draw a free breath till after we laid the body down on the swinging cot. -The reflection of the saloon light left most of the cabin in the shadow. Mr. -Smith’s rigid, extended body looked shadowy too, shadowy and alive. You know he -always carried himself as stiff as a poker. We stood by the cot as though -waiting for him to make us a sign that he wanted to be left alone. The captain -threw his arm over my shoulder and said in my very ear: “The steward’ll find -him in the morning.” -</p> - -<p> -“I made no answer. It was for him to say. It was perhaps the best way. It’s no -use talking about my thoughts. They were not concerned with myself, nor yet -with that old man who terrified me more now than when he was alive. Him whom I -pitied was the captain. He whispered. “I am certain of you, Mr. Powell. You had -better go on deck now. As to me . . . ” and I saw him raise his hands to his -head as if distracted. But his last words before we stole out that cabin stick -to my mind with the very tone of his mutter—to himself, not to me: -</p> - -<p> -“No! No! I am not going to stumble now over that corpse.” -</p> - -<p> -* * * -</p> - -<p> -“This is what our Mr. Powell had to tell me,” said Marlow, changing his tone. I -was glad to learn that Flora de Barral had been saved from <i>that</i> sinister -shadow at least falling upon her path. -</p> - -<p> -We sat silent then, my mind running on the end of de Barral, on the -irresistible pressure of imaginary griefs, crushing conscience, scruples, -prudence, under their ever-expanding volume; on the sombre and venomous irony -in the obsession which had mastered that old man. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -“The steward found him,” Mr. Powell roused himself. “He went in there with a -cup of tea at five and of course dropped it. I was on watch again. He reeled up -to me on deck pale as death. I had been expecting it; and yet I could hardly -speak. “Go and tell the captain quietly,” I managed to say. He ran off -muttering “My God! My God!” and I’m hanged if he didn’t get hysterical while -trying to tell the captain, and start screaming in the saloon, “Fully dressed! -Dead! Fully dressed!” Mrs. Anthony ran out of course but she didn’t get -hysterical. Franklin, who was there too, told me that she hid her face on the -captain’s breast and then he went out and left them there. It was days before -Mrs. Anthony was seen on deck. The first time I spoke to her she gave me her -hand and said, “My poor father was quite fond of you, Mr. Powell.” She started -wiping her eyes and I fled to the other side of the deck. One would like to -forget all this had ever come near her.” -</p> - -<p> -But clearly he could not, because after lighting his pipe he began musing -aloud: “Very strong stuff it must have been. I wonder where he got it. It could -hardly be at a common chemist. Well, he had it from somewhere—a mere pinch it -must have been, no more.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have my theory,” observed Marlow, “which to a certain extent does away with -the added horror of a coldly premeditated crime. Chance had stepped in there -too. It was not Mr. Smith who obtained the poison. It was the Great de Barral. -And it was not meant for the obscure, magnanimous conqueror of Flora de Barral; -it was meant for the notorious financier whose enterprises had nothing to do -with magnanimity. He had his physician in his days of greatness. I even seem to -remember that the man was called at the trial on some small point or other. I -can imagine that de Barral went to him when he saw, as he could hardly help -seeing, the possibility of a “triumph of envious rivals”—a heavy sentence. -</p> - -<p> -I doubt if for love or even for money, but I think possibly, from pity that man -provided him with what Mr. Powell called “strong stuff.” From what Powell saw -of the very act I am fairly certain it must have been contained in a capsule -and that he had it about him on the last day of his trial, perhaps secured by a -stitch in his waistcoat pocket. He didn’t use it. Why? Did he think of his -child at the last moment? Was it want of courage? We can’t tell. But he found -it in his clothes when he came out of jail. It had escaped investigation if -there was any. Chance had armed him. And chance alone, the chance of Mr. -Powell’s life, forced him to turn the abominable weapon against himself. -</p> - -<p> -I imparted my theory to Mr. Powell who accepted it at once as, in a sense, -favourable to the father of Mrs. Anthony. Then he waved his hand. “Don’t let us -think of it.” -</p> - -<p> -I acquiesced and very soon he observed dreamily: -</p> - -<p> -“I was with Captain and Mrs. Anthony sailing all over the world for near on six -years. Almost as long as Franklin.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes! What about Franklin?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -Powell smiled. “He left the <i>Ferndale</i> a year or so afterwards, and I took -his place. Captain Anthony recommended him for a command. You don’t think -Captain Anthony would chuck a man aside like an old glove. But of course Mrs. -Anthony did not like him very much. I don’t think she ever let out a whisper -against him but Captain Anthony could read her thoughts. -</p> - -<p> -And again Powell seemed to lose himself in the past. I asked, for suddenly the -vision of the Fynes passed through my mind. -</p> - -<p> -“Any children?” -</p> - -<p> -Powell gave a start. “No! No! Never had any children,” and again subsided, -puffing at his short briar pipe. -</p> - -<p> -“Where are they now?” I inquired next as if anxious to ascertain that all -Fyne’s fears had been misplaced and vain as our fears often are; that there -were no undesirable cousins for his dear girls, no danger of intrusion on their -spotless home. Powell looked round at me slowly, his pipe smouldering in his -hand. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you know?” he uttered in a deep voice. -</p> - -<p> -“Know what?” -</p> - -<p> -“That the <i>Ferndale</i> was lost this four years or more. Sunk. Collision. -And Captain Anthony went down with her.” -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t say so!” I cried quite affected as if I had known Captain Anthony -personally. “Was—was Mrs. Anthony lost too?” -</p> - -<p> -“You might as well ask if I was lost,” Mr. Powell rejoined so testily as to -surprise me. “You see me here,—don’t you.” -</p> - -<p> -He was quite huffy, but noticing my wondering stare he smoothed his ruffled -plumes. And in a musing tone. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Good men go out as if there was no use for them in the world. It seems as -if there were things that, as the Turks say, are written. Or else fate has a -try and sometimes misses its mark. You remember that close shave we had of -being run down at night, I told you of, my first voyage with them. This go it -was just at dawn. A flat calm and a fog thick enough to slice with a knife. -Only there were no explosives on board. I was on deck and I remember the -cursed, murderous thing looming up alongside and Captain Anthony (we were both -on deck) calling out, “Good God! What’s this! Shout for all hands, Powell, to -save themselves. There’s no dynamite on board now. I am going to get the wife! -. . ” I yelled, all the watch on deck yelled. Crash!” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell gasped at the recollection. “It was a Belgian Green Star liner, the -<i>Westland</i>,” he went on, “commanded by one of those stop-for-nothing -skippers. Flaherty was his name and I hope he will die without absolution. She -cut half through the old <i>Ferndale</i> and after the blow there was a silence -like death. Next I heard the captain back on deck shouting, “Set your engines -slow ahead,” and a howl of “Yes, yes,” answering him from her forecastle; and -then a whole crowd of people up there began making a row in the fog. They were -throwing ropes down to us in dozens, I must say. I and the captain fastened one -of them under Mrs. Anthony’s arms: I remember she had a sort of dim smile on -her face.” -</p> - -<p> -“Haul up carefully,” I shouted to the people on the steamer’s deck. “You’ve got -a woman on that line.” -</p> - -<p> -The captain saw her landed up there safe. And then we made a rush round our -decks to see no one was left behind. As we got back the captain says: “Here -she’s gone at last, Powell; the dear old thing! Run down at sea.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed she is gone,” I said. “But it might have been worse. Shin up this rope, -sir, for God’s sake. I will steady it for you.” -</p> - -<p> -“What are you thinking about,” he says angrily. “It isn’t my turn. Up with -you.” -</p> - -<p> -These were the last words he ever spoke on earth I suppose. I knew he meant to -be the last to leave his ship, so I swarmed up as quick as I could, and those -damned lunatics up there grab at me from above, lug me in, drag me along aft -through the row and the riot of the silliest excitement I ever did see. -Somebody hails from the bridge, “Have you got them all on board?” and a dozen -silly asses start yelling all together, “All saved! All saved,” and then that -accursed Irishman on the bridge, with me roaring No! No! till I thought my head -would burst, rings his engines astern. He rings the engines astern—I fighting -like mad to make myself heard! And of course . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -I saw tears, a shower of them fall down Mr. Powell’s face. His voice broke. -</p> - -<p> -“The <i>Ferndale</i> went down like a stone and Captain Anthony went down with -her, the finest man’s soul that ever left a sailor’s body. I raved like a -maniac, like a devil, with a lot of fools crowding round me and asking, “Aren’t -you the captain?” -</p> - -<p> -“I wasn’t fit to tie the shoe-strings of the man you have drowned,” I screamed -at them . . . Well! Well! I could see for myself that it was no good lowering a -boat. You couldn’t have seen her alongside. No use. And only think, Marlow, it -was I who had to go and tell Mrs. Anthony. They had taken her down below -somewhere, first-class saloon. I had to go and tell her! That Flaherty, God -forgive him, comes to me as white as a sheet, “I think you are the proper -person.” God forgive him. I wished to die a hundred times. A lot of kind -ladies, passengers, were chattering excitedly around Mrs. Anthony—a real parrot -house. The ship’s doctor went before me. He whispers right and left and then -there falls a sudden hush. Yes, I wished myself dead. But Mrs. Anthony was a -brick. -</p> - -<p> -Here Mr. Powell fairly burst into tears. “No one could help loving Captain -Anthony. I leave you to imagine what he was to her. Yet before the week was out -it was she who was helping me to pull myself together.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is Mrs. Anthony in England now?” I asked after a while. -</p> - -<p> -He wiped his eyes without any false shame. “Oh yes.” He began to look for -matches, and while diving for the box under the table added: “And not very far -from here either. That little village up there—you know.” -</p> - -<p> -“No! Really! Oh I see!” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell smoked austerely, very detached. But I could not let him off like -this. The sly beggar. So this was the secret of his passion for sailing about -the river, the reason of his fondness for that creek. -</p> - -<p> -“And I suppose,” I said, “that you are still as ‘enthusiastic’ as ever. Eh? If -I were you I would just mention my enthusiasm to Mrs. Anthony. Why not?” -</p> - -<p> -He caught his falling pipe neatly. But if what the French call -<i>effarement</i> was ever expressed on a human countenance it was on this -occasion, testifying to his modesty, his sensibility and his innocence. He -looked afraid of somebody overhearing my audacious—almost sacrilegious hint—as -if there had not been a mile and a half of lonely marshland and dykes between -us and the nearest human habitation. And then perhaps he remembered the -soothing fact for he allowed a gleam to light up his eyes, like the reflection -of some inward fire tended in the sanctuary of his heart by a devotion as pure -as that of any vestal. -</p> - -<p> -It flashed and went out. He smiled a bashful smile, sighed: -</p> - -<p> -“Pah! Foolishness. You ought to know better,” he said, more sad than annoyed. -“But I forgot that you never knew Captain Anthony,” he added indulgently. -</p> - -<p> -I reminded him that I knew Mrs. Anthony; even before he—an old friend now—had -ever set eyes on her. And as he told me that Mrs. Anthony had heard of our -meetings I wondered whether she would care to see me. Mr. Powell volunteered no -opinion then; but next time we lay in the creek he said, “She will be very -pleased. You had better go to-day.” -</p> - -<p> -The afternoon was well advanced before I approached the cottage. The amenity of -a fine day in its decline surrounded me with a beneficent, a calming influence; -I felt it in the silence of the shady lane, in the pure air, in the blue sky. -It is difficult to retain the memory of the conflicts, miseries, temptations -and crimes of men’s self-seeking existence when one is alone with the charming -serenity of the unconscious nature. Breathing the dreamless peace around the -picturesque cottage I was approaching, it seemed to me that it must reign -everywhere, over all the globe of water and land and in the hearts of all the -dwellers on this earth. -</p> - -<p> -Flora came down to the garden gate to meet me, no longer the perversely -tempting, sorrowful, wisp of white mist drifting in the complicated bad dream -of existence. Neither did she look like a forsaken elf. I stammered out -stupidly, “Again in the country, Miss . . . Mrs . . . ” She was very good, -returned the pressure of my hand, but we were slightly embarrassed. Then we -laughed a little. Then we became grave. -</p> - -<p> -I am no lover of day-breaks. You know how thin, equivocal, is the light of the -dawn. But she was now her true self, she was like a fine tranquil afternoon—and -not so very far advanced either. A woman not much over thirty, with a dazzling -complexion and a little colour, a lot of hair, a smooth brow, a fine chin, and -only the eyes of the Flora of the old days, absolutely unchanged. -</p> - -<p> -In the room into which she led me we found a Miss Somebody—I didn’t catch the -name,—an unobtrusive, even an indistinct, middle-aged person in black. A -companion. All very proper. She came and went and even sat down at times in the -room, but a little apart, with some sewing. By the time she had brought in a -lighted lamp I had heard all the details which really matter in this story. -Between me and her who was once Flora de Barral the conversation was not likely -to keep strictly to the weather. -</p> - -<p> -The lamp had a rosy shade; and its glow wreathed her in perpetual blushes, made -her appear wonderfully young as she sat before me in a deep, high-backed -arm-chair. I asked: -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me what is it you said in that famous letter which so upset Mrs. Fyne, -and caused little Fyne to interfere in this offensive manner?” -</p> - -<p> -“It was simply crude,” she said earnestly. “I was feeling reckless and I wrote -recklessly. I knew she would disapprove and I wrote foolishly. It was the echo -of her own stupid talk. I said that I did not love her brother but that I had -no scruples whatever in marrying him.” -</p> - -<p> -She paused, hesitating, then with a shy half-laugh: -</p> - -<p> -“I really believed I was selling myself, Mr. Marlow. And I was proud of it. -What I suffered afterwards I couldn’t tell you; because I only discovered my -love for my poor Roderick through agonies of rage and humiliation. I came to -suspect him of despising me; but I could not put it to the test because of my -father. Oh! I would not have been too proud. But I had to spare poor papa’s -feelings. Roderick was perfect, but I felt as though I were on the rack and not -allowed even to cry out. Papa’s prejudice against Roderick was my greatest -grief. It was distracting. It frightened me. Oh! I have been miserable! That -night when my poor father died suddenly I am certain they had some sort of -discussion, about me. But I did not want to hold out any longer against my own -heart! I could not.” -</p> - -<p> -She stopped short, then impulsively: -</p> - -<p> -“Truth will out, Mr. Marlow.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -She went on musingly. -</p> - -<p> -“Sorrow and happiness were mingled at first like darkness and light. For months -I lived in a dusk of feelings. But it was quiet. It was warm . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Again she paused, then going back in her thoughts. “No! There was no harm in -that letter. It was simply foolish. What did I know of life then? Nothing. But -Mrs. Fyne ought to have known better. She wrote a letter to her brother, a -little later. Years afterwards Roderick allowed me to glance at it. I found in -it this sentence: ‘For years I tried to make a friend of that girl; but I warn -you once more that she has the nature of a heartless adventuress . . . ’ -Adventuress!” repeated Flora slowly. “So be it. I have had a fine adventure.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was fine, then,” I said interested. -</p> - -<p> -“The finest in the world! Only think! I loved and I was loved, untroubled, at -peace, without remorse, without fear. All the world, all life were transformed -for me. And how much I have seen! How good people were to me! Roderick was so -much liked everywhere. Yes, I have known kindness and safety. The most familiar -things appeared lighted up with a new light, clothed with a loveliness I had -never suspected. The sea itself! . . . You are a sailor. You have lived your -life on it. But do you know how beautiful it is, how strong, how charming, how -friendly, how mighty . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -I listened amazed and touched. She was silent only a little while. -</p> - -<p> -“It was too good to last. But nothing can rob me of it now . . . Don’t think -that I repine. I am not even sad now. Yes, I have been happy. But I remember -also the time when I was unhappy beyond endurance, beyond desperation. Yes. You -remember that. And later on, too. There was a time on board the <i>Ferndale</i> -when the only moments of relief I knew were when I made Mr. Powell talk to me a -little on the poop. You like him?—Don’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Excellent fellow,” I said warmly. “You see him often?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course. I hardly know another soul in the world. I am alone. And he has -plenty of time on his hands. His aunt died a few years ago. He’s doing nothing, -I believe.” -</p> - -<p> -“He is fond of the sea,” I remarked. “He loves it.” -</p> - -<p> -“He seems to have given it up,” she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder why?” -</p> - -<p> -She remained silent. “Perhaps it is because he loves something else better,” I -went on. “Come, Mrs. Anthony, don’t let me carry away from here the idea that -you are a selfish person, hugging the memory of your past happiness, like a -rich man his treasure, forgetting the poor at the gate.” -</p> - -<p> -I rose to go, for it was getting late. She got up in some agitation and went -out with me into the fragrant darkness of the garden. She detained my hand for -a moment and then in the very voice of the Flora of old days, with the exact -intonation, showing the old mistrust, the old doubt of herself, the old scar of -the blow received in childhood, pathetic and funny, she murmured, “Do you think -it possible that he should care for me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Just ask him yourself. You are brave.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I am brave enough,” she said with a sigh. -</p> - -<p> -“Then do. For if you don’t you will be wronging that patient man cruelly.” -</p> - -<p> -I departed leaving her dumb. Next day, seeing Powell making preparations to go -ashore, I asked him to give my regards to Mrs. Anthony. He promised he would. -</p> - -<p> -“Listen, Powell,” I said. “We got to know each other by chance?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, quite!” he admitted, adjusting his hat. -</p> - -<p> -“And the science of life consists in seizing every chance that presents -itself,” I pursued. “Do you believe that?” -</p> - -<p> -“Gospel truth,” he declared innocently. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, don’t forget it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I! I don’t expect now anything to present itself,” he said, jumping -ashore. -</p> - -<p> -He didn’t turn up at high water. I set my sail and just as I had cast off from -the bank, round the black barn, in the dusk, two figures appeared and stood -silent, indistinct. -</p> - -<p> -“Is that you, Powell?” I hailed. -</p> - -<p> -“And Mrs. Anthony,” his voice came impressively through the silence of the -great marsh. “I am not sailing to-night. I have to see Mrs. Anthony home.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then I must even go alone,” I cried. -</p> - -<p> -Flora’s voice wished me “<i>bon voyage</i>” in a most friendly but tremulous -tone. -</p> - -<p> -“You shall hear from me before long,” shouted Powell, suddenly, just as my boat -had cleared the mouth of the creek. -</p> - -<p> -“This was yesterday,” added Marlow, lolling in the arm-chair lazily. “I haven’t -heard yet; but I expect to hear any moment . . . What on earth are you grinning -at in this sarcastic manner? I am not afraid of going to church with a friend. -Hang it all, for all my belief in Chance I am not exactly a pagan . . . ” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHANCE ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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WHOSE STEADFAST FRIENDSHIP IS RESPONSIBLE -FOR THE EXISTENCE OF THESE PAGES - - - - -PART I--THE DAMSEL - - -CHAPTER ONE--YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE - - -I believe he had seen us out of the window coming off to dine in the -dinghy of a fourteen-ton yawl belonging to Marlow my host and skipper. We -helped the boy we had with us to haul the boat up on the landing-stage -before we went up to the riverside inn, where we found our new -acquaintance eating his dinner in dignified loneliness at the head of a -long table, white and inhospitable like a snow bank. - -The red tint of his clear-cut face with trim short black whiskers under a -cap of curly iron-grey hair was the only warm spot in the dinginess of -that room cooled by the cheerless tablecloth. We knew him already by -sight as the owner of a little five-ton cutter, which he sailed alone -apparently, a fellow yachtsman in the unpretending band of fanatics who -cruise at the mouth of the Thames. But the first time he addressed the -waiter sharply as 'steward' we knew him at once for a sailor as well as a -yachtsman. - -Presently he had occasion to reprove that same waiter for the slovenly -manner in which the dinner was served. He did it with considerable -energy and then turned to us. - -"If we at sea," he declared, "went about our work as people ashore high -and low go about theirs we should never make a living. No one would -employ us. And moreover no ship navigated and sailed in the happy-go- -lucky manner people conduct their business on shore would ever arrive -into port." - -Since he had retired from the sea he had been astonished to discover that -the educated people were not much better than the others. No one seemed -to take any proper pride in his work: from plumbers who were simply -thieves to, say, newspaper men (he seemed to think them a specially -intellectual class) who never by any chance gave a correct version of the -simplest affair. This universal inefficiency of what he called "the -shore gang" he ascribed in general to the want of responsibility and to a -sense of security. - -"They see," he went on, "that no matter what they do this tight little -island won't turn turtle with them or spring a leak and go to the bottom -with their wives and children." - -From this point the conversation took a special turn relating exclusively -to sea-life. On that subject he got quickly in touch with Marlow who in -his time had followed the sea. They kept up a lively exchange of -reminiscences while I listened. They agreed that the happiest time in -their lives was as youngsters in good ships, with no care in the world -but not to lose a watch below when at sea and not a moment's time in -going ashore after work hours when in harbour. They agreed also as to -the proudest moment they had known in that calling which is never -embraced on rational and practical grounds, because of the glamour of its -romantic associations. It was the moment when they had passed -successfully their first examination and left the seamanship Examiner -with the little precious slip of blue paper in their hands. - -"That day I wouldn't have called the Queen my cousin," declared our new -acquaintance enthusiastically. - -At that time the Marine Board examinations took place at the St. -Katherine's Dock House on Tower Hill, and he informed us that he had a -special affection for the view of that historic locality, with the -Gardens to the left, the front of the Mint to the right, the miserable -tumble-down little houses farther away, a cabstand, boot-blacks squatting -on the edge of the pavement and a pair of big policemen gazing with an -air of superiority at the doors of the Black Horse public-house across -the road. This was the part of the world, he said, his eyes first took -notice of, on the finest day of his life. He had emerged from the main -entrance of St. Katherine's Dock House a full-fledged second mate after -the hottest time of his life with Captain R-, the most dreaded of the -three seamanship Examiners who at the time were responsible for the -merchant service officers qualifying in the Port of London. - -"We all who were preparing to pass," he said, "used to shake in our shoes -at the idea of going before him. He kept me for an hour and a half in -the torture chamber and behaved as though he hated me. He kept his eyes -shaded with one of his hands. Suddenly he let it drop saying, "You will -do!" Before I realised what he meant he was pushing the blue slip across -the table. I jumped up as if my chair had caught fire. - -"Thank you, sir," says I, grabbing the paper. - -"Good morning, good luck to you," he growls at me. - -"The old doorkeeper fussed out of the cloak-room with my hat. They -always do. But he looked very hard at me before he ventured to ask in a -sort of timid whisper: "Got through all right, sir?" For all answer I -dropped a half-crown into his soft broad palm. "Well," says he with a -sudden grin from ear to ear, "I never knew him keep any of you gentlemen -so long. He failed two second mates this morning before your turn came. -Less than twenty minutes each: that's about his usual time." - -"I found myself downstairs without being aware of the steps as if I had -floated down the staircase. The finest day in my life. The day you get -your first command is nothing to it. For one thing a man is not so young -then and for another with us, you know, there is nothing much more to -expect. Yes, the finest day of one's life, no doubt, but then it is just -a day and no more. What comes after is about the most unpleasant time -for a youngster, the trying to get an officer's berth with nothing much -to show but a brand-new certificate. It is surprising how useless you -find that piece of ass's skin that you have been putting yourself in such -a state about. It didn't strike me at the time that a Board of Trade -certificate does not make an officer, not by a long long way. But the -slippers of the ships I was haunting with demands for a job knew that -very well. I don't wonder at them now, and I don't blame them either. -But this 'trying to get a ship' is pretty hard on a youngster all the -same . . . " - -He went on then to tell us how tired he was and how discouraged by this -lesson of disillusion following swiftly upon the finest day of his life. -He told us how he went the round of all the ship-owners' offices in the -City where some junior clerk would furnish him with printed forms of -application which he took home to fill up in the evening. He used to run -out just before midnight to post them in the nearest pillar-box. And -that was all that ever came of it. In his own words: he might just as -well have dropped them all properly addressed and stamped into the sewer -grating. - -Then one day, as he was wending his weary way to the docks, he met a -friend and former shipmate a little older than himself outside the -Fenchurch Street Railway Station. - -He craved for sympathy but his friend had just "got a ship" that very -morning and was hurrying home in a state of outward joy and inward -uneasiness usual to a sailor who after many days of waiting suddenly gets -a berth. This friend had the time to condole with him but briefly. He -must be moving. Then as he was running off, over his shoulder as it -were, he suggested: "Why don't you go and speak to Mr. Powell in the -Shipping Office." Our friend objected that he did not know Mr. Powell -from Adam. And the other already pretty near round the corner shouted -back advice: "Go to the private door of the Shipping Office and walk -right up to him. His desk is by the window. Go up boldly and say I sent -you." - -Our new acquaintance looking from one to the other of us declared: "Upon -my word, I had grown so desperate that I'd have gone boldly up to the -devil himself on the mere hint that he had a second mate's job to give -away." - -It was at this point that interrupting his flow of talk to light his pipe -but holding us with his eye he inquired whether we had known Powell. -Marlow with a slight reminiscent smile murmured that he "remembered him -very well." - -Then there was a pause. Our new acquaintance had become involved in a -vexatious difficulty with his pipe which had suddenly betrayed his trust -and disappointed his anticipation of self-indulgence. To keep the ball -rolling I asked Marlow if this Powell was remarkable in any way. - -"He was not exactly remarkable," Marlow answered with his usual -nonchalance. "In a general way it's very difficult for one to become -remarkable. People won't take sufficient notice of one, don't you know. -I remember Powell so well simply because as one of the Shipping Masters -in the Port of London he dispatched me to sea on several long stages of -my sailor's pilgrimage. He resembled Socrates. I mean he resembled him -genuinely: that is in the face. A philosophical mind is but an accident. -He reproduced exactly the familiar bust of the immortal sage, if you will -imagine the bust with a high top hat riding far on the back of the head, -and a black coat over the shoulders. As I never saw him except from the -other side of the long official counter bearing the five writing desks of -the five Shipping Masters, Mr. Powell has remained a bust to me." - -Our new acquaintance advanced now from the mantelpiece with his pipe in -good working order. - -"What was the most remarkable about Powell," he enunciated dogmatically -with his head in a cloud of smoke, "is that he should have had just that -name. You see, my name happens to be Powell too." - -It was clear that this intelligence was not imparted to us for social -purposes. It required no acknowledgment. We continued to gaze at him -with expectant eyes. - -He gave himself up to the vigorous enjoyment of his pipe for a silent -minute or two. Then picking up the thread of his story he told us how he -had started hot foot for Tower Hill. He had not been that way since the -day of his examination--the finest day of his life--the day of his -overweening pride. It was very different now. He would not have called -the Queen his cousin, still, but this time it was from a sense of -profound abasement. He didn't think himself good enough for anybody's -kinship. He envied the purple-nosed old cab-drivers on the stand, the -boot-black boys at the edge of the pavement, the two large bobbies pacing -slowly along the Tower Gardens railings in the consciousness of their -infallible might, and the bright scarlet sentries walking smartly to and -fro before the Mint. He envied them their places in the scheme of -world's labour. And he envied also the miserable sallow, thin-faced -loafers blinking their obscene eyes and rubbing their greasy shoulders -against the door-jambs of the Black Horse pub, because they were too far -gone to feel their degradation. - -I must render the man the justice that he conveyed very well to us the -sense of his youthful hopelessness surprised at not finding its place in -the sun and no recognition of its right to live. - -He went up the outer steps of St. Katherine's Dock House, the very steps -from which he had some six weeks before surveyed the cabstand, the -buildings, the policemen, the boot-blacks, the paint, gilt, and -plateglass of the Black Horse, with the eye of a Conqueror. At the time -he had been at the bottom of his heart surprised that all this had not -greeted him with songs and incense, but now (he made no secret of it) he -made his entry in a slinking fashion past the doorkeeper's glass box. "I -hadn't any half-crowns to spare for tips," he remarked grimly. The man, -however, ran out after him asking: "What do you require?" but with a -grateful glance up at the first floor in remembrance of Captain R-'s -examination room (how easy and delightful all that had been) he bolted -down a flight leading to the basement and found himself in a place of -dusk and mystery and many doors. He had been afraid of being stopped by -some rule of no-admittance. However he was not pursued. - -The basement of St. Katherine's Dock House is vast in extent and -confusing in its plan. Pale shafts of light slant from above into the -gloom of its chilly passages. Powell wandered up and down there like an -early Christian refugee in the catacombs; but what little faith he had in -the success of his enterprise was oozing out at his finger-tips. At a -dark turn under a gas bracket whose flame was half turned down his self- -confidence abandoned him altogether. - -"I stood there to think a little," he said. "A foolish thing to do -because of course I got scared. What could you expect? It takes some -nerve to tackle a stranger with a request for a favour. I wished my -namesake Powell had been the devil himself. I felt somehow it would have -been an easier job. You see, I never believed in the devil enough to be -scared of him; but a man can make himself very unpleasant. I looked at a -lot of doors, all shut tight, with a growing conviction that I would -never have the pluck to open one of them. Thinking's no good for one's -nerve. I concluded I would give up the whole business. But I didn't -give up in the end, and I'll tell you what stopped me. It was the -recollection of that confounded doorkeeper who had called after me. I -felt sure the fellow would be on the look-out at the head of the stairs. -If he asked me what I had been after, as he had the right to do, I -wouldn't know what to answer that wouldn't make me look silly if no -worse. I got very hot. There was no chance of slinking out of this -business. - -"I had lost my bearings somehow down there. Of the many doors of various -sizes, right and left, a good few had glazed lights above; some however -must have led merely into lumber rooms or such like, because when I -brought myself to try one or two I was disconcerted to find that they -were locked. I stood there irresolute and uneasy like a baffled thief. -The confounded basement was as still as a grave and I became aware of my -heart beats. Very uncomfortable sensation. Never happened to me before -or since. A bigger door to the left of me, with a large brass handle -looked as if it might lead into the Shipping Office. I tried it, setting -my teeth. "Here goes!" - -"It came open quite easily. And lo! the place it opened into was hardly -any bigger than a cupboard. Anyhow it wasn't more than ten feet by -twelve; and as I in a way expected to see the big shadowy cellar-like -extent of the Shipping Office where I had been once or twice before, I -was extremely startled. A gas bracket hung from the middle of the -ceiling over a dark, shabby writing-desk covered with a litter of -yellowish dusty documents. Under the flame of the single burner which -made the place ablaze with light, a plump, little man was writing hard, -his nose very near the desk. His head was perfectly bald and about the -same drab tint as the papers. He appeared pretty dusty too. - -"I didn't notice whether there were any cobwebs on him, but I shouldn't -wonder if there were because he looked as though he had been imprisoned -for years in that little hole. The way he dropped his pen and sat -blinking my way upset me very much. And his dungeon was hot and musty; -it smelt of gas and mushrooms, and seemed to be somewhere 120 feet below -the ground. Solid, heavy stacks of paper filled all the corners half-way -up to the ceiling. And when the thought flashed upon me that these were -the premises of the Marine Board and that this fellow must be connected -in some way with ships and sailors and the sea, my astonishment took my -breath away. One couldn't imagine why the Marine Board should keep that -bald, fat creature slaving down there. For some reason or other I felt -sorry and ashamed to have found him out in his wretched captivity. I -asked gently and sorrowfully: "The Shipping Office, please." - -He piped up in a contemptuous squeaky voice which made me start: "Not -here. Try the passage on the other side. Street side. This is the Dock -side. You've lost your way . . . " - -He spoke in such a spiteful tone that I thought he was going to round off -with the words: "You fool" . . . and perhaps he meant to. But what he -finished sharply with was: "Shut the door quietly after you." - -And I did shut it quietly--you bet. Quick and quiet. The indomitable -spirit of that chap impressed me. I wonder sometimes whether he has -succeeded in writing himself into liberty and a pension at last, or had -to go out of his gas-lighted grave straight into that other dark one -where nobody would want to intrude. My humanity was pleased to discover -he had so much kick left in him, but I was not comforted in the least. It -occurred to me that if Mr. Powell had the same sort of temper . . . -However, I didn't give myself time to think and scuttled across the space -at the foot of the stairs into the passage where I'd been told to try. -And I tried the first door I came to, right away, without any hanging -back, because coming loudly from the hall above an amazed and scandalized -voice wanted to know what sort of game I was up to down there. "Don't -you know there's no admittance that way?" it roared. But if there was -anything more I shut it out of my hearing by means of a door marked -_Private_ on the outside. It let me into a six-feet wide strip between a -long counter and the wall, taken off a spacious, vaulted room with a -grated window and a glazed door giving daylight to the further end. The -first thing I saw right in front of me were three middle-aged men having -a sort of romp together round about another fellow with a thin, long neck -and sloping shoulders who stood up at a desk writing on a large sheet of -paper and taking no notice except that he grinned quietly to himself. -They turned very sour at once when they saw me. I heard one of them -mutter 'Hullo! What have we here?' - -"'I want to see Mr. Powell, please,' I said, very civil but firm; I would -let nothing scare me away now. This was the Shipping Office right -enough. It was after 3 o'clock and the business seemed over for the day -with them. The long-necked fellow went on with his writing steadily. I -observed that he was no longer grinning. The three others tossed their -heads all together towards the far end of the room where a fifth man had -been looking on at their antics from a high stool. I walked up to him as -boldly as if he had been the devil himself. With one foot raised up and -resting on the cross-bar of his seat he never stopped swinging the other -which was well clear of the stone floor. He had unbuttoned the top of -his waistcoat and he wore his tall hat very far at the back of his head. -He had a full unwrinkled face and such clear-shining eyes that his grey -beard looked quite false on him, stuck on for a disguise. You said just -now he resembled Socrates--didn't you? I don't know about that. This -Socrates was a wise man, I believe?" - -"He was," assented Marlow. "And a true friend of youth. He lectured -them in a peculiarly exasperating manner. It was a way he had." - -"Then give me Powell every time," declared our new acquaintance sturdily. -"He didn't lecture me in any way. Not he. He said: 'How do you do?' -quite kindly to my mumble. Then says he looking very hard at me: 'I -don't think I know you--do I?' - -"No, sir," I said and down went my heart sliding into my boots, just as -the time had come to summon up all my cheek. There's nothing meaner in -the world than a piece of impudence that isn't carried off well. For -fear of appearing shamefaced I started about it so free and easy as -almost to frighten myself. He listened for a while looking at my face -with surprise and curiosity and then held up his hand. I was glad enough -to shut up, I can tell you. - -"Well, you are a cool hand," says he. "And that friend of yours too. He -pestered me coming here every day for a fortnight till a captain I'm -acquainted with was good enough to give him a berth. And no sooner he's -provided for than he turns you on. You youngsters don't seem to mind -whom you get into trouble." - -"It was my turn now to stare with surprise and curiosity. He hadn't been -talking loud but he lowered his voice still more. - -"Don't you know it's illegal?" - -"I wondered what he was driving at till I remembered that procuring a -berth for a sailor is a penal offence under the Act. That clause was -directed of course against the swindling practices of the boarding-house -crimps. It had never struck me it would apply to everybody alike no -matter what the motive, because I believed then that people on shore did -their work with care and foresight. - -"I was confounded at the idea, but Mr. Powell made me soon see that an -Act of Parliament hasn't any sense of its own. It has only the sense -that's put into it; and that's precious little sometimes. He didn't mind -helping a young man to a ship now and then, he said, but if we kept on -coming constantly it would soon get about that he was doing it for money. - -"A pretty thing that would be: the Senior Shipping-Master of the Port of -London hauled up in a police court and fined fifty pounds," says he. -"I've another four years to serve to get my pension. It could be made to -look very black against me and don't you make any mistake about it," he -says. - -"And all the time with one knee well up he went on swinging his other leg -like a boy on a gate and looking at me very straight with his shining -eyes. I was confounded I tell you. It made me sick to hear him imply -that somebody would make a report against him. - -"Oh!" I asked shocked, "who would think of such a scurvy trick, sir?" I -was half disgusted with him for having the mere notion of it. - -"Who?" says he, speaking very low. "Anybody. One of the office -messengers maybe. I've risen to be the Senior of this office and we are -all very good friends here, but don't you think that my colleague that -sits next to me wouldn't like to go up to this desk by the window four -years in advance of the regulation time? Or even one year for that -matter. It's human nature." - -"I could not help turning my head. The three fellows who had been -skylarking when I came in were now talking together very soberly, and the -long-necked chap was going on with his writing still. He seemed to me -the most dangerous of the lot. I saw him sideface and his lips were set -very tight. I had never looked at mankind in that light before. When -one's young human nature shocks one. But what startled me most was to -see the door I had come through open slowly and give passage to a head in -a uniform cap with a Board of Trade badge. It was that blamed old -doorkeeper from the hall. He had run me to earth and meant to dig me out -too. He walked up the office smirking craftily, cap in hand. - -"What is it, Symons?" asked Mr. Powell. - -"I was only wondering where this 'ere gentleman 'ad gone to, sir. He -slipped past me upstairs, sir." - -I felt mighty uncomfortable. - -"That's all right, Symons. I know the gentleman," says Mr. Powell as -serious as a judge. - -"Very well, sir. Of course, sir. I saw the gentleman running races all -by 'isself down 'ere, so I . . ." - -"It's all right I tell you," Mr. Powell cut him short with a wave of his -hand; and, as the old fraud walked off at last, he raised his eyes to me. -I did not know what to do: stay there, or clear out, or say that I was -sorry. - -"Let's see," says he, "what did you tell me your name was?" - -"Now, observe, I hadn't given him my name at all and his question -embarrassed me a bit. Somehow or other it didn't seem proper for me to -fling his own name at him as it were. So I merely pulled out my new -certificate from my pocket and put it into his hand unfolded, so that he -could read _Charles Powell_ written very plain on the parchment. - -"He dropped his eyes on to it and after a while laid it quietly on the -desk by his side. I didn't know whether he meant to make any remark on -this coincidence. Before he had time to say anything the glass door came -open with a bang and a tall, active man rushed in with great strides. His -face looked very red below his high silk hat. You could see at once he -was the skipper of a big ship. - -"Mr. Powell after telling me in an undertone to wait a little addressed -him in a friendly way. - -"I've been expecting you in every moment to fetch away your Articles, -Captain. Here they are all ready for you." And turning to a pile of -agreements lying at his elbow he took up the topmost of them. From where -I stood I could read the words: "Ship _Ferndale_" written in a large -round hand on the first page. - -"No, Mr. Powell, they aren't ready, worse luck," says that skipper. "I've -got to ask you to strike out my second officer." He seemed excited and -bothered. He explained that his second mate had been working on board -all the morning. At one o'clock he went out to get a bit of dinner and -didn't turn up at two as he ought to have done. Instead there came a -messenger from the hospital with a note signed by a doctor. Collar bone -and one arm broken. Let himself be knocked down by a pair horse van -while crossing the road outside the dock gate, as if he had neither eyes -nor ears. And the ship ready to leave the dock at six o'clock to-morrow -morning! - -"Mr. Powell dipped his pen and began to turn the leaves of the agreement -over. "We must then take his name off," he says in a kind of unconcerned -sing-song. - -"What am I to do?" burst out the skipper. "This office closes at four -o'clock. I can't find a man in half an hour." - -"This office closes at four," repeats Mr. Powell glancing up and down the -pages and touching up a letter here and there with perfect indifference. - -"Even if I managed to lay hold some time to-day of a man ready to go at -such short notice I couldn't ship him regularly here--could I?" - -"Mr. Powell was busy drawing his pen through the entries relating to that -unlucky second mate and making a note in the margin. - -"You could sign him on yourself on board," says he without looking up. -"But I don't think you'll find easily an officer for such a pier-head -jump." - -"Upon this the fine-looking skipper gave signs of distress. The ship -mustn't miss the next morning's tide. He had to take on board forty tons -of dynamite and a hundred and twenty tons of gunpowder at a place down -the river before proceeding to sea. It was all arranged for next day. -There would be no end of fuss and complications if the ship didn't turn -up in time . . . I couldn't help hearing all this, while wishing him to -take himself off, because I wanted to know why Mr. Powell had told me to -wait. After what he had been saying there didn't seem any object in my -hanging about. If I had had my certificate in my pocket I should have -tried to slip away quietly; but Mr. Powell had turned about into the same -position I found him in at first and was again swinging his leg. My -certificate open on the desk was under his left elbow and I couldn't very -well go up and jerk it away. - -"I don't know," says he carelessly, addressing the helpless captain but -looking fixedly at me with an expression as if I hadn't been there. "I -don't know whether I ought to tell you that I know of a disengaged second -mate at hand." - -"Do you mean you've got him here?" shouts the other looking all over the -empty public part of the office as if he were ready to fling himself -bodily upon anything resembling a second mate. He had been so full of -his difficulty that I verify believe he had never noticed me. Or perhaps -seeing me inside he may have thought I was some understrapper belonging -to the place. But when Mr. Powell nodded in my direction he became very -quiet and gave me a long stare. Then he stooped to Mr. Powell's ear--I -suppose he imagined he was whispering, but I heard him well enough. - -"Looks very respectable." - -"Certainly," says the shipping-master quite calm and staring all the time -at me. "His name's Powell." - -"Oh, I see!" says the skipper as if struck all of a heap. "But is he -ready to join at once?" - -"I had a sort of vision of my lodgings--in the North of London, too, -beyond Dalston, away to the devil--and all my gear scattered about, and -my empty sea-chest somewhere in an outhouse the good people I was staying -with had at the end of their sooty strip of garden. I heard the Shipping -Master say in the coolest sort of way: - -"He'll sleep on board to-night." - -"He had better," says the Captain of the _Ferndale_ very businesslike, as -if the whole thing were settled. I can't say I was dumb for joy as you -may suppose. It wasn't exactly that. I was more by way of being out of -breath with the quickness of it. It didn't seem possible that this was -happening to me. But the skipper, after he had talked for a while with -Mr. Powell, too low for me to hear became visibly perplexed. - -"I suppose he had heard I was freshly passed and without experience as an -officer, because he turned about and looked me over as if I had been -exposed for sale. - -"He's young," he mutters. "Looks smart, though . . . You're smart and -willing (this to me very sudden and loud) and all that, aren't you?" - -"I just managed to open and shut my mouth, no more, being taken unawares. -But it was enough for him. He made as if I had deafened him with -protestations of my smartness and willingness. - -"Of course, of course. All right." And then turning to the Shipping -Master who sat there swinging his leg, he said that he certainly couldn't -go to sea without a second officer. I stood by as if all these things -were happening to some other chap whom I was seeing through with it. Mr. -Powell stared at me with those shining eyes of his. But that bothered -skipper turns upon me again as though he wanted to snap my head off. - -"You aren't too big to be told how to do things--are you? You've a lot -to learn yet though you mayn't think so." - -"I had half a mind to save my dignity by telling him that if it was my -seamanship he was alluding to I wanted him to understand that a fellow -who had survived being turned inside out for an hour and a half by -Captain R- was equal to any demand his old ship was likely to make on his -competence. However he didn't give me a chance to make that sort of fool -of myself because before I could open my mouth he had gone round on -another tack and was addressing himself affably to Mr. Powell who -swinging his leg never took his eyes off me. - -"I'll take your young friend willingly, Mr. Powell. If you let him sign -on as second-mate at once I'll take the Articles away with me now." - -"It suddenly dawned upon me that the innocent skipper of the _Ferndale_ -had taken it for granted that I was a relative of the Shipping Master! I -was quite astonished at this discovery, though indeed the mistake was -natural enough under the circumstances. What I ought to have admired was -the reticence with which this misunderstanding had been established and -acted upon. But I was too stupid then to admire anything. All my -anxiety was that this should be cleared up. I was ass enough to wonder -exceedingly at Mr. Powell failing to notice the misapprehension. I saw a -slight twitch come and go on his face; but instead of setting right that -mistake the Shipping Master swung round on his stool and addressed me as -'Charles.' He did. And I detected him taking a hasty squint at my -certificate just before, because clearly till he did so he was not sure -of my christian name. "Now then come round in front of the desk, -Charles," says he in a loud voice. - -"Charles! At first, I declare to you, it didn't seem possible that he -was addressing himself to me. I even looked round for that Charles but -there was nobody behind me except the thin-necked chap still hard at his -writing, and the other three Shipping Masters who were changing their -coats and reaching for their hats, making ready to go home. It was the -industrious thin-necked man who without laying down his pen lifted with -his left hand a flap near his desk and said kindly: - -"Pass this way." - -I walked through in a trance, faced Mr. Powell, from whom I learned that -we were bound to Port Elizabeth first, and signed my name on the Articles -of the ship _Ferndale_ as second mate--the voyage not to exceed two -years. - -"You won't fail to join--eh?" says the captain anxiously. "It would -cause no end of trouble and expense if you did. You've got a good six -hours to get your gear together, and then you'll have time to snatch a -sleep on board before the crew joins in the morning." - -"It was easy enough for him to talk of getting ready in six hours for a -voyage that was not to exceed two years. He hadn't to do that trick -himself, and with his sea-chest locked up in an outhouse the key of which -had been mislaid for a week as I remembered. But neither was I much -concerned. The idea that I was absolutely going to sea at six o'clock -next morning hadn't got quite into my head yet. It had been too sudden. - -"Mr. Powell, slipping the Articles into a long envelope, spoke up with a -sort of cold half-laugh without looking at either of us. - -"Mind you don't disgrace the name, Charles." - -"And the skipper chimes in very kindly: - -"He'll do well enough I dare say. I'll look after him a bit." - -"Upon this he grabs the Articles, says something about trying to run in -for a minute to see that poor devil in the hospital, and off he goes with -his heavy swinging step after telling me sternly: "Don't you go like that -poor fellow and get yourself run over by a cart as if you hadn't either -eyes or ears." - -"Mr. Powell," says I timidly (there was by then only the thin-necked man -left in the office with us and he was already by the door, standing on -one leg to turn the bottom of his trousers up before going away). "Mr. -Powell," says I, "I believe the Captain of the _Ferndale_ was thinking -all the time that I was a relation of yours." - -"I was rather concerned about the propriety of it, you know, but Mr. -Powell didn't seem to be in the least. - -"Did he?" says he. "That's funny, because it seems to me too that I've -been a sort of good uncle to several of you young fellows lately. Don't -you think so yourself? However, if you don't like it you may put him -right--when you get out to sea." At this I felt a bit queer. Mr. Powell -had rendered me a very good service:- because it's a fact that with us -merchant sailors the first voyage as officer is the real start in life. -He had given me no less than that. I told him warmly that he had done -for me more that day than all my relations put together ever did. - -"Oh, no, no," says he. "I guess it's that shipment of explosives waiting -down the river which has done most for you. Forty tons of dynamite have -been your best friend to-day, young man." - -"That was true too, perhaps. Anyway I saw clearly enough that I had -nothing to thank myself for. But as I tried to thank him, he checked my -stammering. - -"Don't be in a hurry to thank me," says he. "The voyage isn't finished -yet." - -Our new acquaintance paused, then added meditatively: "Queer man. As if -it made any difference. Queer man." - -"It's certainly unwise to admit any sort of responsibility for our -actions, whose consequences we are never able to foresee," remarked -Marlow by way of assent. - -"The consequence of his action was that I got a ship," said the other. -"That could not do much harm," he added with a laugh which argued a -probably unconscious contempt of general ideas. - -But Marlow was not put off. He was patient and reflective. He had been -at sea many years and I verily believe he liked sea-life because upon the -whole it is favourable to reflection. I am speaking of the now nearly -vanished sea-life under sail. To those who may be surprised at the -statement I will point out that this life secured for the mind of him who -embraced it the inestimable advantages of solitude and silence. Marlow -had the habit of pursuing general ideas in a peculiar manner, between -jest and earnest. - -"Oh, I wouldn't suggest," he said, "that your namesake Mr. Powell, the -Shipping Master, had done you much harm. Such was hardly his intention. -And even if it had been he would not have had the power. He was but a -man, and the incapacity to achieve anything distinctly good or evil is -inherent in our earthly condition. Mediocrity is our mark. And perhaps -it's just as well, since, for the most part, we cannot be certain of the -effect of our actions." - -"I don't know about the effect," the other stood up to Marlow manfully. -"What effect did you expect anyhow? I tell you he did something -uncommonly kind." - -"He did what he could," Marlow retorted gently, "and on his own showing -that was not a very great deal. I cannot help thinking that there was -some malice in the way he seized the opportunity to serve you. He -managed to make you uncomfortable. You wanted to go to sea, but he -jumped at the chance of accommodating your desire with a vengeance. I am -inclined to think your cheek alarmed him. And this was an excellent -occasion to suppress you altogether. For if you accepted he was relieved -of you with every appearance of humanity, and if you made objections -(after requesting his assistance, mind you) it was open to him to drop -you as a sort of impostor. You might have had to decline that berth for -some very valid reason. From sheer necessity perhaps. The notice was -too uncommonly short. But under the circumstances you'd have covered -yourself with ignominy." - -Our new friend knocked the ashes out of his pipe. - -"Quite a mistake," he said. "I am not of the declining sort, though I'll -admit it was something like telling a man that you would like a bath and -in consequence being instantly knocked overboard to sink or swim with -your clothes on. However, I didn't feel as if I were in deep water at -first. I left the shipping office quietly and for a time strolled along -the street as easy as if I had a week before me to fit myself out. But -by and by I reflected that the notice was even shorter than it looked. -The afternoon was well advanced; I had some things to get, a lot of small -matters to attend to, one or two persons to see. One of them was an aunt -of mine, my only relation, who quarrelled with poor father as long as he -lived about some silly matter that had neither right nor wrong to it. She -left her money to me when she died. I used always to go and see her for -decency's sake. I had so much to do before night that I didn't know -where to begin. I felt inclined to sit down on the kerb and hold my head -in my hands. It was as if an engine had been started going under my -skull. Finally I sat down in the first cab that came along and it was a -hard matter to keep on sitting there I can tell you, while we rolled up -and down the streets, pulling up here and there, the parcels accumulating -round me and the engine in my head gathering more way every minute. The -composure of the people on the pavements was provoking to a degree, and -as to the people in shops, they were benumbed, more than half -frozen--imbecile. Funny how it affects you to be in a peculiar state of -mind: everybody that does not act up to your excitement seems so -confoundedly unfriendly. And my state of mind what with the hurry, the -worry and a growing exultation was peculiar enough. That engine in my -head went round at its top speed hour after hour till eleven at about at -night it let up on me suddenly at the entrance to the Dock before large -iron gates in a dead wall." - -* * * * * - -These gates were closed and locked. The cabby, after shooting his things -off the roof of his machine into young Powell's arms, drove away leaving -him alone with his sea-chest, a sail cloth bag and a few parcels on the -pavement about his feet. It was a dark, narrow thoroughfare he told us. -A mean row of houses on the other side looked empty: there wasn't the -smallest gleam of light in them. The white-hot glare of a gin palace a -good way off made the intervening piece of the street pitch black. Some -human shapes appearing mysteriously, as if they had sprung up from the -dark ground, shunned the edge of the faint light thrown down by the -gateway lamps. These figures were wary in their movements and perfectly -silent of foot, like beasts of prey slinking about a camp fire. Powell -gathered up his belongings and hovered over them like a hen over her -brood. A gruffly insinuating voice said: - -"Let's carry your things in, Capt'in! I've got my pal 'ere." - -He was a tall, bony, grey-haired ruffian with a bulldog jaw, in a torn -cotton shirt and moleskin trousers. The shadow of his hobnailed boots -was enormous and coffinlike. His pal, who didn't come up much higher -than his elbow, stepping forward exhibited a pale face with a long -drooping nose and no chin to speak of. He seemed to have just scrambled -out of a dust-bin in a tam-o'shanter cap and a tattered soldier's coat -much too long for him. Being so deadly white he looked like a horrible -dirty invalid in a ragged dressing gown. The coat flapped open in front -and the rest of his apparel consisted of one brace which crossed his -naked, bony chest, and a pair of trousers. He blinked rapidly as if -dazed by the faint light, while his patron, the old bandit, glowered at -young Powell from under his beetling brow. - -"Say the word, Capt'in. The bobby'll let us in all right. 'E knows both -of us." - -"I didn't answer him," continued Mr. Powell. "I was listening to -footsteps on the other side of the gate, echoing between the walls of the -warehouses as if in an uninhabited town of very high buildings dark from -basement to roof. You could never have guessed that within a stone's -throw there was an open sheet of water and big ships lying afloat. The -few gas lamps showing up a bit of brick work here and there, appeared in -the blackness like penny dips in a range of cellars--and the solitary -footsteps came on, tramp, tramp. A dock policeman strode into the light -on the other side of the gate, very broad-chested and stern. - -"Hallo! What's up here?" - -"He was really surprised, but after some palaver he let me in together -with the two loafers carrying my luggage. He grumbled at them however -and slammed the gate violently with a loud clang. I was startled to -discover how many night prowlers had collected in the darkness of the -street in such a short time and without my being aware of it. Directly -we were through they came surging against the bars, silent, like a mob of -ugly spectres. But suddenly, up the street somewhere, perhaps near that -public-house, a row started as if Bedlam had broken loose: shouts, yells, -an awful shrill shriek--and at that noise all these heads vanished from -behind the bars. - -"Look at this," marvelled the constable. "It's a wonder to me they -didn't make off with your things while you were waiting." - -"I would have taken good care of that," I said defiantly. But the -constable wasn't impressed. - -"Much you would have done. The bag going off round one dark corner; the -chest round another. Would you have run two ways at once? And anyhow -you'd have been tripped up and jumped upon before you had run three -yards. I tell you you've had a most extraordinary chance that there -wasn't one of them regular boys about to-night, in the High Street, to -twig your loaded cab go by. Ted here is honest . . . You are on the -honest lay, Ted, ain't you?" - -"Always was, orficer," said the big ruffian with feeling. The other -frail creature seemed dumb and only hopped about with the edge of its -soldier coat touching the ground. - -"Oh yes, I dare say," said the constable. "Now then, forward, march . . . -He's that because he ain't game for the other thing," he confided to -me. "He hasn't got the nerve for it. However, I ain't going to lose -sight of them two till they go out through the gate. That little chap's -a devil. He's got the nerve for anything, only he hasn't got the muscle. -Well! Well! You've had a chance to get in with a whole skin and with -all your things." - -"I was incredulous a little. It seemed impossible that after getting -ready with so much hurry and inconvenience I should have lost my chance -of a start in life from such a cause. I asked: - -"Does that sort of thing happen often so near the dock gates?" - -"Often! No! Of course not often. But it ain't often either that a man -comes along with a cabload of things to join a ship at this time of -night. I've been in the dock police thirteen years and haven't seen it -done once." - -"Meantime we followed my sea-chest which was being carried down a sort of -deep narrow lane, separating two high warehouses, between honest Ted and -his little devil of a pal who had to keep up a trot to the other's -stride. The skirt of his soldier's coat floating behind him nearly swept -the ground so that he seemed to be running on castors. At the corner of -the gloomy passage a rigged jib boom with a dolphin-striker ending in an -arrow-head stuck out of the night close to a cast iron lamp-post. It was -the quay side. They set down their load in the light and honest Ted -asked hoarsely: - -"Where's your ship, guv'nor?" - -"I didn't know. The constable was interested at my ignorance. - -"Don't know where your ship is?" he asked with curiosity. "And you the -second officer! Haven't you been working on board of her?" - -"I couldn't explain that the only work connected with my appointment was -the work of chance. I told him briefly that I didn't know her at all. At -this he remarked: - -"So I see. Here she is, right before you. That's her." - -"At once the head-gear in the gas light inspired me with interest and -respect; the spars were big, the chains and ropes stout and the whole -thing looked powerful and trustworthy. Barely touched by the light her -bows rose faintly alongside the narrow strip of the quay; the rest of her -was a black smudge in the darkness. Here I was face to face with my -start in life. We walked in a body a few steps on a greasy pavement -between her side and the towering wall of a warehouse and I hit my shins -cruelly against the end of the gangway. The constable hailed her quietly -in a bass undertone '_Ferndale_ there!' A feeble and dismal sound, -something in the nature of a buzzing groan, answered from behind the -bulwarks. - -"I distinguished vaguely an irregular round knob, of wood, perhaps, -resting on the rail. It did not move in the least; but as another broken- -down buzz like a still fainter echo of the first dismal sound proceeded -from it I concluded it must be the head of the ship-keeper. The stalwart -constable jeered in a mock-official manner. - -"Second officer coming to join. Move yourself a bit." - -"The truth of the statement touched me in the pit of the stomach (you -know that's the spot where emotion gets home on a man) for it was borne -upon me that really and truly I was nothing but a second officer of a -ship just like any other second officer, to that constable. I was moved -by this solid evidence of my new dignity. Only his tone offended me. -Nevertheless I gave him the tip he was looking for. Thereupon he lost -all interest in me, humorous or otherwise, and walked away driving -sternly before him the honest Ted, who went off grumbling to himself like -a hungry ogre, and his horrible dumb little pal in the soldier's coat, -who, from first to last, never emitted the slightest sound. - -"It was very dark on the quarter deck of the _Ferndale_ between the deep -bulwarks overshadowed by the break of the poop and frowned upon by the -front of the warehouse. I plumped down on to my chest near the after -hatch as if my legs had been jerked from under me. I felt suddenly very -tired and languid. The ship-keeper, whom I could hardly make out hung -over the capstan in a fit of weak pitiful coughing. He gasped out very -low 'Oh! dear! Oh! dear!' and struggled for breath so long that I got up -alarmed and irresolute. - -"I've been took like this since last Christmas twelvemonth. It ain't -nothing." - -"He seemed a hundred years old at least. I never saw him properly -because he was gone ashore and out of sight when I came on deck in the -morning; but he gave me the notion of the feeblest creature that ever -breathed. His voice was thin like the buzzing of a mosquito. As it -would have been cruel to demand assistance from such a shadowy wreck I -went to work myself, dragging my chest along a pitch-black passage under -the poop deck, while he sighed and moaned around me as if my exertions -were more than his weakness could stand. At last as I banged pretty -heavily against the bulkheads he warned me in his faint breathless wheeze -to be more careful. - -"What's the matter?" I asked rather roughly, not relishing to be -admonished by this forlorn broken-down ghost. - -"Nothing! Nothing, sir," he protested so hastily that he lost his poor -breath again and I felt sorry for him. "Only the captain and his missus -are sleeping on board. She's a lady that mustn't be disturbed. They -came about half-past eight, and we had a permit to have lights in the -cabin till ten to-night." - -"This struck me as a considerable piece of news. I had never been in a -ship where the captain had his wife with him. I'd heard fellows say that -captains' wives could work a lot of mischief on board ship if they -happened to take a dislike to anyone; especially the new wives if young -and pretty. The old and experienced wives on the other hand fancied they -knew more about the ship than the skipper himself and had an eye like a -hawk's for what went on. They were like an extra chief mate of a -particularly sharp and unfeeling sort who made his report in the evening. -The best of them were a nuisance. In the general opinion a skipper with -his wife on board was more difficult to please; but whether to show off -his authority before an admiring female or from loving anxiety for her -safety or simply from irritation at her presence--nobody I ever heard on -the subject could tell for certain. - -"After I had bundled in my things somehow I struck a match and had a -dazzling glimpse of my berth; then I pitched the roll of my bedding into -the bunk but took no trouble to spread it out. I wasn't sleepy now, -neither was I tired. And the thought that I was done with the earth for -many many months to come made me feel very quiet and self-contained as it -were. Sailors will understand what I mean." - -Marlow nodded. "It is a strictly professional feeling," he commented. -"But other professions or trades know nothing of it. It is only this -calling whose primary appeal lies in the suggestion of restless adventure -which holds out that deep sensation to those who embrace it. It is -difficult to define, I admit." - -"I should call it the peace of the sea," said Mr. Charles Powell in an -earnest tone but looking at us as though he expected to be met by a laugh -of derision and were half prepared to salve his reputation for common -sense by joining in it. But neither of us laughed at Mr. Charles Powell -in whose start in life we had been called to take a part. He was lucky -in his audience. - -"A very good name," said Marlow looking at him approvingly. "A sailor -finds a deep feeling of security in the exercise of his calling. The -exacting life of the sea has this advantage over the life of the earth -that its claims are simple and cannot be evaded." - -"Gospel truth," assented Mr. Powell. "No! they cannot be evaded." - -That an excellent understanding should have established itself between my -old friend and our new acquaintance was remarkable enough. For they were -exactly dissimilar--one individuality projecting itself in length and the -other in breadth, which is already a sufficient ground for irreconcilable -difference. Marlow who was lanky, loose, quietly composed in varied -shades of brown robbed of every vestige of gloss, had a narrow, veiled -glance, the neutral bearing and the secret irritability which go together -with a predisposition to congestion of the liver. The other, compact, -broad and sturdy of limb, seemed extremely full of sound organs -functioning vigorously all the time in order to keep up the brilliance of -his colouring, the light curl of his coal-black hair and the lustre of -his eyes, which asserted themselves roundly in an open, manly face. -Between two such organisms one would not have expected to find the -slightest temperamental accord. But I have observed that profane men -living in ships like the holy men gathered together in monasteries -develop traits of profound resemblance. This must be because the service -of the sea and the service of a temple are both detached from the -vanities and errors of a world which follows no severe rule. The men of -the sea understand each other very well in their view of earthly things, -for simplicity is a good counsellor and isolation not a bad educator. A -turn of mind composed of innocence and scepticism is common to them all, -with the addition of an unexpected insight into motives, as of -disinterested lookers-on at a game. Mr. Powell took me aside to say, - -"I like the things he says." - -"You understand each other pretty well," I observed. - -"I know his sort," said Powell, going to the window to look at his cutter -still riding to the flood. "He's the sort that's always chasing some -notion or other round and round his head just for the fun of the thing." - -"Keeps them in good condition," I said. - -"Lively enough I dare say," he admitted. - -"Would you like better a man who let his notions lie curled up?" - -"That I wouldn't," answered our new acquaintance. Clearly he was not -difficult to get on with. "I like him, very well," he continued, "though -it isn't easy to make him out. He seems to be up to a thing or two. -What's he doing?" - -I informed him that our friend Marlow had retired from the sea in a sort -of half-hearted fashion some years ago. - -Mr. Powell's comment was: "Fancied had enough of it?" - -"Fancied's the very word to use in this connection," I observed, -remembering the subtly provisional character of Marlow's long sojourn -amongst us. From year to year he dwelt on land as a bird rests on the -branch of a tree, so tense with the power of brusque flight into its true -element that it is incomprehensible why it should sit still minute after -minute. The sea is the sailor's true element, and Marlow, lingering on -shore, was to me an object of incredulous commiseration like a bird, -which, secretly, should have lost its faith in the high virtue of flying. - - - -CHAPTER TWO--THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND - - -We were on our feet in the room by then, and Marlow, brown and -deliberate, approached the window where Mr. Powell and I had retired. -"What was the name of your chance again?" he asked. Mr. Powell stared -for a moment. - -"Oh! The _Ferndale_. A Liverpool ship. Composite built." - -"_Ferndale_," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "_Ferndale_." - -"Know her?" - -"Our friend," I said, "knows something of every ship. He seems to have -gone about the seas prying into things considerably." - -Marlow smiled. - -"I've seen her, at least once." - -"The finest sea-boat ever launched," declared Mr. Powell sturdily. -"Without exception." - -"She looked a stout, comfortable ship," assented Marlow. "Uncommonly -comfortable. Not very fast tho'." - -"She was fast enough for any reasonable man--when I was in her," growled -Mr. Powell with his back to us. - -"Any ship is that--for a reasonable man," generalized Marlow in a -conciliatory tone. "A sailor isn't a globe-trotter." - -"No," muttered Mr. Powell. - -"Time's nothing to him," advanced Marlow. - -"I don't suppose it's much," said Mr. Powell. "All the same a quick -passage is a feather in a man's cap." - -"True. But that ornament is for the use of the master only. And by the -by what was his name?" - -"The master of the _Ferndale_? Anthony. Captain Anthony." - -"Just so. Quite right," approved Marlow thoughtfully. Our new -acquaintance looked over his shoulder. - -"What do you mean? Why is it more right than if it had been Brown?" - -"He has known him probably," I explained. "Marlow here appears to know -something of every soul that ever went afloat in a sailor's body." - -Mr. Powell seemed wonderfully amenable to verbal suggestions for looking -again out of the window, he muttered: - -"He was a good soul." - -This clearly referred to Captain Anthony of the _Ferndale_. Marlow -addressed his protest to me. - -"I did not know him. I really didn't. He was a good soul. That's -nothing very much out of the way--is it? And I didn't even know that -much of him. All I knew of him was an accident called Fyne. - -At this Mr. Powell who evidently could be rebellious too turned his back -squarely on the window. - -"What on earth do you mean?" he asked. "An--accident--called Fyne," he -repeated separating the words with emphasis. - -Marlow was not disconcerted. - -"I don't mean accident in the sense of a mishap. Not in the least. Fyne -was a good little man in the Civil Service. By accident I mean that -which happens blindly and without intelligent design. That's generally -the way a brother-in-law happens into a man's life." - -Marlow's tone being apologetic and our new acquaintance having again -turned to the window I took it upon myself to say: - -"You are justified. There is very little intelligent design in the -majority of marriages; but they are none the worse for that. Intelligence -leads people astray as far as passion sometimes. I know you are not a -cynic." - -Marlow smiled his retrospective smile which was kind as though he bore no -grudge against people he used to know. - -"Little Fyne's marriage was quite successful. There was no design at all -in it. Fyne, you must know, was an enthusiastic pedestrian. He spent -his holidays tramping all over our native land. His tastes were simple. -He put infinite conviction and perseverance into his holidays. At the -proper season you would meet in the fields, Fyne, a serious-faced, broad- -chested, little man, with a shabby knap-sack on his back, making for some -church steeple. He had a horror of roads. He wrote once a little book -called the 'Tramp's Itinerary,' and was recognised as an authority on the -footpaths of England. So one year, in his favourite over-the-fields, -back-way fashion he entered a pretty Surrey village where he met Miss -Anthony. Pure accident, you see. They came to an understanding, across -some stile, most likely. Little Fyne held very solemn views as to the -destiny of women on this earth, the nature of our sublunary love, the -obligations of this transient life and so on. He probably disclosed them -to his future wife. Miss Anthony's views of life were very decided too -but in a different way. I don't know the story of their wooing. I -imagine it was carried on clandestinely and, I am certain, with -portentous gravity, at the back of copses, behind hedges . . . - -"Why was it carried on clandestinely?" I inquired. - -"Because of the lady's father. He was a savage sentimentalist who had -his own decided views of his paternal prerogatives. He was a terror; but -the only evidence of imaginative faculty about Fyne was his pride in his -wife's parentage. It stimulated his ingenuity too. Difficult--is it -not?--to introduce one's wife's maiden name into general conversation. -But my simple Fyne made use of Captain Anthony for that purpose, or else -I would never even have heard of the man. "My wife's sailor-brother" was -the phrase. He trotted out the sailor-brother in a pretty wide range of -subjects: Indian and colonial affairs, matters of trade, talk of travels, -of seaside holidays and so on. Once I remember "My wife's sailor-brother -Captain Anthony" being produced in connection with nothing less recondite -than a sunset. And little Fyne never failed to add "The son of Carleon -Anthony, the poet--you know." He used to lower his voice for that -statement, and people were impressed or pretended to be." - -The late Carleon Anthony, the poet, sang in his time of the domestic and -social amenities of our age with a most felicitous versification, his -object being, in his own words, "to glorify the result of six thousand -years' evolution towards the refinement of thought, manners and -feelings." Why he fixed the term at six thousand years I don't know. His -poems read like sentimental novels told in verse of a really superior -quality. You felt as if you were being taken out for a delightful -country drive by a charming lady in a pony carriage. But in his domestic -life that same Carleon Anthony showed traces of the primitive -cave-dweller's temperament. He was a massive, implacable man with a -handsome face, arbitrary and exacting with his dependants, but -marvellously suave in his manner to admiring strangers. These contrasted -displays must have been particularly exasperating to his long-suffering -family. After his second wife's death his boy, whom he persisted by a -mere whim in educating at home, ran away in conventional style and, as if -disgusted with the amenities of civilization, threw himself, figuratively -speaking, into the sea. The daughter (the elder of the two children) -either from compassion or because women are naturally more enduring, -remained in bondage to the poet for several years, till she too seized a -chance of escape by throwing herself into the arms, the muscular arms, of -the pedestrian Fyne. This was either great luck or great sagacity. A -civil servant is, I should imagine, the last human being in the world to -preserve those traits of the cave-dweller from which she was fleeing. Her -father would never consent to see her after the marriage. Such -unforgiving selfishness is difficult to understand unless as a perverse -sort of refinement. There were also doubts as to Carleon Anthony's -complete sanity for some considerable time before he died. - -Most of the above I elicited from Marlow, for all I knew of Carleon -Anthony was his unexciting but fascinating verse. Marlow assured me that -the Fyne marriage was perfectly successful and even happy, in an earnest, -unplayful fashion, being blessed besides by three healthy, active, self- -reliant children, all girls. They were all pedestrians too. Even the -youngest would wander away for miles if not restrained. Mrs. Fyne had a -ruddy out-of-doors complexion and wore blouses with a starched front like -a man's shirt, a stand-up collar and a long necktie. Marlow had made -their acquaintance one summer in the country, where they were accustomed -to take a cottage for the holidays . . . - -At this point we were interrupted by Mr. Powell who declared that he must -leave us. The tide was on the turn, he announced coming away from the -window abruptly. He wanted to be on board his cutter before she swung -and of course he would sleep on board. Never slept away from the cutter -while on a cruise. He was gone in a moment, unceremoniously, but giving -us no offence and leaving behind an impression as though we had known him -for a long time. The ingenuous way he had told us of his start in life -had something to do with putting him on that footing with us. I gave no -thought to seeing him again. - -Marlow expressed a confident hope of coming across him before long. - -"He cruises about the mouth of the river all the summer. He will be easy -to find any week-end," he remarked ringing the bell so that we might -settle up with the waiter. - -* * * * * - -Later on I asked Marlow why he wished to cultivate this chance -acquaintance. He confessed apologetically that it was the commonest sort -of curiosity. I flatter myself that I understand all sorts of curiosity. -Curiosity about daily facts, about daily things, about daily men. It is -the most respectable faculty of the human mind--in fact I cannot conceive -the uses of an incurious mind. It would be like a chamber perpetually -locked up. But in this particular case Mr. Powell seemed to have given -us already a complete insight into his personality such as it was; a -personality capable of perception and with a feeling for the vagaries of -fate, but essentially simple in itself. - -Marlow agreed with me so far. He explained however that his curiosity -was not excited by Mr. Powell exclusively. It originated a good way -further back in the fact of his accidental acquaintance with the Fynes, -in the country. This chance meeting with a man who had sailed with -Captain Anthony had revived it. It had revived it to some purpose, to -such purpose that to me too was given the knowledge of its origin and of -its nature. It was given to me in several stages, at intervals which are -not indicated here. On this first occasion I remarked to Marlow with -some surprise: - -"But, if I remember rightly you said you didn't know Captain Anthony." - -"No. I never saw the man. It's years ago now, but I seem to hear solemn -little Fyne's deep voice announcing the approaching visit of his wife's -brother "the son of the poet, you know." He had just arrived in London -from a long voyage, and, directly his occupations permitted, was coming -down to stay with his relatives for a few weeks. No doubt we two should -find many things to talk about by ourselves in reference to our common -calling, added little Fyne portentously in his grave undertones, as if -the Mercantile Marine were a secret society. - -You must understand that I cultivated the Fynes only in the country, in -their holiday time. This was the third year. Of their existence in town -I knew no more than may be inferred from analogy. I played chess with -Fyne in the late afternoon, and sometimes came over to the cottage early -enough to have tea with the whole family at a big round table. They sat -about it, an unsmiling, sunburnt company of very few words indeed. Even -the children were silent and as if contemptuous of each other and of -their elders. Fyne muttered sometimes deep down in his chest some -insignificant remark. Mrs. Fyne smiled mechanically (she had splendid -teeth) while distributing tea and bread and butter. A something which -was not coldness, nor yet indifference, but a sort of peculiar -self-possession gave her the appearance of a very trustworthy, very -capable and excellent governess; as if Fyne were a widower and the -children not her own but only entrusted to her calm, efficient, -unemotional care. One expected her to address Fyne as Mr. When she -called him John it surprised one like a shocking familiarity. The -atmosphere of that holiday was--if I may put it so--brightly dull. -Healthy faces, fair complexions, clear eyes, and never a frank smile in -the whole lot, unless perhaps from a girl-friend. - -The girl-friend problem exercised me greatly. How and where the Fynes -got all these pretty creatures to come and stay with them I can't -imagine. I had at first the wild suspicion that they were obtained to -amuse Fyne. But I soon discovered that he could hardly tell one from the -other, though obviously their presence met with his solemn approval. -These girls in fact came for Mrs. Fyne. They treated her with admiring -deference. She answered to some need of theirs. They sat at her feet. -They were like disciples. It was very curious. Of Fyne they took but -scanty notice. As to myself I was made to feel that I did not exist. - -After tea we would sit down to chess and then Fyne's everlasting gravity -became faintly tinged by an attenuated gleam of something inward which -resembled sly satisfaction. Of the divine frivolity of laughter he was -only capable over a chess-board. Certain positions of the game struck -him as humorous, which nothing else on earth could do . . . - -"He used to beat you," I asserted with confidence. - -"Yes. He used to beat me," Marlow owned up hastily. - -So he and Fyne played two games after tea. The children romped together -outside, gravely, unplayfully, as one would expect from Fyne's children, -and Mrs. Fyne would be gone to the bottom of the garden with the girl- -friend of the week. She always walked off directly after tea with her -arm round the girl-friend's waist. Marlow said that there was only one -girl-friend with whom he had conversed at all. It had happened quite -unexpectedly, long after he had given up all hope of getting into touch -with these reserved girl-friends. - -One day he saw a woman walking about on the edge of a high quarry, which -rose a sheer hundred feet, at least, from the road winding up the hill -out of which it had been excavated. He shouted warningly to her from -below where he happened to be passing. She was really in considerable -danger. At the sound of his voice she started back and retreated out of -his sight amongst some young Scotch firs growing near the very brink of -the precipice. - -"I sat down on a bank of grass," Marlow went on. "She had given me a -turn. The hem of her skirt seemed to float over that awful sheer drop, -she was so close to the edge. An absurd thing to do. A perfectly mad -trick--for no conceivable object! I was reflecting on the foolhardiness -of the average girl and remembering some other instances of the kind, -when she came into view walking down the steep curve of the road. She -had Mrs. Fyne's walking-stick and was escorted by the Fyne dog. Her dead -white face struck me with astonishment, so that I forgot to raise my hat. -I just sat and stared. The dog, a vivacious and amiable animal which for -some inscrutable reason had bestowed his friendship on my unworthy self, -rushed up the bank demonstratively and insinuated himself under my arm. - -The girl-friend (it was one of them) went past some way as though she had -not seen me, then stopped and called the dog to her several times; but he -only nestled closer to my side, and when I tried to push him away -developed that remarkable power of internal resistance by which a dog -makes himself practically immovable by anything short of a kick. She -looked over her shoulder and her arched eyebrows frowned above her -blanched face. It was almost a scowl. Then the expression changed. She -looked unhappy. "Come here!" she cried once more in an angry and -distressed tone. I took off my hat at last, but the dog hanging out his -tongue with that cheerfully imbecile expression some dogs know so well -how to put on when it suits their purpose, pretended to be deaf. - -She cried from the distance desperately. - -"Perhaps you will take him to the cottage then. I can't wait." - -"I won't be responsible for that dog," I protested getting down the bank -and advancing towards her. She looked very hurt, apparently by the -desertion of the dog. "But if you let me walk with you he will follow us -all right," I suggested. - -She moved on without answering me. The dog launched himself suddenly -full speed down the road receding from us in a small cloud of dust. It -vanished in the distance, and presently we came up with him lying on the -grass. He panted in the shade of the hedge with shining eyes but -pretended not to see us. We had not exchanged a word so far. The girl -by my side gave him a scornful glance in passing. - -"He offered to come with me," she remarked bitterly. - -"And then abandoned you!" I sympathized. "It looks very unchivalrous. -But that's merely his want of tact. I believe he meant to protest -against your reckless proceedings. What made you come so near the edge -of that quarry? The earth might have given way. Haven't you noticed a -smashed fir tree at the bottom? Tumbled over only the other morning -after a night's rain." - -"I don't see why I shouldn't be as reckless as I please." - -I was nettled by her brusque manner of asserting her folly, and I told -her that neither did I as far as that went, in a tone which almost -suggested that she was welcome to break her neck for all I cared. This -was considerably more than I meant, but I don't like rude girls. I had -been introduced to her only the day before--at the round tea-table--and -she had barely acknowledged the introduction. I had not caught her name -but I had noticed her fine, arched eyebrows which, so the physiognomists -say, are a sign of courage. - -I examined her appearance quietly. Her hair was nearly black, her eyes -blue, deeply shaded by long dark eyelashes. She had a little colour now. -She looked straight before her; the corner of her lip on my side drooped -a little; her chin was fine, somewhat pointed. I went on to say that -some regard for others should stand in the way of one's playing with -danger. I urged playfully the distress of the poor Fynes in case of -accident, if nothing else. I told her that she did not know the bucolic -mind. Had she given occasion for a coroner's inquest the verdict would -have been suicide, with the implication of unhappy love. They would -never be able to understand that she had taken the trouble to climb over -two post-and-rail fences only for the fun of being reckless. Indeed even -as I talked chaffingly I was greatly struck myself by the fact. - -She retorted that once one was dead what horrid people thought of one did -not matter. It was said with infinite contempt; but something like a -suppressed quaver in the voice made me look at her again. I perceived -then that her thick eyelashes were wet. This surprising discovery -silenced me as you may guess. She looked unhappy. And--I don't know how -to say it--well--it suited her. The clouded brow, the pained mouth, the -vague fixed glance! A victim. And this characteristic aspect made her -attractive; an individual touch--you know. - -The dog had run on ahead and now gazed at us by the side of the Fyne's -garden-gate in a tense attitude and wagging his stumpy tail very, very -slowly, with an air of concentrated attention. The girl-friend of the -Fynes bolted violently through the aforesaid gate and into the cottage -leaving me on the road--astounded. - -A couple of hours afterwards I returned to the cottage for chess as -usual. I saw neither the girl nor Mrs. Fyne then. We had our two games -and on parting I warned Fyne that I was called to town on business and -might be away for some time. He regretted it very much. His brother-in- -law was expected next day but he didn't know whether he was a -chess-player. Captain Anthony ("the son of the poet--you know") was of a -retiring disposition, shy with strangers, unused to society and very much -devoted to his calling, Fyne explained. All the time they had been -married he could be induced only once before to come and stay with them -for a few days. He had had a rather unhappy boyhood; and it made him a -silent man. But no doubt, concluded Fyne, as if dealing portentously -with a mystery, we two sailors should find much to say to one another. - -This point was never settled. I was detained in town from week to week -till it seemed hardly worth while to go back. But as I had kept on my -rooms in the farmhouse I concluded to go down again for a few days. - -It was late, deep dusk, when I got out at our little country station. My -eyes fell on the unmistakable broad back and the muscular legs in cycling -stockings of little Fyne. He passed along the carriages rapidly towards -the rear of the train, which presently pulled out and left him solitary -at the end of the rustic platform. When he came back to where I waited I -perceived that he was much perturbed, so perturbed as to forget the -convention of the usual greetings. He only exclaimed Oh! on recognizing -me, and stopped irresolute. When I asked him if he had been expecting -somebody by that train he didn't seem to know. He stammered -disconnectedly. I looked hard at him. To all appearances he was -perfectly sober; moreover to suspect Fyne of a lapse from the proprieties -high or low, great or small, was absurd. He was also a too serious and -deliberate person to go mad suddenly. But as he seemed to have forgotten -that he had a tongue in his head I concluded I would leave him to his -mystery. To my surprise he followed me out of the station and kept by my -side, though I did not encourage him. I did not however repulse his -attempts at conversation. He was no longer expecting me, he said. He -had given me up. The weather had been uniformly fine--and so on. I -gathered also that the son of the poet had curtailed his stay somewhat -and gone back to his ship the day before. - -That information touched me but little. Believing in heredity in -moderation I knew well how sea-life fashions a man outwardly and stamps -his soul with the mark of a certain prosaic fitness--because a sailor is -not an adventurer. I expressed no regret at missing Captain Anthony and -we proceeded in silence till, on approaching the holiday cottage, Fyne -suddenly and unexpectedly broke it by the hurried declaration that he -would go on with me a little farther. - -"Go with you to your door," he mumbled and started forward to the little -gate where the shadowy figure of Mrs. Fyne hovered, clearly on the -lookout for him. She was alone. The children must have been already in -bed and I saw no attending girl-friend shadow near her vague but -unmistakable form, half-lost in the obscurity of the little garden. - -I heard Fyne exclaim "Nothing" and then Mrs. Fyne's well-trained, -responsible voice uttered the words, "It's what I have said," with -incisive equanimity. By that time I had passed on, raising my hat. -Almost at once Fyne caught me up and slowed down to my strolling gait -which must have been infinitely irksome to his high pedestrian faculties. -I am sure that all his muscular person must have suffered from awful -physical boredom; but he did not attempt to charm it away by -conversation. He preserved a portentous and dreary silence. And I was -bored too. Suddenly I perceived the menace of even worse boredom. Yes! -He was so silent because he had something to tell me. - -I became extremely frightened. But man, reckless animal, is so made that -in him curiosity, the paltriest curiosity, will overcome all terrors, -every disgust, and even despair itself. To my laconic invitation to come -in for a drink he answered by a deep, gravely accented: "Thanks, I will" -as though it were a response in church. His face as seen in the -lamplight gave me no clue to the character of the impending -communication; as indeed from the nature of things it couldn't do, its -normal expression being already that of the utmost possible seriousness. -It was perfect and immovable; and for a certainty if he had something -excruciatingly funny to tell me it would be all the same. - -He gazed at me earnestly and delivered himself of some weighty remarks on -Mrs. Fyne's desire to befriend, counsel, and guide young girls of all -sorts on the path of life. It was a voluntary mission. He approved his -wife's action and also her views and principles in general. - -All this with a solemn countenance and in deep measured tones. Yet -somehow I got an irresistible conviction that he was exasperated by -something in particular. In the unworthy hope of being amused by the -misfortunes of a fellow-creature I asked him point-blank what was wrong -now. - -What was wrong was that a girl-friend was missing. She had been missing -precisely since six o'clock that morning. The woman who did the work of -the cottage saw her going out at that hour, for a walk. The pedestrian -Fyne's ideas of a walk were extensive, but the girl did not turn up for -lunch, nor yet for tea, nor yet for dinner. She had not turned up by -footpath, road or rail. He had been reluctant to make inquiries. It -would have set all the village talking. The Fynes had expected her to -reappear every moment, till the shades of the night and the silence of -slumber had stolen gradually over the wide and peaceful rural landscape -commanded by the cottage. - -After telling me that much Fyne sat helpless in unconclusive agony. Going -to bed was out of the question--neither could any steps be taken just -then. What to do with himself he did not know! - -I asked him if this was the same young lady I saw a day or two before I -went to town? He really could not remember. Was she a girl with dark -hair and blue eyes? I asked further. He really couldn't tell what -colour her eyes were. He was very unobservant except as to the -peculiarities of footpaths, on which he was an authority. - -I thought with amazement and some admiration that Mrs. Fyne's young -disciples were to her husband's gravity no more than evanescent shadows. -However, with but little hesitation Fyne ventured to affirm that--yes, -her hair was of some dark shade. - -"We had a good deal to do with that girl first and last," he explained -solemnly; then getting up as if moved by a spring he snatched his cap off -the table. "She may be back in the cottage," he cried in his bass voice. -I followed him out on the road. - -It was one of those dewy, clear, starry nights, oppressing our spirit, -crushing our pride, by the brilliant evidence of the awful loneliness, of -the hopeless obscure insignificance of our globe lost in the splendid -revelation of a glittering, soulless universe. I hate such skies. -Daylight is friendly to man toiling under a sun which warms his heart; -and cloudy soft nights are more kindly to our littleness. I nearly ran -back again to my lighted parlour; Fyne fussing in a knicker-bocker suit -before the hosts of heaven, on a shadowy earth, about a transient, -phantom-like girl, seemed too ridiculous to associate with. On the other -hand there was something fascinating in the very absurdity. He cut along -in his best pedestrian style and I found myself let in for a spell of -severe exercise at eleven o'clock at night. - -In the distance over the fields and trees smudging and blotching the vast -obscurity, one lighted window of the cottage with the blind up was like a -bright beacon kept alight to guide the lost wanderer. Inside, at the -table bearing the lamp, we saw Mrs. Fyne sitting with folded arms and not -a hair of her head out of place. She looked exactly like a governess who -had put the children to bed; and her manner to me was just the neutral -manner of a governess. To her husband, too, for that matter. - -Fyne told her that I was fully informed. Not a muscle of her ruddy -smooth handsome face moved. She had schooled herself into that sort of -thing. Having seen two successive wives of the delicate poet chivied and -worried into their graves, she had adopted that cool, detached manner to -meet her gifted father's outbreaks of selfish temper. It had now become -a second nature. I suppose she was always like that; even in the very -hour of elopement with Fyne. That transaction when one remembered it in -her presence acquired a quaintly marvellous aspect to one's imagination. -But somehow her self-possession matched very well little Fyne's -invariable solemnity. - -I was rather sorry for him. Wasn't he worried! The agony of solemnity. -At the same time I was amused. I didn't take a gloomy view of that -"vanishing girl" trick. Somehow I couldn't. But I said nothing. None -of us said anything. We sat about that big round table as if assembled -for a conference and looked at each other in a sort of fatuous -consternation. I would have ended by laughing outright if I had not been -saved from that impropriety by poor Fyne becoming preposterous. - -He began with grave anguish to talk of going to the police in the -morning, of printing descriptive bills, of setting people to drag the -ponds for miles around. It was extremely gruesome. I murmured something -about communicating with the young lady's relatives. It seemed to me a -very natural suggestion; but Fyne and his wife exchanged such a -significant glance that I felt as though I had made a tactless remark. - -But I really wanted to help poor Fyne; and as I could see that, manlike, -he suffered from the present inability to act, the passive waiting, I -said: "Nothing of this can be done till to-morrow. But as you have given -me an insight into the nature of your thoughts I can tell you what may be -done at once. We may go and look at the bottom of the old quarry which -is on the level of the road, about a mile from here." - -The couple made big eyes at this, and then I told them of my meeting with -the girl. You may be surprised but I assure you I had not perceived this -aspect of it till that very moment. It was like a startling revelation; -the past throwing a sinister light on the future. Fyne opened his mouth -gravely and as gravely shut it. Nothing more. Mrs. Fyne said, "You had -better go," with an air as if her self-possession had been pricked with a -pin in some secret place. - -And I--you know how stupid I can be at times--I perceived with dismay for -the first time that by pandering to Fyne's morbid fancies I had let -myself in for some more severe exercise. And wasn't I sorry I spoke! You -know how I hate walking--at least on solid, rural earth; for I can walk a -ship's deck a whole foggy night through, if necessary, and think little -of it. There is some satisfaction too in playing the vagabond in the -streets of a big town till the sky pales above the ridges of the roofs. I -have done that repeatedly for pleasure--of a sort. But to tramp the -slumbering country-side in the dark is for me a wearisome nightmare of -exertion. - -With perfect detachment Mrs. Fyne watched me go out after her husband. -That woman was flint. - -* * * * * - -The fresh night had a smell of soil, of turned-up sods like a grave--an -association particularly odious to a sailor by its idea of confinement -and narrowness; yes, even when he has given up the hope of being buried -at sea; about the last hope a sailor gives up consciously after he has -been, as it does happen, decoyed by some chance into the toils of the -land. A strong grave-like sniff. The ditch by the side of the road must -have been freshly dug in front of the cottage. - -Once clear of the garden Fyne gathered way like a racing cutter. What -was a mile to him--or twenty miles? You think he might have gone -shrinkingly on such an errand. But not a bit of it. The force of -pedestrian genius I suppose. I raced by his side in a mood of profound -self-derision, and infinitely vexed with that minx. Because dead or -alive I thought of her as a minx . . ." - -I smiled incredulously at Marlow's ferocity; but Marlow pausing with a -whimsically retrospective air, never flinched. - -"Yes, yes. Even dead. And now you are shocked. You see, you are such a -chivalrous masculine beggar. But there is enough of the woman in my -nature to free my judgment of women from glamorous reticency. And then, -why should I upset myself? A woman is not necessarily either a doll or -an angel to me. She is a human being, very much like myself. And I have -come across too many dead souls lying so to speak at the foot of high -unscaleable places for a merely possible dead body at the bottom of a -quarry to strike my sincerity dumb. - -The cliff-like face of the quarry looked forbiddingly impressive. I will -admit that Fyne and I hung back for a moment before we made a plunge off -the road into the bushes growing in a broad space at the foot of the -towering limestone wall. These bushes were heavy with dew. There were -also concealed mudholes in there. We crept and tumbled and felt about -with our hands along the ground. We got wet, scratched, and plastered -with mire all over our nether garments. Fyne fell suddenly into a -strange cavity--probably a disused lime-kiln. His voice uplifted in -grave distress sounded more than usually rich, solemn and profound. This -was the comic relief of an absurdly dramatic situation. While hauling -him out I permitted myself to laugh aloud at last. Fyne, of course, -didn't. - -I need not tell you that we found nothing after a most conscientious -search. Fyne even pushed his way into a decaying shed half-buried in dew- -soaked vegetation. He struck matches, several of them too, as if to make -absolutely sure that the vanished girl-friend of his wife was not hiding -there. The short flares illuminated his grave, immovable countenance -while I let myself go completely and laughed in peals. - -I asked him if he really and truly supposed that any sane girl would go -and hide in that shed; and if so why? - -Disdainful of my mirth he merely muttered his basso-profundo thankfulness -that we had not found her anywhere about there. Having grown extremely -sensitive (an effect of irritation) to the tonalities, I may say, of this -affair, I felt that it was only an imperfect, reserved, thankfulness, -with one eye still on the possibilities of the several ponds in the -neighbourhood. And I remember I snorted, I positively snorted, at that -poor Fyne. - -What really jarred upon me was the rate of his walking. Differences in -politics, in ethics and even in aesthetics need not arouse angry -antagonism. One's opinion may change; one's tastes may alter--in fact -they do. One's very conception of virtue is at the mercy of some -felicitous temptation which may be sprung on one any day. All these -things are perpetually on the swing. But a temperamental difference, -temperament being immutable, is the parent of hate. That's why religious -quarrels are the fiercest of all. My temperament, in matters pertaining -to solid land, is the temperament of leisurely movement, of deliberate -gait. And there was that little Fyne pounding along the road in a most -offensive manner; a man wedded to thick-soled, laced boots; whereas my -temperament demands thin shoes of the lightest kind. Of course there -could never have been question of friendship between us; but under the -provocation of having to keep up with his pace I began to dislike him -actively. I begged sarcastically to know whether he could tell me if we -were engaged in a farce or in a tragedy. I wanted to regulate my -feelings which, I told him, were in an unbecoming state of confusion. - -But Fyne was as impervious to sarcasm as a turtle. He tramped on, and -all he did was to ejaculate twice out of his deep chest, vaguely, -doubtfully. - -"I am afraid . . . I am afraid! . . . " - -This was tragic. The thump of his boots was the only sound in a shadowy -world. I kept by his side with a comparatively ghostly, silent tread. By -a strange illusion the road appeared to run up against a lot of low stars -at no very great distance, but as we advanced new stretches of whitey- -brown ribbon seemed to come up from under the black ground. I observed, -as we went by, the lamp in my parlour in the farmhouse still burning. But -I did not leave Fyne to run in and put it out. The impetus of his -pedestrian excellence carried me past in his wake before I could make up -my mind. - -"Tell me, Fyne," I cried, "you don't think the girl was mad--do you?" - -He answered nothing. Soon the lighted beacon-like window of the cottage -came into view. Then Fyne uttered a solemn: "Certainly not," with -profound assurance. But immediately after he added a "Very highly strung -young person indeed," which unsettled me again. Was it a tragedy? - -"Nobody ever got up at six o'clock in the morning to commit suicide," I -declared crustily. "It's unheard of! This is a farce." - -As a matter of fact it was neither farce nor tragedy. - -Coming up to the cottage we had a view of Mrs. Fyne inside still sitting -in the strong light at the round table with folded arms. It looked as -though she had not moved her very head by as much as an inch since we -went away. She was amazing in a sort of unsubtle way; crudely amazing--I -thought. Why crudely? I don't know. Perhaps because I saw her then in -a crude light. I mean this materially--in the light of an unshaded lamp. -Our mental conclusions depend so much on momentary physical -sensations--don't they? If the lamp had been shaded I should perhaps -have gone home after expressing politely my concern at the Fynes' -unpleasant predicament. - -Losing a girl-friend in that manner is unpleasant. It is also -mysterious. So mysterious that a certain mystery attaches to the people -to whom such a thing does happen. Moreover I had never really understood -the Fynes; he with his solemnity which extended to the very eating of -bread and butter; she with that air of detachment and resolution in -breasting the common-place current of their unexciting life, in which the -cutting of bread and butter appeared to me, by a long way, the most -dangerous episode. Sometimes I amused myself by supposing that to their -minds this world of ours must be wearing a perfectly overwhelming aspect, -and that their heads contained respectively awfully serious and extremely -desperate thoughts--and trying to imagine what an exciting time they must -be having of it in the inscrutable depths of their being. This last was -difficult to a volatile person (I am sure that to the Fynes I was a -volatile person) and the amusement in itself was not very great; but -still--in the country--away from all mental stimulants! . . . My efforts -had invested them with a sort of amusing profundity. - -But when Fyne and I got back into the room, then in the searching, -domestic, glare of the lamp, inimical to the play of fancy, I saw these -two stripped of every vesture it had amused me to put on them for fun. -Queer enough they were. Is there a human being that isn't that--more or -less secretly? But whatever their secret, it was manifest to me that it -was neither subtle nor profound. They were a good, stupid, earnest -couple and very much bothered. They were that--with the usual unshaded -crudity of average people. There was nothing in them that the lamplight -might not touch without the slightest risk of indiscretion. - -Directly we had entered the room Fyne announced the result by saying -"Nothing" in the same tone as at the gate on his return from the railway -station. And as then Mrs. Fyne uttered an incisive "It's what I've -said," which might have been the veriest echo of her words in the garden. -We three looked at each other as if on the brink of a disclosure. I -don't know whether she was vexed at my presence. It could hardly be -called intrusion--could it? Little Fyne began it. It had to go on. We -stood before her, plastered with the same mud (Fyne was a sight!), -scratched by the same brambles, conscious of the same experience. Yes. -Before her. And she looked at us with folded arms, with an extraordinary -fulness of assumed responsibility. I addressed her. - -"You don't believe in an accident, Mrs. Fyne, do you?" - -She shook her head in curt negation while, caked in mud and inexpressibly -serious-faced, Fyne seemed to be backing her up with all the weight of -his solemn presence. Nothing more absurd could be conceived. It was -delicious. And I went on in deferential accents: "Am I to understand -then that you entertain the theory of suicide?" - -I don't know that I am liable to fits of delirium but by a sudden and -alarming aberration while waiting for her answer I became mentally aware -of three trained dogs dancing on their hind legs. I don't know why. -Perhaps because of the pervading solemnity. There's nothing more solemn -on earth than a dance of trained dogs. - -"She has chosen to disappear. That's all." - -In these words Mrs. Fyne answered me. The aggressive tone was too much -for my endurance. In an instant I found myself out of the dance and down -on all-fours so to speak, with liberty to bark and bite. - -"The devil she has," I cried. "Has chosen to . . . Like this, all at -once, anyhow, regardless . . . I've had the privilege of meeting that -reckless and brusque young lady and I must say that with her air of an -angry victim . . . " - -"Precisely," Mrs. Fyne said very unexpectedly like a steel trap going -off. I stared at her. How provoking she was! So I went on to finish my -tirade. "She struck me at first sight as the most inconsiderate wrong- -headed girl that I ever . . . " - -"Why should a girl be more considerate than anyone else? More than any -man, for instance?" inquired Mrs. Fyne with a still greater assertion of -responsibility in her bearing. - -Of course I exclaimed at this, not very loudly it is true, but forcibly. -Were then the feelings of friends, relations and even of strangers to be -disregarded? I asked Mrs. Fyne if she did not think it was a sort of -duty to show elementary consideration not only for the natural feelings -but even for the prejudices of one's fellow-creatures. - -Her answer knocked me over. - -"Not for a woman." - -Just like that. I confess that I went down flat. And while in that -collapsed state I learned the true nature of Mrs. Fyne's feminist -doctrine. It was not political, it was not social. It was a knock-me- -down doctrine--a practical individualistic doctrine. You would not thank -me for expounding it to you at large. Indeed I think that she herself -did not enlighten me fully. There must have been things not fit for a -man to hear. But shortly, and as far as my bewilderment allowed me to -grasp its naive atrociousness, it was something like this: that no -consideration, no delicacy, no tenderness, no scruples should stand in -the way of a woman (who by the mere fact of her sex was the predestined -victim of conditions created by men's selfish passions, their vices and -their abominable tyranny) from taking the shortest cut towards securing -for herself the easiest possible existence. She had even the right to go -out of existence without considering anyone's feelings or convenience -since some women's existences were made impossible by the shortsighted -baseness of men. - -I looked at her, sitting before the lamp at one o'clock in the morning, -with her mature, smooth-cheeked face of masculine shape robbed of its -freshness by fatigue; at her eyes dimmed by this senseless vigil. I -looked also at Fyne; the mud was drying on him; he was obviously tired. -The weariness of solemnity. But he preserved an unflinching, endorsing, -gravity of expression. Endorsing it all as became a good, convinced -husband. - -"Oh! I see," I said. "No consideration . . . Well I hope you like it." - -They amused me beyond the wildest imaginings of which I was capable. -After the first shock, you understand, I recovered very quickly. The -order of the world was safe enough. He was a civil servant and she his -good and faithful wife. But when it comes to dealing with human beings -anything, anything may be expected. So even my astonishment did not last -very long. How far she developed and illustrated that conscienceless and -austere doctrine to the girl-friends, who were mere transient shadows to -her husband, I could not tell. Any length I supposed. And he looked on, -acquiesced, approved, just for that very reason--because these pretty -girls were but shadows to him. O! Most virtuous Fyne! He cast his eyes -down. He didn't like it. But I eyed him with hidden animosity for he -had got me to run after him under somewhat false pretences. - -Mrs. Fyne had only smiled at me very expressively, very self-confidently. -"Oh I quite understand that you accept the fullest responsibility," I -said. "I am the only ridiculous person in this--this--I don't know how -to call it--performance. However, I've nothing more to do here, so I'll -say good-night--or good morning, for it must be past one." - -But before departing, in common decency, I offered to take any wires they -might write. My lodgings were nearer the post-office than the cottage -and I would send them off the first thing in the morning. I supposed -they would wish to communicate, if only as to the disposal of the -luggage, with the young lady's relatives . . . - -Fyne, he looked rather downcast by then, thanked me and declined. - -"There is really no one," he said, very grave. - -"No one," I exclaimed. - -"Practically," said curt Mrs. Fyne. - -And my curiosity was aroused again. - -"Ah! I see. An orphan." - -Mrs. Fyne looked away weary and sombre, and Fyne said "Yes" impulsively, -and then qualified the affirmative by the quaint statement: "To a certain -extent." - -I became conscious of a languid, exhausted embarrassment, bowed to Mrs. -Fyne, and went out of the cottage to be confronted outside its door by -the bespangled, cruel revelation of the Immensity of the Universe. The -night was not sufficiently advanced for the stars to have paled; and the -earth seemed to me more profoundly asleep--perhaps because I was alone -now. Not having Fyne with me to set the pace I let myself drift, rather -than walk, in the direction of the farmhouse. To drift is the only -reposeful sort of motion (ask any ship if it isn't) and therefore -consistent with thoughtfulness. And I pondered: How is one an orphan "to -a certain extent"? - -No amount of solemnity could make such a statement other than bizarre. -What a strange condition to be in. Very likely one of the parents only -was dead? But no; it couldn't be, since Fyne had said just before that -"there was really no one" to communicate with. No one! And then -remembering Mrs. Fyne's snappy "Practically" my thoughts fastened upon -that lady as a more tangible object of speculation. - -I wondered--and wondering I doubted--whether she really understood -herself the theory she had propounded to me. Everything may be -said--indeed ought to be said--providing we know how to say it. She -probably did not. She was not intelligent enough for that. She had no -knowledge of the world. She had got hold of words as a child might get -hold of some poisonous pills and play with them for "dear, tiny little -marbles." No! The domestic-slave daughter of Carleon Anthony and the -little Fyne of the Civil Service (that flower of civilization) were not -intelligent people. They were commonplace, earnest, without smiles and -without guile. But he had his solemnities and she had her reveries, her -lurid, violent, crude reveries. And I thought with some sadness that all -these revolts and indignations, all these protests, revulsions of -feeling, pangs of suffering and of rage, expressed but the uneasiness of -sensual beings trying for their share in the joys of form, colour, -sensations--the only riches of our world of senses. A poet may be a -simple being but he is bound to be various and full of wiles, ingenious -and irritable. I reflected on the variety of ways the ingenuity of the -late bard of civilization would be able to invent for the tormenting of -his dependants. Poets not being generally foresighted in practical -affairs, no vision of consequences would restrain him. Yes. The Fynes -were excellent people, but Mrs. Fyne wasn't the daughter of a domestic -tyrant for nothing. There were no limits to her revolt. But they were -excellent people. It was clear that they must have been extremely good -to that girl whose position in the world seemed somewhat difficult, with -her face of a victim, her obvious lack of resignation and the bizarre -status of orphan "to a certain extent." - -Such were my thoughts, but in truth I soon ceased to trouble about all -these people. I found that my lamp had gone out leaving behind an awful -smell. I fled from it up the stairs and went to bed in the dark. My -slumbers--I suppose the one good in pedestrian exercise, confound it, is -that it helps our natural callousness--my slumbers were deep, dreamless -and refreshing. - -My appetite at breakfast was not affected by my ignorance of the facts, -motives, events and conclusions. I think that to understand everything -is not good for the intellect. A well-stocked intelligence weakens the -impulse to action; an overstocked one leads gently to idiocy. But Mrs. -Fyne's individualist woman-doctrine, naively unscrupulous, flitted -through my mind. The salad of unprincipled notions she put into these -girl-friends' heads! Good innocent creature, worthy wife, excellent -mother (of the strict governess type), she was as guileless of -consequences as any determinist philosopher ever was. - -As to honour--you know--it's a very fine medieval inheritance which women -never got hold of. It wasn't theirs. Since it may be laid as a general -principle that women always get what they want we must suppose they -didn't want it. In addition they are devoid of decency. I mean -masculine decency. Cautiousness too is foreign to them--the heavy -reasonable cautiousness which is our glory. And if they had it they -would make of it a thing of passion, so that its own mother--I mean the -mother of cautiousness--wouldn't recognize it. Prudence with them is a -matter of thrill like the rest of sublunary contrivances. "Sensation at -any cost," is their secret device. All the virtues are not enough for -them; they want also all the crimes for their own. And why? Because in -such completeness there is power--the kind of thrill they love most . . . -" - -"Do you expect me to agree to all this?" I interrupted. - -"No, it isn't necessary," said Marlow, feeling the check to his eloquence -but with a great effort at amiability. "You need not even understand it. -I continue: with such disposition what prevents women--to use the phrase -an old boatswain of my acquaintance applied descriptively to his -captain--what prevents them from "coming on deck and playing hell with -the ship" generally, is that something in them precise and mysterious, -acting both as restraint and as inspiration; their femininity in short -which they think they can get rid of by trying hard, but can't, and never -will. Therefore we may conclude that, for all their enterprises, the -world is and remains safe enough. Feeling, in my character of a lover of -peace, soothed by that conclusion I prepared myself to enjoy a fine day. - -And it was a fine day; a delicious day, with the horror of the Infinite -veiled by the splendid tent of blue; a day innocently bright like a child -with a washed face, fresh like an innocent young girl, suave in welcoming -one's respects like--like a Roman prelate. I love such days. They are -perfection for remaining indoors. And I enjoyed it temperamentally in a -chair, my feet up on the sill of the open window, a book in my hands and -the murmured harmonies of wind and sun in my heart making an -accompaniment to the rhythms of my author. Then looking up from the page -I saw outside a pair of grey eyes thatched by ragged yellowy-white -eyebrows gazing at me solemnly over the toes of my slippers. There was a -grave, furrowed brow surmounting that portentous gaze, a brown tweed cap -set far back on the perspiring head. - -"Come inside," I cried as heartily as my sinking heart would permit. - -After a short but severe scuffle with his dog at the outer door, Fyne -entered. I treated him without ceremony and only waved my hand towards a -chair. Even before he sat down he gasped out: - -"We've heard--midday post." - -Gasped out! The grave, immovable Fyne of the Civil Service, gasped! This -was enough, you'll admit, to cause me to put my feet to the ground -swiftly. That fellow was always making me do things in subtle discord -with my meditative temperament. No wonder that I had but a qualified -liking for him. I said with just a suspicion of jeering tone: - -"Of course. I told you last night on the road that it was a farce we -were engaged in." - -He made the little parlour resound to its foundations with a note of -anger positively sepulchral in its depth of tone. "Farce be hanged! She -has bolted with my wife's brother, Captain Anthony." This outburst was -followed by complete subsidence. He faltered miserably as he added from -force of habit: "The son of the poet, you know." - -A silence fell. Fyne's several expressions were so many examples of -varied consistency. This was the discomfiture of solemnity. My interest -of course was revived. - -"But hold on," I said. "They didn't go together. Is it a suspicion or -does she actually say that . . . " - -"She has gone after him," stated Fyne in comminatory tones. "By previous -arrangement. She confesses that much." - -He added that it was very shocking. I asked him whether he should have -preferred them going off together; and on what ground he based that -preference. This was sheer fun for me in regard of the fact that Fyne's -too was a runaway match, which even got into the papers in its time, -because the late indignant poet had no discretion and sought to avenge -this outrage publicly in some absurd way before a bewigged judge. The -dejected gesture of little Fyne's hand disarmed my mocking mood. But I -could not help expressing my surprise that Mrs. Fyne had not detected at -once what was brewing. Women were supposed to have an unerring eye. - -He told me that his wife had been very much engaged in a certain work. I -had always wondered how she occupied her time. It was in writing. Like -her husband she too published a little book. Much later on I came upon -it. It had nothing to do with pedestrianism. It was a sort of hand-book -for women with grievances (and all women had them), a sort of compendious -theory and practice of feminine free morality. It made you laugh at its -transparent simplicity. But that authorship was revealed to me much -later. I didn't of course ask Fyne what work his wife was engaged on; -but I marvelled to myself at her complete ignorance of the world, of her -own sex and of the other kind of sinners. Yet, where could she have got -any experience? Her father had kept her strictly cloistered. Marriage -with Fyne was certainly a change but only to another kind of -claustration. You may tell me that the ordinary powers of observation -ought to have been enough. Why, yes! But, then, as she had set up for a -guide and teacher, there was nothing surprising for me in the discovery -that she was blind. That's quite in order. She was a profoundly -innocent person; only it would not have been proper to tell her husband -so. - - - -CHAPTER THREE--THRIFT--AND THE CHILD - - -But there was nothing improper in my observing to Fyne that, last night, -Mrs. Fyne seemed to have some idea where that enterprising young lady had -gone to. Fyne shook his head. No; his wife had been by no means so -certain as she had pretended to be. She merely had her reasons to think, -to hope, that the girl might have taken a room somewhere in London, had -buried herself in town--in readiness or perhaps in horror of the -approaching day-- - -He ceased and sat solemnly dejected, in a brown study. "What day?" I -asked at last; but he did not hear me apparently. He diffused such -portentous gloom into the atmosphere that I lost patience with him. - -"What on earth are you so dismal about?" I cried, being genuinely -surprised and puzzled. "One would think the girl was a state prisoner -under your care." - -And suddenly I became still more surprised at myself, at the way I had -somehow taken for granted things which did appear queer when one thought -them out. - -"But why this secrecy? Why did they elope--if it is an elopement? Was -the girl afraid of your wife? And your brother-in-law? What on earth -possesses him to make a clandestine match of it? Was he afraid of your -wife too?" - -Fyne made an effort to rouse himself. - -"Of course my brother-in-law, Captain Anthony, the son of . . . " He -checked himself as if trying to break a bad habit. "He would be -persuaded by her. We have been most friendly to the girl!" - -"She struck me as a foolish and inconsiderate little person. But why -should you and your wife take to heart so strongly mere folly--or even a -want of consideration?" - -"It's the most unscrupulous action," declared Fyne weightily--and sighed. - -"I suppose she is poor," I observed after a short silence. "But after -all . . . " - -"You don't know who she is." Fyne had regained his average solemnity. - -I confessed that I had not caught her name when his wife had introduced -us to each other. "It was something beginning with an S- wasn't it?" And -then with the utmost coolness Fyne remarked that it did not matter. The -name was not her name. - -"Do you mean to say that you made a young lady known to me under a false -name?" I asked, with the amused feeling that the days of wonders and -portents had not passed away yet. That the eminently serious Fynes -should do such an exceptional thing was simply staggering. With a more -hasty enunciation than usual little Fyne was sure that I would not demand -an apology for this irregularity if I knew what her real name was. A -sort of warmth crept into his deep tone. - -"We have tried to befriend that girl in every way. She is the daughter -and only child of de Barral." - -Evidently he expected to produce a sensation; he kept his eyes fixed upon -me prepared for some sign of it. But I merely returned his intense, -awaiting gaze. For a time we stared at each other. Conscious of being -reprehensibly dense I groped in the darkness of my mind: De Barral, De -Barral--and all at once noise and light burst on me as if a window of my -memory had been suddenly flung open on a street in the City. De Barral! -But could it be the same? Surely not! - -"The financier?" I suggested half incredulous. - -"Yes," said Fyne; and in this instance his native solemnity of tone -seemed to be strangely appropriate. "The convict." - -Marlow looked at me, significantly, and remarked in an explanatory tone: - -"One somehow never thought of de Barral as having any children, or any -other home than the offices of the "Orb"; or any other existence, -associations or interests than financial. I see you remember the crash -. . . " - -"I was away in the Indian Seas at the time," I said. "But of course--" - -"Of course," Marlow struck in. "All the world . . . You may wonder at my -slowness in recognizing the name. But you know that my memory is merely -a mausoleum of proper names. There they lie inanimate, awaiting the -magic touch--and not very prompt in arising when called, either. The -name is the first thing I forget of a man. It is but just to add that -frequently it is also the last, and this accounts for my possession of a -good many anonymous memories. In de Barral's case, he got put away in my -mausoleum in company with so many names of his own creation that really -he had to throw off a monstrous heap of grisly bones before he stood -before me at the call of the wizard Fyne. The fellow had a pretty fancy -in names: the "Orb" Deposit Bank, the "Sceptre" Mutual Aid Society, the -"Thrift and Independence" Association. Yes, a very pretty taste in -names; and nothing else besides--absolutely nothing--no other merit. Well -yes. He had another name, but that's pure luck--his own name of de -Barral which he did not invent. I don't think that a mere Jones or Brown -could have fished out from the depths of the Incredible such a colossal -manifestation of human folly as that man did. But it may be that I am -underestimating the alacrity of human folly in rising to the bait. No -doubt I am. The greed of that absurd monster is incalculable, -unfathomable, inconceivable. The career of de Barral demonstrates that -it will rise to a naked hook. He didn't lure it with a fairy tale. He -hadn't enough imagination for it . . . " - -"Was he a foreigner?" I asked. "It's clearly a French name. I suppose -it _was_ his name?" - -"Oh, he didn't invent it. He was born to it, in Bethnal Green, as it -came out during the proceedings. He was in the habit of alluding to his -Scotch connections. But every great man has done that. The mother, I -believe, was Scotch, right enough. The father de Barral whatever his -origins retired from the Customs Service (tide-waiter I think), and -started lending money in a very, very small way in the East End to people -connected with the docks, stevedores, minor barge-owners, ship-chandlers, -tally clerks, all sorts of very small fry. He made his living at it. He -was a very decent man I believe. He had enough influence to place his -only son as junior clerk in the account department of one of the Dock -Companies. "Now, my boy," he said to him, "I've given you a fine start." -But de Barral didn't start. He stuck. He gave perfect satisfaction. At -the end of three years he got a small rise of salary and went out -courting in the evenings. He went courting the daughter of an old sea- -captain who was a churchwarden of his parish and lived in an old badly -preserved Georgian house with a garden: one of these houses standing in a -reduced bit of "grounds" that you discover in a labyrinth of the most -sordid streets, exactly alike and composed of six-roomed hutches. - -Some of them were the vicarages of slum parishes. The old sailor had got -hold of one cheap, and de Barral got hold of his daughter--which was a -good bargain for him. The old sailor was very good to the young couple -and very fond of their little girl. Mrs. de Barral was an equable, -unassuming woman, at that time with a fund of simple gaiety, and with no -ambitions; but, woman-like, she longed for change and for something -interesting to happen now and then. It was she who encouraged de Barral -to accept the offer of a post in the west-end branch of a great bank. It -appears he shrank from such a great adventure for a long time. At last -his wife's arguments prevailed. Later on she used to say: 'It's the only -time he ever listened to me; and I wonder now if it hadn't been better -for me to die before I ever made him go into that bank.' - -You may be surprised at my knowledge of these details. Well, I had them -ultimately from Mrs. Fyne. Mrs. Fyne while yet Miss Anthony, in her days -of bondage, knew Mrs. de Barral in her days of exile. Mrs. de Barral was -living then in a big stone mansion with mullioned windows in a large damp -park, called the Priory, adjoining the village where the refined poet had -built himself a house. - -These were the days of de Barral's success. He had bought the place -without ever seeing it and had packed off his wife and child at once -there to take possession. He did not know what to do with them in -London. He himself had a suite of rooms in an hotel. He gave there -dinner parties followed by cards in the evening. He had developed the -gambling passion--or else a mere card mania--but at any rate he played -heavily, for relaxation, with a lot of dubious hangers on. - -Meantime Mrs. de Barral, expecting him every day, lived at the Priory, -with a carriage and pair, a governess for the child and many servants. -The village people would see her through the railings wandering under the -trees with her little girl lost in her strange surroundings. Nobody ever -came near her. And there she died as some faithful and delicate animals -die--from neglect, absolutely from neglect, rather unexpectedly and -without any fuss. The village was sorry for her because, though -obviously worried about something, she was good to the poor and was -always ready for a chat with any of the humble folks. Of course they -knew that she wasn't a lady--not what you would call a real lady. And -even her acquaintance with Miss Anthony was only a cottage-door, a -village-street acquaintance. Carleon Anthony was a tremendous aristocrat -(his father had been a "restoring" architect) and his daughter was not -allowed to associate with anyone but the county young ladies. -Nevertheless in defiance of the poet's wrathful concern for undefiled -refinement there were some quiet, melancholy strolls to and fro in the -great avenue of chestnuts leading to the park-gate, during which Mrs. de -Barral came to call Miss Anthony 'my dear'--and even 'my poor dear.' The -lonely soul had no one to talk to but that not very happy girl. The -governess despised her. The housekeeper was distant in her manner. -Moreover Mrs. de Barral was no foolish gossiping woman. But she made -some confidences to Miss Anthony. Such wealth was a terrific thing to -have thrust upon one she affirmed. Once she went so far as to confess -that she was dying with anxiety. Mr. de Barral (so she referred to him) -had been an excellent husband and an exemplary father but "you see my -dear I have had a great experience of him. I am sure he won't know what -to do with all that money people are giving to him to take care of for -them. He's as likely as not to do something rash. When he comes here I -must have a good long serious talk with him, like the talks we often used -to have together in the good old times of our life." And then one day a -cry of anguish was wrung from her: 'My dear, he will never come here, he -will never, never come!' - -She was wrong. He came to the funeral, was extremely cut up, and holding -the child tightly by the hand wept bitterly at the side of the grave. -Miss Anthony, at the cost of a whole week of sneers and abuse from the -poet, saw it all with her own eyes. De Barral clung to the child like a -drowning man. He managed, though, to catch the half-past five fast -train, travelling to town alone in a reserved compartment, with all the -blinds down . . . " - -"Leaving the child?" I said interrogatively. - -"Yes. Leaving . . . He shirked the problem. He was born that way. He -had no idea what to do with her or for that matter with anything or -anybody including himself. He bolted back to his suite of rooms in the -hotel. He was the most helpless . . . She might have been left in the -Priory to the end of time had not the high-toned governess threatened to -send in her resignation. She didn't care for the child a bit, and the -lonely, gloomy Priory had got on her nerves. She wasn't going to put up -with such a life and, having just come out of some ducal family, she -bullied de Barral in a very lofty fashion. To pacify her he took a -splendidly furnished house in the most expensive part of Brighton for -them, and now and then ran down for a week-end, with a trunk full of -exquisite sweets and with his hat full of money. The governess spent it -for him in extra ducal style. She was nearly forty and harboured a -secret taste for patronizing young men of sorts--of a certain sort. But -of that Mrs. Fyne of course had no personal knowledge then; she told me -however that even in the Priory days she had suspected her of being an -artificial, heartless, vulgar-minded woman with the lowest possible -ideals. But de Barral did not know it. He literally did not know -anything . . . " - -"But tell me, Marlow," I interrupted, "how do you account for this -opinion? He must have been a personality in a sense--in some one sense -surely. You don't work the greatest material havoc of a decade at least, -in a commercial community, without having something in you." - -Marlow shook his head. - -"He was a mere sign, a portent. There was nothing in him. Just about -that time the word Thrift was to the fore. You know the power of words. -We pass through periods dominated by this or that word--it may be -development, or it may be competition, or education, or purity or -efficiency or even sanctity. It is the word of the time. Well just then -it was the word Thrift which was out in the streets walking arm in arm -with righteousness, the inseparable companion and backer up of all such -national catch-words, looking everybody in the eye as it were. The very -drabs of the pavement, poor things, didn't escape the fascination . . . -However! . . . Well the greatest portion of the press were screeching in -all possible tones, like a confounded company of parrots instructed by -some devil with a taste for practical jokes, that the financier de Barral -was helping the great moral evolution of our character towards the newly- -discovered virtue of Thrift. He was helping it by all these great -establishments of his, which made the moral merits of Thrift manifest to -the most callous hearts, simply by promising to pay ten per cent. -interest on all deposits. And you didn't want necessarily to belong to -the well-to-do classes in order to participate in the advantages of -virtue. If you had but a spare sixpence in the world and went and gave -it to de Barral it was Thrift! It's quite likely that he himself -believed it. He must have. It's inconceivable that he alone should -stand out against the infatuation of the whole world. He hadn't enough -intelligence for that. But to look at him one couldn't tell . . . " - -"You did see him then?" I said with some curiosity. - -"I did. Strange, isn't it? It was only once, but as I sat with the -distressed Fyne who had suddenly resuscitated his name buried in my -memory with other dead labels of the past, I may say I saw him again, I -saw him with great vividness of recollection, as he appeared in the days -of his glory or splendour. No! Neither of these words will fit his -success. There was never any glory or splendour about that figure. Well, -let us say in the days when he was, according to the majority of the -daily press, a financial force working for the improvement of the -character of the people. I'll tell you how it came about. - -At that time I used to know a podgy, wealthy, bald little man having -chambers in the Albany; a financier too, in his way, carrying out -transactions of an intimate nature and of no moral character; mostly with -young men of birth and expectations--though I dare say he didn't withhold -his ministrations from elderly plebeians either. He was a true democrat; -he would have done business (a sharp kind of business) with the devil -himself. Everything was fly that came into his web. He received the -applicants in an alert, jovial fashion which was quite surprising. It -gave relief without giving too much confidence, which was just as well -perhaps. His business was transacted in an apartment furnished like a -drawing-room, the walls hung with several brown, heavily-framed, oil -paintings. I don't know if they were good, but they were big, and with -their elaborate, tarnished gilt-frames had a melancholy dignity. The man -himself sat at a shining, inlaid writing table which looked like a rare -piece from a museum of art; his chair had a high, oval, carved back, -upholstered in faded tapestry; and these objects made of the costly black -Havana cigar, which he rolled incessantly from the middle to the left -corner of his mouth and back again, an inexpressibly cheap and nasty -object. I had to see him several times in the interest of a poor devil -so unlucky that he didn't even have a more competent friend than myself -to speak for him at a very difficult time in his life. - -I don't know at what hour my private financier began his day, but he used -to give one appointments at unheard of times: such as a quarter to eight -in the morning, for instance. On arriving one found him busy at that -marvellous writing table, looking very fresh and alert, exhaling a faint -fragrance of scented soap and with the cigar already well alight. You -may believe that I entered on my mission with many unpleasant -forebodings; but there was in that fat, admirably washed, little man such -a profound contempt for mankind that it amounted to a species of good -nature; which, unlike the milk of genuine kindness, was never in danger -of turning sour. Then, once, during a pause in business, while we were -waiting for the production of a document for which he had sent (perhaps -to the cellar?) I happened to remark, glancing round the room, that I had -never seen so many fine things assembled together out of a collection. -Whether this was unconscious diplomacy on my part, or not, I shouldn't -like to say--but the remark was true enough, and it pleased him -extremely. "It _is_ a collection," he said emphatically. "Only I live -right in it, which most collectors don't. But I see that you know what -you are looking at. Not many people who come here on business do. Stable -fittings are more in their way." - -I don't know whether my appreciation helped to advance my friend's -business but at any rate it helped our intercourse. He treated me with a -shade of familiarity as one of the initiated. - -The last time I called on him to conclude the transaction we were -interrupted by a person, something like a cross between a bookmaker and a -private secretary, who, entering through a door which was not the -anteroom door, walked up and stooped to whisper into his ear. - -"Eh? What? Who, did you say?" - -The nondescript person stooped and whispered again, adding a little -louder: "Says he won't detain you a moment." - -My little man glanced at me, said "Ah! Well," irresolutely. I got up -from my chair and offered to come again later. He looked whimsically -alarmed. "No, no. It's bad enough to lose my money but I don't want to -waste any more of my time over your friend. We must be done with this to- -day. Just go and have a look at that _garniture de cheminee_ yonder. -There's another, something like it, in the castle of Laeken, but mine's -much superior in design." - -I moved accordingly to the other side of that big room. The _garniture_ -was very fine. But while pretending to examine it I watched my man going -forward to meet a tall visitor, who said, "I thought you would be -disengaged so early. It's only a word or two"--and after a whispered -confabulation of no more than a minute, reconduct him to the door and -shake hands ceremoniously. "Not at all, not at all. Very pleased to be -of use. You can depend absolutely on my information"--"Oh thank you, -thank you. I just looked in." "Certainly, quite right. Any time . . . -Good morning." - -I had a good look at the visitor while they were exchanging these -civilities. He was clad in black. I remember perfectly that he wore a -flat, broad, black satin tie in which was stuck a large cameo pin; and a -small turn down collar. His hair, discoloured and silky, curled slightly -over his ears. His cheeks were hairless and round, and apparently soft. -He held himself very upright, walked with small steps and spoke gently in -an inward voice. Perhaps from contrast with the magnificent polish of -the room and the neatness of its owner, he struck me as dingy, indigent, -and, if not exactly humble, then much subdued by evil fortune. - -I wondered greatly at my fat little financier's civility to that dubious -personage when he asked me, as we resumed our respective seats, whether I -knew who it was that had just gone out. On my shaking my head negatively -he smiled queerly, said "De Barral," and enjoyed my surprise. Then -becoming grave: "That's a deep fellow, if you like. We all know where he -started from and where he got to; but nobody knows what he means to do." -He became thoughtful for a moment and added as if speaking to himself, "I -wonder what his game is." - -And, you know, there was no game, no game of any sort, or shape or kind. -It came out plainly at the trial. As I've told you before, he was a -clerk in a bank, like thousands of others. He got that berth as a second -start in life and there he stuck again, giving perfect satisfaction. Then -one day as though a supernatural voice had whispered into his ear or some -invisible fly had stung him, he put on his hat, went out into the street -and began advertising. That's absolutely all that there was to it. He -caught in the street the word of the time and harnessed it to his -preposterous chariot. - -One remembers his first modest advertisements headed with the magic word -Thrift, Thrift, Thrift, thrice repeated; promising ten per cent. on all -deposits and giving the address of the Thrift and Independence Aid -Association in Vauxhall Bridge Road. Apparently nothing more was -necessary. He didn't even explain what he meant to do with the money he -asked the public to pour into his lap. Of course he meant to lend it out -at high rates of interest. He did so--but he did it without system, -plan, foresight or judgment. And as he frittered away the sums that -flowed in, he advertised for more--and got it. During a period of -general business prosperity he set up The Orb Bank and The Sceptre Trust, -simply, it seems for advertising purposes. They were mere names. He was -totally unable to organize anything, to promote any sort of enterprise if -it were only for the purpose of juggling with the shares. At that time -he could have had for the asking any number of Dukes, retired Generals, -active M.P.'s, ex-ambassadors and so on as Directors to sit at the -wildest boards of his invention. But he never tried. He had no real -imagination. All he could do was to publish more advertisements and open -more branch offices of the Thrift and Independence, of The Orb, of The -Sceptre, for the receipt of deposits; first in this town, then in that -town, north and south--everywhere where he could find suitable premises -at a moderate rent. For this was the great characteristic of the -management. Modesty, moderation, simplicity. Neither The Orb nor The -Sceptre nor yet their parent the Thrift and Independence had built for -themselves the usual palaces. For this abstention they were praised in -silly public prints as illustrating in their management the principle of -Thrift for which they were founded. The fact is that de Barral simply -didn't think of it. Of course he had soon moved from Vauxhall Bridge -Road. He knew enough for that. What he got hold of next was an old, -enormous, rat-infested brick house in a small street off the Strand. -Strangers were taken in front of the meanest possible, begrimed, yellowy, -flat brick wall, with two rows of unadorned window-holes one above the -other, and were exhorted with bated breath to behold and admire the -simplicity of the head-quarters of the great financial force of the day. -The word THRIFT perched right up on the roof in giant gilt letters, and -two enormous shield-like brass-plates curved round the corners on each -side of the doorway were the only shining spots in de Barral's business -outfit. Nobody knew what operations were carried on inside except -this--that if you walked in and tendered your money over the counter it -would be calmly taken from you by somebody who would give you a printed -receipt. That and no more. It appears that such knowledge is -irresistible. People went in and tendered; and once it was taken from -their hands their money was more irretrievably gone from them than if -they had thrown it into the sea. This then, and nothing else was being -carried on in there . . . " - -"Come, Marlow," I said, "you exaggerate surely--if only by your way of -putting things. It's too startling." - -"I exaggerate!" he defended himself. "My way of putting things! My dear -fellow I have merely stripped the rags of business verbiage and financial -jargon off my statements. And you are startled! I am giving you the -naked truth. It's true too that nothing lays itself open to the charge -of exaggeration more than the language of naked truth. What comes with a -shock is admitted with difficulty. But what will you say to the end of -his career? - -It was of course sensational and tolerably sudden. It began with the Orb -Deposit Bank. Under the name of that institution de Barral with the -frantic obstinacy of an unimaginative man had been financing an Indian -prince who was prosecuting a claim for immense sums of money against the -government. It was an enormous number of scores of lakhs--a miserable -remnant of his ancestors' treasures--that sort of thing. And it was all -authentic enough. There was a real prince; and the claim too was -sufficiently real--only unfortunately it was not a valid claim. So the -prince lost his case on the last appeal and the beginning of de Barral's -end became manifest to the public in the shape of a half-sheet of note -paper wafered by the four corners on the closed door of The Orb offices -notifying that payment was stopped at that establishment. - -Its consort The Sceptre collapsed within the week. I won't say in -American parlance that suddenly the bottom fell out of the whole of de -Barral concerns. There never had been any bottom to it. It was like the -cask of Danaides into which the public had been pleased to pour its -deposits. That they were gone was clear; and the bankruptcy proceedings -which followed were like a sinister farce, bursts of laughter in a -setting of mute anguish--that of the depositors; hundreds of thousands of -them. The laughter was irresistible; the accompaniment of the bankrupt's -public examination. - -I don't know if it was from utter lack of all imagination or from the -possession in undue proportion of a particular kind of it, or from -both--and the three alternatives are possible--but it was discovered that -this man who had been raised to such a height by the credulity of the -public was himself more gullible than any of his depositors. He had been -the prey of all sorts of swindlers, adventurers, visionaries and even -lunatics. Wrapping himself up in deep and imbecile secrecy he had gone -in for the most fantastic schemes: a harbour and docks on the coast of -Patagonia, quarries in Labrador--such like speculations. Fisheries to -feed a canning Factory on the banks of the Amazon was one of them. A -principality to be bought in Madagascar was another. As the grotesque -details of these incredible transactions came out one by one ripples of -laughter ran over the closely packed court--each one a little louder than -the other. The audience ended by fairly roaring under the cumulative -effect of absurdity. The Registrar laughed, the barristers laughed, the -reporters laughed, the serried ranks of the miserable depositors watching -anxiously every word, laughed like one man. They laughed -hysterically--the poor wretches--on the verge of tears. - -There was only one person who remained unmoved. It was de Barral -himself. He preserved his serene, gentle expression, I am told (for I -have not witnessed those scenes myself), and looked around at the people -with an air of placid sufficiency which was the first hint to the world -of the man's overweening, unmeasurable conceit, hidden hitherto under a -diffident manner. It could be seen too in his dogged assertion that if -he had been given enough time and a lot more money everything would have -come right. And there were some people (yes, amongst his very victims) -who more than half believed him, even after the criminal prosecution -which soon followed. When placed in the dock he lost his steadiness as -if some sustaining illusion had gone to pieces within him suddenly. He -ceased to be himself in manner completely, and even in disposition, in so -far that his faded neutral eyes matching his discoloured hair so well, -were discovered then to be capable of expressing a sort of underhand -hate. He was at first defiant, then insolent, then broke down and burst -into tears; but it might have been from rage. Then he calmed down, -returned to his soft manner of speech and to that unassuming quiet -bearing which had been usual with him even in his greatest days. But it -seemed as though in this moment of change he had at last perceived what a -power he had been; for he remarked to one of the prosecuting counsel who -had assumed a lofty moral tone in questioning him, that--yes, he had -gambled--he liked cards. But that only a year ago a host of smart people -would have been only too pleased to take a hand at cards with him. Yes--he -went on--some of the very people who were there accommodated with seats -on the bench; and turning upon the counsel "You yourself as well," he -cried. He could have had half the town at his rooms to fawn upon him if -he had cared for that sort of thing. "Why, now I think of it, it took me -most of my time to keep people, just of your sort, off me," he ended with -a good humoured--quite unobtrusive, contempt, as though the fact had -dawned upon him for the first time. - -This was the moment, the only moment, when he had perhaps all the -audience in Court with him, in a hush of dreary silence. And then the -dreary proceedings were resumed. For all the outside excitement it was -the most dreary of all celebrated trials. The bankruptcy proceedings had -exhausted all the laughter there was in it. Only the fact of wide-spread -ruin remained, and the resentment of a mass of people for having been -fooled by means too simple to save their self-respect from a deep wound -which the cleverness of a consummate scoundrel would not have inflicted. -A shamefaced amazement attended these proceedings in which de Barral was -not being exposed alone. For himself his only cry was: Time! Time! Time -would have set everything right. In time some of these speculations of -his were certain to have succeeded. He repeated this defence, this -excuse, this confession of faith, with wearisome iteration. Everything -he had done or left undone had been to gain time. He had hypnotized -himself with the word. Sometimes, I am told, his appearance was -ecstatic, his motionless pale eyes seemed to be gazing down the vista of -future ages. Time--and of course, more money. "Ah! If only you had -left me alone for a couple of years more," he cried once in accents of -passionate belief. "The money was coming in all right." The deposits -you understand--the savings of Thrift. Oh yes they had been coming in to -the very last moment. And he regretted them. He had arrived to regard -them as his own by a sort of mystical persuasion. And yet it was a -perfectly true cry, when he turned once more on the counsel who was -beginning a question with the words "You have had all these immense sums -. . . " with the indignant retort "_What_ have I had out of them?" - -"It was perfectly true. He had had nothing out of them--nothing of the -prestigious or the desirable things of the earth, craved for by predatory -natures. He had gratified no tastes, had known no luxury; he had built -no gorgeous palaces, had formed no splendid galleries out of these -"immense sums." He had not even a home. He had gone into these rooms in -an hotel and had stuck there for years, giving no doubt perfect -satisfaction to the management. They had twice raised his rent to show I -suppose their high sense of his distinguished patronage. He had bought -for himself out of all the wealth streaming through his fingers neither -adulation nor love, neither splendour nor comfort. There was something -perfect in his consistent mediocrity. His very vanity seemed to miss the -gratification of even the mere show of power. In the days when he was -most fully in the public eye the invincible obscurity of his origins -clung to him like a shadowy garment. He had handled millions without -ever enjoying anything of what is counted as precious in the community of -men, because he had neither the brutality of temperament nor the fineness -of mind to make him desire them with the will power of a masterful -adventurer . . . " - -"You seem to have studied the man," I observed. - -"Studied," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "No! Not studied. I had no -opportunities. You know that I saw him only on that one occasion I told -you of. But it may be that a glimpse and no more is the proper way of -seeing an individuality; and de Barral was that, in virtue of his very -deficiencies for they made of him something quite unlike one's -preconceived ideas. There were also very few materials accessible to a -man like me to form a judgment from. But in such a case I verify believe -that a little is as good as a feast--perhaps better. If one has a taste -for that kind of thing the merest starting-point becomes a coign of -vantage, and then by a series of logically deducted verisimilitudes one -arrives at truth--or very near the truth--as near as any circumstantial -evidence can do. I have not studied de Barral but that is how I -understand him so far as he could be understood through the din of the -crash; the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the newspaper contents bills, -"The Thrift Frauds. Cross-examination of the accused. Extra -special"--blazing fiercely; the charitable appeals for the victims, the -grave tones of the dailies rumbling with compassion as if they were the -national bowels. All this lasted a whole week of industrious sittings. A -pressman whom I knew told me "He's an idiot." Which was possible. Before -that I overheard once somebody declaring that he had a criminal type of -face; which I knew was untrue. The sentence was pronounced by artificial -light in a stifling poisonous atmosphere. Something edifying was said by -the judge weightily, about the retribution overtaking the perpetrator of -"the most heartless frauds on an unprecedented scale." I don't -understand these things much, but it appears that he had juggled with -accounts, cooked balance sheets, had gathered in deposits months after he -ought to have known himself to be hopelessly insolvent, and done enough -of other things, highly reprehensible in the eyes of the law, to earn for -himself seven years' penal servitude. The sentence making its way -outside met with a good reception. A small mob composed mainly of people -who themselves did not look particularly clever and scrupulous, leavened -by a slight sprinkling of genuine pickpockets amused itself by cheering -in the most penetrating, abominable cold drizzle that I remember. I -happened to be passing there on my way from the East End where I had -spent my day about the Docks with an old chum who was looking after the -fitting out of a new ship. I am always eager, when allowed, to call on a -new ship. They interest me like charming young persons. - -I got mixed up in that crowd seething with an animosity as senseless as -things of the street always are, and it was while I was laboriously -making my way out of it that the pressman of whom I spoke was jostled -against me. He did me the justice to be surprised. "What? You here! -The last person in the world . . . If I had known I could have got you -inside. Plenty of room. Interest been over for the last three days. Got -seven years. Well, I am glad." - -"Why are you glad? Because he's got seven years?" I asked, greatly -incommoded by the pressure of a hulking fellow who was remarking to some -of his equally oppressive friends that the "beggar ought to have been -poleaxed." I don't know whether he had ever confided his savings to de -Barral but if so, judging from his appearance, they must have been the -proceeds of some successful burglary. The pressman by my side said 'No,' -to my question. He was glad because it was all over. He had suffered -greatly from the heat and the bad air of the court. The clammy, raw, -chill of the streets seemed to affect his liver instantly. He became -contemptuous and irritable and plied his elbows viciously making way for -himself and me. - -A dull affair this. All such cases were dull. No really dramatic -moments. The book-keeping of The Orb and all the rest of them was -certainly a burlesque revelation but the public did not care for -revelations of that kind. Dull dog that de Barral--he grumbled. He -could not or would not take the trouble to characterize for me the -appearance of that man now officially a criminal (we had gone across the -road for a drink) but told me with a sourly, derisive snigger that, after -the sentence had been pronounced the fellow clung to the dock long enough -to make a sort of protest. 'You haven't given me time. If I had been -given time I would have ended by being made a peer like some of them.' -And he had permitted himself his very first and last gesture in all these -days, raising a hard-clenched fist above his head. - -The pressman disapproved of that manifestation. It was not his business -to understand it. Is it ever the business of any pressman to understand -anything? I guess not. It would lead him too far away from the -actualities which are the daily bread of the public mind. He probably -thought the display worth very little from a picturesque point of view; -the weak voice; the colourless personality as incapable of an attitude as -a bed-post, the very fatuity of the clenched hand so ineffectual at that -time and place--no, it wasn't worth much. And then, for him, an -accomplished craftsman in his trade, thinking was distinctly "bad -business." His business was to write a readable account. But I who had -nothing to write, I permitted myself to use my mind as we sat before our -still untouched glasses. And the disclosure which so often rewards a -moment of detachment from mere visual impressions gave me a thrill very -much approaching a shudder. I seemed to understand that, with the shock -of the agonies and perplexities of his trial, the imagination of that -man, whose moods, notions and motives wore frequently an air of grotesque -mystery--that his imagination had been at last roused into activity. And -this was awful. Just try to enter into the feelings of a man whose -imagination wakes up at the very moment he is about to enter the tomb . . . " - -* * * * * - -"You must not think," went on Marlow after a pause, "that on that morning -with Fyne I went consciously in my mind over all this, let us call it -information; no, better say, this fund of knowledge which I had, or -rather which existed, in me in regard to de Barral. Information is -something one goes out to seek and puts away when found as you might do a -piece of lead: ponderous, useful, unvibrating, dull. Whereas knowledge -comes to one, this sort of knowledge, a chance acquisition preserving in -its repose a fine resonant quality . . . But as such distinctions touch -upon the transcendental I shall spare you the pain of listening to them. -There are limits to my cruelty. No! I didn't reckon up carefully in my -mind all this I have been telling you. How could I have done so, with -Fyne right there in the room? He sat perfectly still, statuesque in -homely fashion, after having delivered himself of his effective assent: -"Yes. The convict," and I, far from indulging in a reminiscent excursion -into the past, remained sufficiently in the present to muse in a vague, -absent-minded way on the respectable proportions and on the (upon the -whole) comely shape of his great pedestrian's calves, for he had thrown -one leg over his knee, carelessly, to conceal the trouble of his mind by -an air of ease. But all the same the knowledge was in me, the awakened -resonance of which I spoke just now; I was aware of it on that beautiful -day, so fresh, so warm and friendly, so accomplished--an exquisite -courtesy of the much abused English climate when it makes up its -meteorological mind to behave like a perfect gentleman. Of course the -English climate is never a rough. It suffers from spleen somewhat -frequently--but that is gentlemanly too, and I don't mind going to meet -him in that mood. He has his days of grey, veiled, polite melancholy, in -which he is very fascinating. How seldom he lapses into a blustering -manner, after all! And then it is mostly in a season when, appropriately -enough, one may go out and kill something. But his fine days are the -best for stopping at home, to read, to think, to muse--even to dream; in -fact to live fully, intensely and quietly, in the brightness of -comprehension, in that receptive glow of the mind, the gift of the clear, -luminous and serene weather. - -That day I had intended to live intensely and quietly, basking in the -weather's glory which would have lent enchantment to the most unpromising -of intellectual prospects. For a companion I had found a book, not -bemused with the cleverness of the day--a fine-weather book, simple and -sincere like the talk of an unselfish friend. But looking at little Fyne -seated in the room I understood that nothing would come of my -contemplative aspirations; that in one way or another I should be let in -for some form of severe exercise. Walking, it would be, I feared, since, -for me, that idea was inseparably associated with the visual impression -of Fyne. Where, why, how, a rapid striding rush could be brought in -helpful relation to the good Fyne's present trouble and perplexity I -could not imagine; except on the principle that senseless pedestrianism -was Fyne's panacea for all the ills and evils bodily and spiritual of the -universe. It could be of no use for me to say or do anything. It was -bound to come. Contemplating his muscular limb encased in a -golf-stocking, and under the strong impression of the information he had -just imparted I said wondering, rather irrationally: - -"And so de Barral had a wife and child! That girl's his daughter. And -how . . . " - -Fyne interrupted me by stating again earnestly, as though it were -something not easy to believe, that his wife and himself had tried to -befriend the girl in every way--indeed they had! I did not doubt him for -a moment, of course, but my wonder at this was more rational. At that -hour of the morning, you mustn't forget, I knew nothing as yet of Mrs. -Fyne's contact (it was hardly more) with de Barral's wife and child -during their exile at the Priory, in the culminating days of that man's -fame. - -Fyne who had come over, it was clear, solely to talk to me on that -subject, gave me the first hint of this initial, merely out of doors, -connection. "The girl was quite a child then," he continued. "Later on -she was removed out of Mrs. Fyne's reach in charge of a governess--a very -unsatisfactory person," he explained. His wife had then--h'm--met him; -and on her marriage she lost sight of the child completely. But after -the birth of Polly (Polly was the third Fyne girl) she did not get on -very well, and went to Brighton for some months to recover her -strength--and there, one day in the street, the child (she wore her hair -down her back still) recognized her outside a shop and rushed, actually -rushed, into Mrs. Fyne's arms. Rather touching this. And so, -disregarding the cold impertinence of that . . . h'm . . . governess, his -wife naturally responded. - -He was solemnly fragmentary. I broke in with the observation that it -must have been before the crash. - -Fyne nodded with deepened gravity, stating in his bass tone-- - -"Just before," and indulged himself with a weighty period of solemn -silence. - -De Barral, he resumed suddenly, was not coming to Brighton for week-ends -regularly, then. Must have been conscious already of the approaching -disaster. Mrs. Fyne avoided being drawn into making his acquaintance, -and this suited the views of the governess person, very jealous of any -outside influence. But in any case it would not have been an easy -matter. Extraordinary, stiff-backed, thin figure all in black, the -observed of all, while walking hand-in-hand with the girl; apparently -shy, but--and here Fyne came very near showing something like -insight--probably nursing under a diffident manner a considerable amount -of secret arrogance. Mrs. Fyne pitied Flora de Barral's fate long before -the catastrophe. Most unfortunate guidance. Very unsatisfactory -surroundings. The girl was known in the streets, was stared at in public -places as if she had been a sort of princess, but she was kept with a -very ominous consistency, from making any acquaintances--though of course -there were many people no doubt who would have been more than willing -to--h'm--make themselves agreeable to Miss de Barral. But this did not -enter into the plans of the governess, an intriguing person hatching a -most sinister plot under her severe air of distant, fashionable -exclusiveness. Good little Fyne's eyes bulged with solemn horror as he -revealed to me, in agitated speech, his wife's more than suspicions, at -the time, of that, Mrs., Mrs. What's her name's perfidious conduct. She -actually seemed to have--Mrs. Fyne asserted--formed a plot already to -marry eventually her charge to an impecunious relation of her own--a -young man with furtive eyes and something impudent in his manner, whom -that woman called her nephew, and whom she was always having down to stay -with her. - -"And perhaps not her nephew. No relation at all"--Fyne emitted with a -convulsive effort this, the most awful part of the suspicions Mrs. Fyne -used to impart to him piecemeal when he came down to spend his week-ends -gravely with her and the children. The Fynes, in their good-natured -concern for the unlucky child of the man busied in stirring casually so -many millions, spent the moments of their weekly reunion in wondering -earnestly what could be done to defeat the most wicked of conspiracies, -trying to invent some tactful line of conduct in such extraordinary -circumstances. I could see them, simple, and scrupulous, worrying -honestly about that unprotected big girl while looking at their own -little girls playing on the sea-shore. Fyne assured me that his wife's -rest was disturbed by the great problem of interference. - -"It was very acute of Mrs. Fyne to spot such a deep game," I said, -wondering to myself where her acuteness had gone to now, to let her be -taken unawares by a game so much simpler and played to the end under her -very nose. But then, at that time, when her nightly rest was disturbed -by the dread of the fate preparing for de Barral's unprotected child, she -was not engaged in writing a compendious and ruthless hand-book on the -theory and practice of life, for the use of women with a grievance. She -could as yet, before the task of evolving the philosophy of rebellious -action had affected her intuitive sharpness, perceive things which were, -I suspect, moderately plain. For I am inclined to believe that the woman -whom chance had put in command of Flora de Barral's destiny took no very -subtle pains to conceal her game. She was conscious of being a complete -master of the situation, having once for all established her ascendancy -over de Barral. She had taken all her measures against outside -observation of her conduct; and I could not help smiling at the thought -what a ghastly nuisance the serious, innocent Fynes must have been to -her. How exasperated she must have been by that couple falling into -Brighton as completely unforeseen as a bolt from the blue--if not so -prompt. How she must have hated them! - -But I conclude she would have carried out whatever plan she might have -formed. I can imagine de Barral accustomed for years to defer to her -wishes and, either through arrogance, or shyness, or simply because of -his unimaginative stupidity, remaining outside the social pale, knowing -no one but some card-playing cronies; I can picture him to myself -terrified at the prospect of having the care of a marriageable girl -thrust on his hands, forcing on him a complete change of habits and the -necessity of another kind of existence which he would not even have known -how to begin. It is evident to me that Mrs. What's her name would have -had her atrocious way with very little trouble even if the excellent -Fynes had been able to do something. She would simply have bullied de -Barral in a lofty style. There's nothing more subservient than an -arrogant man when his arrogance has once been broken in some particular -instance. - -However there was no time and no necessity for any one to do anything. -The situation itself vanished in the financial crash as a building -vanishes in an earthquake--here one moment and gone the next with only an -ill-omened, slight, preliminary rumble. Well, to say 'in a moment' is an -exaggeration perhaps; but that everything was over in just twenty-four -hours is an exact statement. Fyne was able to tell me all about it; and -the phrase that would depict the nature of the change best is: an instant -and complete destitution. I don't understand these matters very well, -but from Fyne's narrative it seemed as if the creditors or the -depositors, or the competent authorities, had got hold in the twinkling -of an eye of everything de Barral possessed in the world, down to his -watch and chain, the money in his trousers' pocket, his spare suits of -clothes, and I suppose the cameo pin out of his black satin cravat. -Everything! I believe he gave up the very wedding ring of his late wife. -The gloomy Priory with its damp park and a couple of farms had been made -over to Mrs. de Barral; but when she died (without making a will) it -reverted to him, I imagine. They got that of course; but it was a mere -crumb in a Sahara of starvation, a drop in the thirsty ocean. I dare say -that not a single soul in the world got the comfort of as much as a -recovered threepenny bit out of the estate. Then, less than crumbs, less -than drops, there were to be grabbed, the lease of the big Brighton -house, the furniture therein, the carriage and pair, the girl's riding -horse, her costly trinkets; down to the heavily gold-mounted collar of -her pedigree St. Bernard. The dog too went: the most noble-looking item -in the beggarly assets. - -What however went first of all or rather vanished was nothing in the -nature of an asset. It was that plotting governess with the trick of a -"perfect lady" manner (severely conventional) and the soul of a -remorseless brigand. When a woman takes to any sort of unlawful -man-trade, there's nothing to beat her in the way of thoroughness. It's -true that you will find people who'll tell you that this terrific -virulence in breaking through all established things, is altogether the -fault of men. Such people will ask you with a clever air why the servile -wars were always the most fierce, desperate and atrocious of all wars. -And you may make such answer as you can--even the eminently feminine one, -if you choose, so typical of the women's literal mind "I don't see what -this has to do with it!" How many arguments have been knocked over (I -won't say knocked down) by these few words! For if we men try to put the -spaciousness of all experiences into our reasoning and would fain put the -Infinite itself into our love, it isn't, as some writer has remarked, "It -isn't women's doing." Oh no. They don't care for these things. That -sort of aspiration is not much in their way; and it shall be a funny -world, the world of their arranging, where the Irrelevant would -fantastically step in to take the place of the sober humdrum Imaginative -. . . " - -I raised my hand to stop my friend Marlow. - -"Do you really believe what you have said?" I asked, meaning no offence, -because with Marlow one never could be sure. - -"Only on certain days of the year," said Marlow readily with a malicious -smile. "To-day I have been simply trying to be spacious and I perceive -I've managed to hurt your susceptibilities which are consecrated to -women. When you sit alone and silent you are defending in your mind the -poor women from attacks which cannot possibly touch them. I wonder what -can touch them? But to soothe your uneasiness I will point out again -that an Irrelevant world would be very amusing, if the women take care to -make it as charming as they alone can, by preserving for us certain well- -known, well-established, I'll almost say hackneyed, illusions, without -which the average male creature cannot get on. And that condition is -very important. For there is nothing more provoking than the Irrelevant -when it has ceased to amuse and charm; and then the danger would be of -the subjugated masculinity in its exasperation, making some brusque, -unguarded movement and accidentally putting its elbow through the fine -tissue of the world of which I speak. And that would be fatal to it. For -nothing looks more irretrievably deplorable than fine tissue which has -been damaged. The women themselves would be the first to become -disgusted with their own creation. - -There was something of women's highly practical sanity and also of their -irrelevancy in the conduct of Miss de Barral's amazing governess. It -appeared from Fyne's narrative that the day before the first rumble of -the cataclysm the questionable young man arrived unexpectedly in Brighton -to stay with his "Aunt." To all outward appearance everything was going -on normally; the fellow went out riding with the girl in the afternoon as -he often used to do--a sight which never failed to fill Mrs. Fyne with -indignation. Fyne himself was down there with his family for a whole -week and was called to the window to behold the iniquity in its progress -and to share in his wife's feelings. There was not even a groom with -them. And Mrs. Fyne's distress was so strong at this glimpse of the -unlucky girl all unconscious of her danger riding smilingly by, that Fyne -began to consider seriously whether it wasn't their plain duty to -interfere at all risks--simply by writing a letter to de Barral. He said -to his wife with a solemnity I can easily imagine "You ought to undertake -that task, my dear. You have known his wife after all. That's something -at any rate." On the other hand the fear of exposing Mrs. Fyne to some -nasty rebuff worried him exceedingly. Mrs. Fyne on her side gave way to -despondency. Success seemed impossible. Here was a woman for more than -five years in charge of the girl and apparently enjoying the complete -confidence of the father. What, that would be effective, could one say, -without proofs, without . . . This Mr. de Barral must be, Mrs. Fyne -pronounced, either a very stupid or a downright bad man, to neglect his -child so. - -You will notice that perhaps because of Fyne's solemn view of our -transient life and Mrs. Fyne's natural capacity for responsibility, it -had never occurred to them that the simplest way out of the difficulty -was to do nothing and dismiss the matter as no concern of theirs. Which -in a strict worldly sense it certainly was not. But they spent, Fyne -told me, a most disturbed afternoon, considering the ways and means of -dealing with the danger hanging over the head of the girl out for a ride -(and no doubt enjoying herself) with an abominable scamp. - - - -CHAPTER FOUR--THE GOVERNESS - - -And the best of it was that the danger was all over already. There was -no danger any more. The supposed nephew's appearance had a purpose. He -had come, full, full to trembling--with the bigness of his news. There -must have been rumours already as to the shaky position of the de -Barral's concerns; but only amongst those in the very inmost know. No -rumour or echo of rumour had reached the profane in the West-End--let -alone in the guileless marine suburb of Hove. The Fynes had no -suspicion; the governess, playing with cold, distinguished exclusiveness -the part of mother to the fabulously wealthy Miss de Barral, had no -suspicion; the masters of music, of drawing, of dancing to Miss de -Barral, had no idea; the minds of her medical man, of her dentist, of the -servants in the house, of the tradesmen proud of having the name of de -Barral on their books, were in a state of absolute serenity. Thus, that -fellow, who had unexpectedly received a most alarming straight tip from -somebody in the City arrived in Brighton, at about lunch-time, with -something very much in the nature of a deadly bomb in his possession. But -he knew better than to throw it on the public pavement. He ate his lunch -impenetrably, sitting opposite Flora de Barral, and then, on some excuse, -closeted himself with the woman whom little Fyne's charity described -(with a slight hesitation of speech however) as his "Aunt." - -What they said to each other in private we can imagine. She came out of -her own sitting-room with red spots on her cheek-bones, which having -provoked a question from her "beloved" charge, were accounted for by a -curt "I have a headache coming on." But we may be certain that the talk -being over she must have said to that young blackguard: "You had better -take her out for a ride as usual." We have proof positive of this in -Fyne and Mrs. Fyne observing them mount at the door and pass under the -windows of their sitting-room, talking together, and the poor girl all -smiles; because she enjoyed in all innocence the company of Charley. She -made no secret of it whatever to Mrs. Fyne; in fact, she had confided to -her, long before, that she liked him very much: a confidence which had -filled Mrs. Fyne with desolation and that sense of powerless anguish -which is experienced in certain kinds of nightmare. For how could she -warn the girl? She did venture to tell her once that she didn't like Mr. -Charley. Miss de Barral heard her with astonishment. How was it -possible not to like Charley? Afterwards with naive loyalty she told -Mrs. Fyne that, immensely as she was fond of her she could not hear a -word against Charley--the wonderful Charley. - -The daughter of de Barral probably enjoyed her jolly ride with the jolly -Charley (infinitely more jolly than going out with a stupid old riding- -master), very much indeed, because the Fynes saw them coming back at a -later hour than usual. In fact it was getting nearly dark. On -dismounting, helped off by the delightful Charley, she patted the neck of -her horse and went up the steps. Her last ride. She was then within a -few days of her sixteenth birthday, a slight figure in a riding habit, -rather shorter than the average height for her age, in a black bowler hat -from under which her fine rippling dark hair cut square at the ends was -hanging well down her back. The delightful Charley mounted again to take -the two horses round to the mews. Mrs. Fyne remaining at the window saw -the house door close on Miss de Barral returning from her last ride. - -And meantime what had the governess (out of a nobleman's family) so -judiciously selected (a lady, and connected with well-known county people -as she said) to direct the studies, guard the health, form the mind, -polish the manners, and generally play the perfect mother to that -luckless child--what had she been doing? Well, having got rid of her -charge by the most natural device possible, which proved her practical -sense, she started packing her belongings, an act which showed her clear -view of the situation. She had worked methodically, rapidly, and well, -emptying the drawers, clearing the tables in her special apartment of -that big house, with something silently passionate in her thoroughness; -taking everything belonging to her and some things of less unquestionable -ownership, a jewelled penholder, an ivory and gold paper knife (the house -was full of common, costly objects), some chased silver boxes presented -by de Barral and other trifles; but the photograph of Flora de Barral, -with the loving inscription, which stood on her writing desk, of the most -modern and expensive style, in a silver-gilt frame, she neglected to -take. Having accidentally, in the course of the operations, knocked it -off on the floor she let it lie there after a downward glance. Thus it, -or the frame at least, became, I suppose, part of the assets in the de -Barral bankruptcy. - -At dinner that evening the child found her company dull and brusque. It -was uncommonly slow. She could get nothing from her governess but -monosyllables, and the jolly Charley actually snubbed the various cheery -openings of his "little chum"--as he used to call her at times,--but not -at that time. No doubt the couple were nervous and preoccupied. For all -this we have evidence, and for the fact that Flora being offended with -the delightful nephew of her profoundly respected governess sulked -through the rest of the evening and was glad to retire early. Mrs., -Mrs.--I've really forgotten her name--the governess, invited her nephew -to her sitting-room, mentioning aloud that it was to talk over some -family matters. This was meant for Flora to hear, and she heard -it--without the slightest interest. In fact there was nothing -sufficiently unusual in such an invitation to arouse in her mind even a -passing wonder. She went bored to bed and being tired with her long ride -slept soundly all night. Her last sleep, I won't say of innocence--that -word would not render my exact meaning, because it has a special meaning -of its own--but I will say: of that ignorance, or better still, of that -unconsciousness of the world's ways, the unconsciousness of danger, of -pain, of humiliation, of bitterness, of falsehood. An unconsciousness -which in the case of other beings like herself is removed by a gradual -process of experience and information, often only partial at that, with -saving reserves, softening doubts, veiling theories. Her unconsciousness -of the evil which lives in the secret thoughts and therefore in the open -acts of mankind, whenever it happens that evil thought meets evil -courage; her unconsciousness was to be broken into with profane violence -with desecrating circumstances, like a temple violated by a mad, vengeful -impiety. Yes, that very young girl, almost no more than a child--this -was what was going to happen to her. And if you ask me, how, wherefore, -for what reason? I will answer you: Why, by chance! By the merest -chance, as things do happen, lucky and unlucky, terrible or tender, -important or unimportant; and even things which are neither, things so -completely neutral in character that you would wonder why they do happen -at all if you didn't know that they, too, carry in their insignificance -the seeds of further incalculable chances. - -Of course, all the chances were that de Barral should have fallen upon a -perfectly harmless, naive, usual, inefficient specimen of respectable -governess for his daughter; or on a commonplace silly adventuress who -would have tried, say, to marry him or work some other sort of common -mischief in a small way. Or again he might have chanced on a model of -all the virtues, or the repository of all knowledge, or anything equally -harmless, conventional, and middle class. All calculations were in his -favour; but, chance being incalculable, he fell upon an individuality -whom it is much easier to define by opprobrious names than to classify in -a calm and scientific spirit--but an individuality certainly, and a -temperament as well. Rare? No. There is a certain amount of what I -would politely call unscrupulousness in all of us. Think for instance of -the excellent Mrs. Fyne, who herself, and in the bosom of her family, -resembled a governess of a conventional type. Only, her mental excesses -were theoretical, hedged in by so much humane feeling and conventional -reserves, that they amounted to no more than mere libertinage of thought; -whereas the other woman, the governess of Flora de Barral, was, as you -may have noticed, severely practical--terribly practical. No! Hers was -not a rare temperament, except in its fierce resentment of repression; a -feeling which like genius or lunacy is apt to drive people into sudden -irrelevancy. Hers was feminine irrelevancy. A male genius, a male -ruffian, or even a male lunatic, would not have behaved exactly as she -did behave. There is a softness in masculine nature, even the most -brutal, which acts as a check. - -While the girl slept those two, the woman of forty, an age in itself -terrible, and that hopeless young "wrong 'un" of twenty-three (also well -connected I believe) had some sort of subdued row in the cleared rooms: -wardrobes open, drawers half pulled out and empty, trunks locked and -strapped, furniture in idle disarray, and not so much as a single scrap -of paper left behind on the tables. The maid, whom the governess and the -pupil shared between them, after finishing with Flora, came to the door -as usual, but was not admitted. She heard the two voices in dispute -before she knocked, and then being sent away retreated at once--the only -person in the house convinced at that time that there was "something up." - -Dark and, so to speak, inscrutable spaces being met with in life there -must be such places in any statement dealing with life. In what I am -telling you of now--an episode of one of my humdrum holidays in the green -country, recalled quite naturally after all the years by our meeting a -man who has been a blue-water sailor--this evening confabulation is a -dark, inscrutable spot. And we may conjecture what we like. I have no -difficulty in imagining that the woman--of forty, and the chief of the -enterprise--must have raged at large. And perhaps the other did not rage -enough. Youth feels deeply it is true, but it has not the same vivid -sense of lost opportunities. It believes in the absolute reality of -time. And then, in that abominable scamp with his youth already soiled, -withered like a plucked flower ready to be flung on some rotting heap of -rubbish, no very genuine feeling about anything could exist--not even -about the hazards of his own unclean existence. A sneering half-laugh -with some such remark as: "We are properly sold and no mistake" would -have been enough to make trouble in that way. And then another sneer, -"Waste time enough over it too," followed perhaps by the bitter retort -from the other party "You seemed to like it well enough though, playing -the fool with that chit of a girl." Something of that sort. Don't you -see it--eh . . . " - -Marlow looked at me with his dark penetrating glance. I was struck by -the absolute verisimilitude of this suggestion. But we were always -tilting at each other. I saw an opening and pushed my uncandid thrust. - -"You have a ghastly imagination," I said with a cheerfully sceptical -smile. - -"Well, and if I have," he returned unabashed. "But let me remind you -that this situation came to me unasked. I am like a puzzle-headed chief- -mate we had once in the dear old _Samarcand_ when I was a youngster. The -fellow went gravely about trying to "account to himself"--his favourite -expression--for a lot of things no one would care to bother one's head -about. He was an old idiot but he was also an accomplished practical -seaman. I was quite a boy and he impressed me. I must have caught the -disposition from him." - -"Well--go on with your accounting then," I said, assuming an air of -resignation. - -"That's just it." Marlow fell into his stride at once. "That's just it. -Mere disappointed cupidity cannot account for the proceedings of the next -morning; proceedings which I shall not describe to you--but which I shall -tell you of presently, not as a matter of conjecture but of actual fact. -Meantime returning to that evening altercation in deadened tones within -the private apartment of Miss de Barral's governess, what if I were to -tell you that disappointment had most likely made them touchy with each -other, but that perhaps the secret of his careless, railing behaviour, -was in the thought, springing up within him with an emphatic oath of -relief "Now there's nothing to prevent me from breaking away from that -old woman." And that the secret of her envenomed rage, not against this -miserable and attractive wretch, but against fate, accident and the whole -course of human life, concentrating its venom on de Barral and including -the innocent girl herself, was in the thought, in the fear crying within -her "Now I have nothing to hold him with . . . " - -I couldn't refuse Marlow the tribute of a prolonged whistle "Phew! So -you suppose that . . . " - -He waved his hand impatiently. - -"I don't suppose. It was so. And anyhow why shouldn't you accept the -supposition. Do you look upon governesses as creatures above suspicion -or necessarily of moral perfection? I suppose their hearts would not -stand looking into much better than other people's. Why shouldn't a -governess have passions, all the passions, even that of libertinage, and -even ungovernable passions; yet suppressed by the very same means which -keep the rest of us in order: early training--necessity--circumstances--fear -of consequences; till there comes an age, a time when the restraint of -years becomes intolerable--and infatuation irresistible . . . " - -"But if infatuation--quite possible I admit," I argued, "how do you -account for the nature of the conspiracy." - -"You expect a cogency of conduct not usual in women," said Marlow. "The -subterfuges of a menaced passion are not to be fathomed. You think it is -going on the way it looks, whereas it is capable, for its own ends, of -walking backwards into a precipice. - -When one once acknowledges that she was not a common woman, then all this -is easily understood. She was abominable but she was not common. She -had suffered in her life not from its constant inferiority but from -constant self-repression. A common woman finding herself placed in a -commanding position might have formed the design to become the second -Mrs. de Barral. Which would have been impracticable. De Barral would -not have known what to do with a wife. But even if by some impossible -chance he had made advances, this governess would have repulsed him with -scorn. She had treated him always as an inferior being with an assured, -distant politeness. In her composed, schooled manner she despised and -disliked both father and daughter exceedingly. I have a notion that she -had always disliked intensely all her charges including the two ducal (if -they were ducal) little girls with whom she had dazzled de Barral. What -an odious, ungratified existence it must have been for a woman as avid of -all the sensuous emotions which life can give as most of her betters. - -She had seen her youth vanish, her freshness disappear, her hopes die, -and now she felt her flaming middle-age slipping away from her. No -wonder that with her admirably dressed, abundant hair, thickly sprinkled -with white threads and adding to her elegant aspect the piquant -distinction of a powdered coiffure--no wonder, I say, that she clung -desperately to her last infatuation for that graceless young scamp, even -to the extent of hatching for him that amazing plot. He was not so far -gone in degradation as to make him utterly hopeless for such an attempt. -She hoped to keep him straight with that enormous bribe. She was clearly -a woman uncommon enough to live without illusions--which, of course, does -not mean that she was reasonable. She had said to herself, perhaps with -a fury of self-contempt "In a few years I shall be too old for anybody. -Meantime I shall have him--and I shall hold him by throwing to him the -money of that ordinary, silly, little girl of no account." Well, it was -a desperate expedient--but she thought it worth while. And besides there -is hardly a woman in the world, no matter how hard, depraved or frantic, -in whom something of the maternal instinct does not survive, unconsumed -like a salamander, in the fires of the most abandoned passion. Yes there -might have been that sentiment for him too. There _was_ no doubt. So I -say again: No wonder! No wonder that she raged at everything--and -perhaps even at him, with contradictory reproaches: for regretting the -girl, a little fool who would never in her life be worth anybody's -attention, and for taking the disaster itself with a cynical levity in -which she perceived a flavour of revolt. - -And so the altercation in the night went on, over the irremediable. He -arguing "What's the hurry? Why clear out like this?" perhaps a little -sorry for the girl and as usual without a penny in his pocket, -appreciating the comfortable quarters, wishing to linger on as long as -possible in the shameless enjoyment of this already doomed luxury. There -was really no hurry for a few days. Always time enough to vanish. And, -with that, a touch of masculine softness, a sort of regard for -appearances surviving his degradation: "You might behave decently at the -last, Eliza." But there was no softness in the sallow face under the -gala effect of powdered hair, its formal calmness gone, the dark-ringed -eyes glaring at him with a sort of hunger. "No! No! If it is as you -say then not a day, not an hour, not a moment." She stuck to it, very -determined that there should be no more of that boy and girl philandering -since the object of it was gone; angry with herself for having suffered -from it so much in the past, furious at its having been all in vain. - -But she was reasonable enough not to quarrel with him finally. What was -the good? She found means to placate him. The only means. As long as -there was some money to be got she had hold of him. "Now go away. We -shall do no good by any more of this sort of talk. I want to be alone -for a bit." He went away, sulkily acquiescent. There was a room always -kept ready for him on the same floor, at the further end of a short -thickly carpeted passage. - -How she passed the night, this woman with no illusions to help her -through the hours which must have been sleepless I shouldn't like to say. -It ended at last; and this strange victim of the de Barral failure, whose -name would never be known to the Official Receiver, came down to -breakfast, impenetrable in her everyday perfection. From the very first, -somehow, she had accepted the fatal news for true. All her life she had -never believed in her luck, with that pessimism of the passionate who at -bottom feel themselves to be the outcasts of a morally restrained -universe. But this did not make it any easier, on opening the morning -paper feverishly, to see the thing confirmed. Oh yes! It was there. The -Orb had suspended payment--the first growl of the storm faint as yet, but -to the initiated the forerunner of a deluge. As an item of news it was -not indecently displayed. It was not displayed at all in a sense. The -serious paper, the only one of the great dailies which had always -maintained an attitude of reserve towards the de Barral group of banks, -had its "manner." Yes! a modest item of news! But there was also, on -another page, a special financial article in a hostile tone beginning -with the words "We have always feared" and a guarded, half-column leader, -opening with the phrase: "It is a deplorable sign of the times" what was, -in effect, an austere, general rebuke to the absurd infatuations of the -investing public. She glanced through these articles, a line here and a -line there--no more was necessary to catch beyond doubt the murmur of the -oncoming flood. Several slighting references by name to de Barral -revived her animosity against the man, suddenly, as by the effect of -unforeseen moral support. The miserable wretch! . . . " - -* * * * * - -"--You understand," Marlow interrupted the current of his narrative, -"that in order to be consecutive in my relation of this affair I am -telling you at once the details which I heard from Mrs. Fyne later in the -day, as well as what little Fyne imparted to me with his usual solemnity -during that morning call. As you may easily guess the Fynes, in their -apartments, had read the news at the same time, and, as a matter of fact, -in the same august and highly moral newspaper, as the governess in the -luxurious mansion a few doors down on the opposite side of the street. -But they read them with different feelings. They were thunderstruck. -Fyne had to explain the full purport of the intelligence to Mrs. Fyne -whose first cry was that of relief. Then that poor child would be safe -from these designing, horrid people. Mrs. Fyne did not know what it -might mean to be suddenly reduced from riches to absolute penury. Fyne -with his masculine imagination was less inclined to rejoice extravagantly -at the girl's escape from the moral dangers which had been menacing her -defenceless existence. It was a confoundedly big price to pay. What an -unfortunate little thing she was! "We might be able to do something to -comfort that poor child at any rate for the time she is here," said Mrs. -Fyne. She felt under a sort of moral obligation not to be indifferent. -But no comfort for anyone could be got by rushing out into the street at -this early hour; and so, following the advice of Fyne not to act hastily, -they both sat down at the window and stared feelingly at the great house, -awful to their eyes in its stolid, prosperous, expensive respectability -with ruin absolutely standing at the door. - -By that time, or very soon after, all Brighton had the information and -formed a more or less just appreciation of its gravity. The butler in -Miss de Barral's big house had seen the news, perhaps earlier than -anybody within a mile of the Parade, in the course of his morning duties -of which one was to dry the freshly delivered paper before the fire--an -occasion to glance at it which no intelligent man could have neglected. -He communicated to the rest of the household his vaguely forcible -impression that something had gone d---bly wrong with the affairs of "her -father in London." - -This brought an atmosphere of constraint through the house, which Flora -de Barral coming down somewhat later than usual could not help noticing -in her own way. Everybody seemed to stare so stupidly somehow; she -feared a dull day. - -In the dining-room the governess in her place, a newspaper half-concealed -under the cloth on her lap, after a few words exchanged with lips that -seemed hardly to move, remaining motionless, her eyes fixed before her in -an enduring silence; and presently Charley coming in to whom she did not -even give a glance. He hardly said good morning, though he had a half- -hearted try to smile at the girl, and sitting opposite her with his eyes -on his plate and slight quivers passing along the line of his -clean-shaven jaw, he too had nothing to say. It was dull, horribly dull -to begin one's day like this; but she knew what it was. These -never-ending family affairs! It was not for the first time that she had -suffered from their depressing after-effects on these two. It was a -shame that the delightful Charley should be made dull by these stupid -talks, and it was perfectly stupid of him to let himself be upset like -this by his aunt. - -When after a period of still, as if calculating, immobility, her -governess got up abruptly and went out with the paper in her hand, almost -immediately afterwards followed by Charley who left his breakfast half -eaten, the girl was positively relieved. They would have it out that -morning whatever it was, and be themselves again in the afternoon. At -least Charley would be. To the moods of her governess she did not attach -so much importance. - -For the first time that morning the Fynes saw the front door of the awful -house open and the objectionable young man issue forth, his rascality -visible to their prejudiced eyes in his very bowler hat and in the smart -cut of his short fawn overcoat. He walked away rapidly like a man -hurrying to catch a train, glancing from side to side as though he were -carrying something off. Could he be departing for good? Undoubtedly, -undoubtedly! But Mrs. Fyne's fervent "thank goodness" turned out to be a -bit, as the Americans--some Americans--say "previous." In a very short -time the odious fellow appeared again, strolling, absolutely strolling -back, his hat now tilted a little on one side, with an air of leisure and -satisfaction. Mrs. Fyne groaned not only in the spirit, at this sight, -but in the flesh, audibly; and asked her husband what it might mean. Fyne -naturally couldn't say. Mrs. Fyne believed that there was something -horrid in progress and meantime the object of her detestation had gone up -the steps and had knocked at the door which at once opened to admit him. - -He had been only as far as the bank. - -His reason for leaving his breakfast unfinished to run after Miss de -Barral's governess, was to speak to her in reference to that very errand -possessing the utmost possible importance in his eyes. He shrugged his -shoulders at the nervousness of her eyes and hands, at the half-strangled -whisper "I had to go out. I could hardly contain myself." That was her -affair. He was, with a young man's squeamishness, rather sick of her -ferocity. He did not understand it. Men do not accumulate hate against -each other in tiny amounts, treasuring every pinch carefully till it -grows at last into a monstrous and explosive hoard. He had run out after -her to remind her of the balance at the bank. What about lifting that -money without wasting any more time? She had promised him to leave -nothing behind. - -An account opened in her name for the expenses of the establishment in -Brighton, had been fed by de Barral with deferential lavishness. The -governess crossed the wide hall into a little room at the side where she -sat down to write the cheque, which he hastened out to go and cash as if -it were stolen or a forgery. As observed by the Fynes, his uneasy -appearance on leaving the house arose from the fact that his first -trouble having been caused by a cheque of doubtful authenticity, the -possession of a document of the sort made him unreasonably uncomfortable -till this one was safely cashed. And after all, you know it was stealing -of an indirect sort; for the money was de Barral's money if the account -was in the name of the accomplished lady. At any rate the cheque was -cashed. On getting hold of the notes and gold he recovered his jaunty -bearing, it being well known that with certain natures the presence of -money (even stolen) in the pocket, acts as a tonic, or at least as a -stimulant. He cocked his hat a little on one side as though he had had a -drink or two--which indeed he might have had in reality, to celebrate the -occasion. - -The governess had been waiting for his return in the hall, disregarding -the side-glances of the butler as he went in and out of the dining-room -clearing away the breakfast things. It was she, herself, who had opened -the door so promptly. "It's all right," he said touching his -breast-pocket; and she did not dare, the miserable wretch without -illusions, she did not dare ask him to hand it over. They looked at each -other in silence. He nodded significantly: "Where is she now?" and she -whispered "Gone into the drawing-room. Want to see her again?" with an -archly black look which he acknowledged by a muttered, surly: "I am -damned if I do. Well, as you want to bolt like this, why don't we go -now?" - -She set her lips with cruel obstinacy and shook her head. She had her -idea, her completed plan. At that moment the Fynes, still at the window -and watching like a pair of private detectives, saw a man with a long -grey beard and a jovial face go up the steps helping himself with a thick -stick, and knock at the door. Who could he be? - -He was one of Miss de Barral's masters. She had lately taken up painting -in water-colours, having read in a high-class woman's weekly paper that a -great many princesses of the European royal houses were cultivating that -art. This was the water-colour morning; and the teacher, a veteran of -many exhibitions, of a venerable and jovial aspect, had turned up with -his usual punctuality. He was no great reader of morning papers, and -even had he seen the news it is very likely he would not have understood -its real purport. At any rate he turned up, as the governess expected -him to do, and the Fynes saw him pass through the fateful door. - -He bowed cordially to the lady in charge of Miss de Barral's education, -whom he saw in the hall engaged in conversation with a very good-looking -but somewhat raffish young gentleman. She turned to him graciously: -"Flora is already waiting for you in the drawing-room." - -The cultivation of the art said to be patronized by princesses was -pursued in the drawing-room from considerations of the right kind of -light. The governess preceded the master up the stairs and into the room -where Miss de Barral was found arrayed in a holland pinafore (also of the -right kind for the pursuit of the art) and smilingly expectant. The -water-colour lesson enlivened by the jocular conversation of the kindly, -humorous, old man was always great fun; and she felt she would be -compensated for the tiresome beginning of the day. - -Her governess generally was present at the lesson; but on this occasion -she only sat down till the master and pupil had gone to work in earnest, -and then as though she had suddenly remembered some order to give, rose -quietly and went out of the room. - -Once outside, the servants summoned by the passing maid without a bell -being rung, and quick, quick, let all this luggage be taken down into the -hall, and let one of you call a cab. She stood outside the drawing-room -door on the landing, looking at each piece, trunk, leather cases, -portmanteaus, being carried past her, her brows knitted and her aspect so -sombre and absorbed that it took some little time for the butler to -muster courage enough to speak to her. But he reflected that he was a -free-born Briton and had his rights. He spoke straight to the point but -in the usual respectful manner. - -"Beg you pardon, ma'am--but are you going away for good?" - -He was startled by her tone. Its unexpected, unlady-like harshness fell -on his trained ear with the disagreeable effect of a false note. "Yes. I -am going away. And the best thing for all of you is to go away too, as -soon as you like. You can go now, to-day, this moment. You had your -wages paid you only last week. The longer you stay the greater your -loss. But I have nothing to do with it now. You are the servants of Mr. -de Barral--you know." - -The butler was astounded by the manner of this advice, and as his eyes -wandered to the drawing-room door the governess extended her arm as if to -bar the way. "Nobody goes in there." And that was said still in another -tone, such a tone that all trace of the trained respectfulness vanished -from the butler's bearing. He stared at her with a frank wondering gaze. -"Not till I am gone," she added, and there was such an expression on her -face that the man was daunted by the mystery of it. He shrugged his -shoulders slightly and without another word went down the stairs on his -way to the basement, brushing in the hall past Mr. Charles who hat on -head and both hands rammed deep into his overcoat pockets paced up and -down as though on sentry duty there. - -The ladies' maid was the only servant upstairs, hovering in the passage -on the first floor, curious and as if fascinated by the woman who stood -there guarding the door. Being beckoned closer imperiously and asked by -the governess to bring out of the now empty rooms the hat and veil, the -only objects besides the furniture still to be found there, she did so in -silence but inwardly fluttered. And while waiting uneasily, with the -veil, before that woman who, without moving a step away from the drawing- -room door was pinning with careless haste her hat on her head, she heard -within a sudden burst of laughter from Miss de Barral enjoying the fun of -the water-colour lesson given her for the last time by the cheery old -man. - -Mr. and Mrs. Fyne ambushed at their window--a most incredible occupation -for people of their kind--saw with renewed anxiety a cab come to the -door, and watched some luggage being carried out and put on its roof. The -butler appeared for a moment, then went in again. What did it mean? Was -Flora going to be taken to her father; or were these people, that woman -and her horrible nephew, about to carry her off somewhere? Fyne couldn't -tell. He doubted the last, Flora having now, he judged, no value, either -positive or speculative. Though no great reader of character he did not -credit the governess with humane intentions. He confessed to me naively -that he was excited as if watching some action on the stage. Then the -thought struck him that the girl might have had some money settled on -her, be possessed of some means, of some little fortune of her own and -therefore-- - -He imparted this theory to his wife who shared fully his consternation. -"I can't believe the child will go away without running in to say good- -bye to us," she murmured. "We must find out! I shall ask her." But at -that very moment the cab rolled away, empty inside, and the door of the -house which had been standing slightly ajar till then was pushed to. - -They remained silent staring at it till Mrs. Fyne whispered doubtfully "I -really think I must go over." Fyne didn't answer for a while (his is a -reflective mind, you know), and then as if Mrs. Fyne's whispers had an -occult power over that door it opened wide again and the white-bearded -man issued, astonishingly active in his movements, using his stick almost -like a leaping-pole to get down the steps; and hobbled away briskly along -the pavement. Naturally the Fynes were too far off to make out the -expression of his face. But it would not have helped them very much to a -guess at the conditions inside the house. The expression was humorously -puzzled--nothing more. - -For, at the end of his lesson, seizing his trusty stick and coming out -with his habitual vivacity, he very nearly cannoned just outside the -drawing-room door into the back of Miss de Barral's governess. He -stopped himself in time and she turned round swiftly. It was -embarrassing; he apologised; but her face was not startled; it was not -aware of him; it wore a singular expression of resolution. A very -singular expression which, as it were, detained him for a moment. In -order to cover his embarrassment, he made some inane remark on the -weather, upon which, instead of returning another inane remark according -to the tacit rules of the game, she only gave him a smile of unfathomable -meaning. Nothing could have been more singular. The good-looking young -gentleman of questionable appearance took not the slightest notice of him -in the hall. No servant was to be seen. He let himself out pulling the -door to behind him with a crash as, in a manner, he was forced to do to -get it shut at all. - -When the echo of it had died away the woman on the landing leaned over -the banister and called out bitterly to the man below "Don't you want to -come up and say good-bye." He had an impatient movement of the shoulders -and went on pacing to and fro as though he had not heard. But suddenly -he checked himself, stood still for a moment, then with a gloomy face and -without taking his hands out of his pockets ran smartly up the stairs. -Already facing the door she turned her head for a whispered taunt: "Come! -Confess you were dying to see her stupid little face once more,"--to -which he disdained to answer. - -Flora de Barral, still seated before the table at which she had been -wording on her sketch, raised her head at the noise of the opening door. -The invading manner of their entrance gave her the sense of something she -had never seen before. She knew them well. She knew the woman better -than she knew her father. There had been between them an intimacy of -relation as great as it can possibly be without the final closeness of -affection. The delightful Charley walked in, with his eyes fixed on the -back of her governess whose raised veil hid her forehead like a brown -band above the black line of the eyebrows. The girl was astounded and -alarmed by the altogether unknown expression in the woman's face. The -stress of passion often discloses an aspect of the personality completely -ignored till then by its closest intimates. There was something like an -emanation of evil from her eyes and from the face of the other, who, -exactly behind her and overtopping her by half a head, kept his eyelids -lowered in a sinister fashion--which in the poor girl, reached, stirred, -set free that faculty of unreasoning explosive terror lying locked up at -the bottom of all human hearts and of the hearts of animals as well. With -suddenly enlarged pupils and a movement as instinctive almost as the -bounding of a startled fawn, she jumped up and found herself in the -middle of the big room, exclaiming at those amazing and familiar -strangers. - -"What do you want?" - -You will note that she cried: What do you want? Not: What has happened? -She told Mrs. Fyne that she had received suddenly the feeling of being -personally attacked. And that must have been very terrifying. The woman -before her had been the wisdom, the authority, the protection of life, -security embodied and visible and undisputed. - -You may imagine then the force of the shock in the intuitive perception -not merely of danger, for she did not know what was alarming her, but in -the sense of the security being gone. And not only security. I don't -know how to explain it clearly. Look! Even a small child lives, plays -and suffers in terms of its conception of its own existence. Imagine, if -you can, a fact coming in suddenly with a force capable of shattering -that very conception itself. It was only because of the girl being still -so much of a child that she escaped mental destruction; that, in other -words she got over it. Could one conceive of her more mature, while -still as ignorant as she was, one must conclude that she would have -become an idiot on the spot--long before the end of that experience. -Luckily, people, whether mature or not mature (and who really is ever -mature?) are for the most part quite incapable of understanding what is -happening to them: a merciful provision of nature to preserve an average -amount of sanity for working purposes in this world . . . " - -"But we, my dear Marlow, have the inestimable advantage of understanding -what is happening to others," I struck in. "Or at least some of us seem -to. Is that too a provision of nature? And what is it for? Is it that -we may amuse ourselves gossiping about each other's affairs? You for -instance seem--" - -"I don't know what I seem," Marlow silenced me, "and surely life must be -amused somehow. It would be still a very respectable provision if it -were only for that end. But from that same provision of understanding, -there springs in us compassion, charity, indignation, the sense of -solidarity; and in minds of any largeness an inclination to that -indulgence which is next door to affection. I don't mean to say that I -am inclined to an indulgent view of the precious couple which broke in -upon an unsuspecting girl. They came marching in (it's the very -expression she used later on to Mrs. Fyne) but at her cry they stopped. -It must have been startling enough to them. It was like having the mask -torn off when you don't expect it. The man stopped for good; he didn't -offer to move a step further. But, though the governess had come in -there for the very purpose of taking the mask off for the first time in -her life, she seemed to look upon the frightened cry as a fresh -provocation. "What are you screaming for, you little fool?" she said -advancing alone close to the girl who was affected exactly as if she had -seen Medusa's head with serpentine locks set mysteriously on the -shoulders of that familiar person, in that brown dress, under that hat -she knew so well. It made her lose all her hold on reality. She told -Mrs. Fyne: "I didn't know where I was. I didn't even know that I was -frightened. If she had told me it was a joke I would have laughed. If -she had told me to put on my hat and go out with her I would have gone to -put on my hat and gone out with her and never said a single word; I -should have been convinced I had been mad for a minute or so, and I would -have worried myself to death rather than breathe a hint of it to her or -anyone. But the wretch put her face close to mine and I could not move. -Directly I had looked into her eyes I felt grown on to the carpet." - -It was years afterwards that she used to talk like this to Mrs. Fyne--and -to Mrs. Fyne alone. Nobody else ever heard the story from her lips. But -it was never forgotten. It was always felt; it remained like a mark on -her soul, a sort of mystic wound, to be contemplated, to be meditated -over. And she said further to Mrs. Fyne, in the course of many -confidences provoked by that contemplation, that, as long as that woman -called her names, it was almost soothing, it was in a manner reassuring. -Her imagination had, like her body, gone off in a wild bound to meet the -unknown; and then to hear after all something which more in its tone than -in its substance was mere venomous abuse, had steadied the inward flutter -of all her being. - -"She called me a little fool more times than I can remember. I! A fool! -Why, Mrs. Fyne! I do assure you I had never yet thought at all; never of -anything in the world, till then. I just went on living. And one can't -be a fool without one has at least tried to think. But what had I ever -to think about?" - -"And no doubt," commented Marlow, "her life had been a mere life of -sensations--the response to which can neither be foolish nor wise. It -can only be temperamental; and I believe that she was of a generally -happy disposition, a child of the average kind. Even when she was asked -violently whether she imagined that there was anything in her, apart from -her money, to induce any intelligent person to take any sort of interest -in her existence, she only caught her breath in one dry sob and said -nothing, made no other sound, made no movement. When she was viciously -assured that she was in heart, mind, manner and appearance, an utterly -common and insipid creature, she remained still, without indignation, -without anger. She stood, a frail and passive vessel into which the -other went on pouring all the accumulated dislike for all her pupils, her -scorn of all her employers (the ducal one included), the accumulated -resentment, the infinite hatred of all these unrelieved years of--I won't -say hypocrisy. The practice of perfect hypocrisy is a relief in itself, -a secret triumph of the vilest sort, no doubt, but still a way of getting -even with the common morality from which some of us appear to suffer so -much. No! I will say the years, the passionate, bitter years, of -restraint, the iron, admirably mannered restraint at every moment, in a -never-failing perfect correctness of speech, glances, movements, smiles, -gestures, establishing for her a high reputation, an impressive record of -success in her sphere. It had been like living half strangled for years. - -And all this torture for nothing, in the end! What looked at last like a -possible prize (oh, without illusions! but still a prize) broken in her -hands, fallen in the dust, the bitter dust, of disappointment, she -revelled in the miserable revenge--pretty safe too--only regretting the -unworthiness of the girlish figure which stood for so much she had longed -to be able to spit venom at, if only once, in perfect liberty. The -presence of the young man at her back increased both her satisfaction and -her rage. But the very violence of the attack seemed to defeat its end -by rendering the representative victim as it were insensible. The cause -of this outrage naturally escaping the girl's imagination her attitude -was in effect that of dense, hopeless stupidity. And it is a fact that -the worst shocks of life are often received without outcries, without -gestures, without a flow of tears and the convulsions of sobbing. The -insatiable governess missed these signs exceedingly. This pitiful -stolidity was only a fresh provocation. Yet the poor girl was deadly -pale. - -"I was cold," she used to explain to Mrs. Fyne. "I had had time to get -terrified. She had pushed her face so near mine and her teeth looked as -though she wanted to bite me. Her eyes seemed to have become quite dry, -hard and small in a lot of horrible wrinkles. I was too afraid of her to -shudder, too afraid of her to put my fingers to my ears. I didn't know -what I expected her to call me next, but when she told me I was no better -than a beggar--that there would be no more masters, no more servants, no -more horses for me--I said to myself: Is that all? I should have laughed -if I hadn't been too afraid of her to make the least little sound." - -It seemed that poor Flora had to know all the possible phases of that -sort of anguish, beginning with instinctive panic, through the bewildered -stage, the frozen stage and the stage of blanched apprehension, down to -the instinctive prudence of extreme terror--the stillness of the mouse. -But when she heard herself called the child of a cheat and a swindler, -the very monstrous unexpectedness of this caused in her a revulsion -towards letting herself go. She screamed out all at once "You mustn't -speak like this of Papa!" - -The effort of it uprooted her from that spot where her little feet seemed -dug deep into the thick luxurious carpet, and she retreated backwards to -a distant part of the room, hearing herself repeat "You mustn't, you -mustn't" as if it were somebody else screaming. She came to a chair and -flung herself into it. Thereupon the somebody else ceased screaming and -she lolled, exhausted, sightless, in a silent room, as if indifferent to -everything and without a single thought in her head. - -The next few seconds seemed to last for ever so long; a black abyss of -time separating what was past and gone from the reappearance of the -governess and the reawakening of fear. And that woman was forcing the -words through her set teeth: "You say I mustn't, I mustn't. All the -world will be speaking of him like this to-morrow. They will say it, and -they'll print it. You shall hear it and you shall read it--and then you -shall know whose daughter you are." - -Her face lighted up with an atrocious satisfaction. "He's nothing but a -thief," she cried, "this father of yours. As to you I have never been -deceived in you for a moment. I have been growing more and more sick of -you for years. You are a vulgar, silly nonentity, and you shall go back -to where you belong, whatever low place you have sprung from, and beg -your bread--that is if anybody's charity will have anything to do with -you, which I doubt--" - -She would have gone on regardless of the enormous eyes, of the open mouth -of the girl who sat up suddenly with the wild staring expression of being -choked by invisible fingers on her throat, and yet horribly pale. The -effect on her constitution was so profound, Mrs. Fyne told me, that she -who as a child had a rather pretty delicate colouring, showed a white -bloodless face for a couple of years afterwards, and remained always -liable at the slightest emotion to an extraordinary ghost-like whiteness. -The end came in the abomination of desolation of the poor child's -miserable cry for help: "Charley! Charley!" coming from her throat in -hidden gasping efforts. Her enlarged eyes had discovered him where he -stood motionless and dumb. - -He started from his immobility, a hand withdrawn brusquely from the -pocket of his overcoat, strode up to the woman, seized her by the arm -from behind, saying in a rough commanding tone: "Come away, Eliza." In -an instant the child saw them close together and remote, near the door, -gone through the door, which she neither heard nor saw being opened or -shut. But it was shut. Oh yes, it was shut. Her slow unseeing glance -wandered all over the room. For some time longer she remained leaning -forward, collecting her strength, doubting if she would be able to stand. -She stood up at last. Everything about her spun round in an oppressive -silence. She remembered perfectly--as she told Mrs. Fyne--that clinging -to the arm of the chair she called out twice "Papa! Papa!" At the -thought that he was far away in London everything about her became quite -still. Then, frightened suddenly by the solitude of that empty room, she -rushed out of it blindly. - -* * * * * - -With that fatal diffidence in well doing, inherent in the present -condition of humanity, the Fynes continued to watch at their window. -"It's always so difficult to know what to do for the best," Fyne assured -me. It is. Good intentions stand in their own way so much. Whereas if -you want to do harm to anyone you needn't hesitate. You have only to go -on. No one will reproach you with your mistakes or call you a -confounded, clumsy meddler. The Fynes watched the door, the closed -street door inimical somehow to their benevolent thoughts, the face of -the house cruelly impenetrable. It was just as on any other day. The -unchanged daily aspect of inanimate things is so impressive that Fyne -went back into the room for a moment, picked up the paper again, and ran -his eyes over the item of news. No doubt of it. It looked very bad. He -came back to the window and Mrs. Fyne. Tired out as she was she sat -there resolute and ready for responsibility. But she had no suggestion -to offer. People do fear a rebuff wonderfully, and all her audacity was -in her thoughts. She shrank from the incomparably insolent manner of the -governess. Fyne stood by her side, as in those old-fashioned photographs -of married couples where you see a husband with his hand on the back of -his wife's chair. And they were about as efficient as an old photograph, -and as still, till Mrs. Fyne started slightly. The street door had swung -open, and, bursting out, appeared the young man, his hat (Mrs. Fyne -observed) tilted forward over his eyes. After him the governess slipped -through, turning round at once to shut the door behind her with care. -Meantime the man went down the white steps and strode along the pavement, -his hands rammed deep into the pockets of his fawn overcoat. The woman, -that woman of composed movements, of deliberate superior manner, took a -little run to catch up with him, and directly she had caught up with him -tried to introduce her hand under his arm. Mrs. Fyne saw the brusque -half turn of the fellow's body as one avoids an importunate contact, -defeating her attempt rudely. She did not try again but kept pace with -his stride, and Mrs. Fyne watched them, walking independently, turn the -corner of the street side by side, disappear for ever. - -The Fynes looked at each other eloquently, doubtfully: What do you think -of this? Then with common accord turned their eyes back to the street -door, closed, massive, dark; the great, clear-brass knocker shining in a -quiet slant of sunshine cut by a diagonal line of heavy shade filling the -further end of the street. Could the girl be already gone? Sent away to -her father? Had she any relations? Nobody but de Barral himself ever -came to see her, Mrs. Fyne remembered; and she had the instantaneous, -profound, maternal perception of the child's loneliness--and a girl too! -It was irresistible. And, besides, the departure of the governess was -not without its encouraging influence. "I am going over at once to find -out," she declared resolutely but still staring across the street. Her -intention was arrested by the sight of that awful, sombrely glistening -door, swinging back suddenly on the yawning darkness of the hall, out of -which literally flew out, right out on the pavement, almost without -touching the white steps, a little figure swathed in a holland pinafore -up to the chin, its hair streaming back from its head, darting past a -lamp-post, past the red pillar-box . . . "Here," cried Mrs. Fyne; "she's -coming here! Run, John! Run!" - -Fyne bounded out of the room. This is his own word. Bounded! He -assured me with intensified solemnity that he bounded; and the sight of -the short and muscular Fyne bounding gravely about the circumscribed -passages and staircases of a small, very high class, private hotel, would -have been worth any amount of money to a man greedy of memorable -impressions. But as I looked at him, the desire of laughter at my very -lips, I asked myself: how many men could be found ready to compromise -their cherished gravity for the sake of the unimportant child of a ruined -financier with an ugly, black cloud already wreathing his head. I didn't -laugh at little Fyne. I encouraged him: "You did!--very good . . . -Well?" - -His main thought was to save the child from some unpleasant interference. -There was a porter downstairs, page boys; some people going away with -their trunks in the passage; a railway omnibus at the door, -white-breasted waiters dodging about the entrance. - -He was in time. He was at the door before she reached it in her blind -course. She did not recognize him; perhaps she did not see him. He -caught her by the arm as she ran past and, very sensibly, without trying -to check her, simply darted in with her and up the stairs, causing no end -of consternation amongst the people in his way. They scattered. What -might have been their thoughts at the spectacle of a shameless middle- -aged man abducting headlong into the upper regions of a respectable hotel -a terrified young girl obviously under age, I don't know. And Fyne (he -told me so) did not care for what people might think. All he wanted was -to reach his wife before the girl collapsed. For a time she ran with him -but at the last flight of stairs he had to seize and half drag, half -carry her to his wife. Mrs. Fyne waited at the door with her quite -unmoved physiognomy and her readiness to confront any sort of -responsibility, which already characterized her, long before she became a -ruthless theorist. Relieved, his mission accomplished, Fyne closed -hastily the door of the sitting-room. - -But before long both Fynes became frightened. After a period of -immobility in the arms of Mrs. Fyne, the girl, who had not said a word, -tore herself out from that slightly rigid embrace. She struggled dumbly -between them, they did not know why, soundless and ghastly, till she sank -exhausted on a couch. Luckily the children were out with the two nurses. -The hotel housemaid helped Mrs. Fyne to put Flora de Barral to bed. She -was as if gone speechless and insane. She lay on her back, her face -white like a piece of paper, her dark eyes staring at the ceiling, her -awful immobility broken by sudden shivering fits with a loud chattering -of teeth in the shadowy silence of the room, the blinds pulled down, Mrs. -Fyne sitting by patiently, her arms folded, yet inwardly moved by the -riddle of that distress of which she could not guess the word, and saying -to herself: "That child is too emotional--much too emotional to be ever -really sound!" As if anyone not made of stone could be perfectly sound -in this world. And then how sound? In what sense--to resist what? Force -or corruption? And even in the best armour of steel there are joints a -treacherous stroke can always find if chance gives the opportunity. - -General considerations never had the power to trouble Mrs. Fyne much. The -girl not being in a state to be questioned she waited by the bedside. -Fyne had crossed over to the house, his scruples overcome by his anxiety -to discover what really had happened. He did not have to lift the -knocker; the door stood open on the inside gloom of the hall; he walked -into it and saw no one about, the servants having assembled for a fatuous -consultation in the basement. Fyne's uplifted bass voice startled them -down there, the butler coming up, staring and in his shirt sleeves, very -suspicious at first, and then, on Fyne's explanation that he was the -husband of a lady who had called several times at the house--Miss de -Barral's mother's friend--becoming humanely concerned and communicative, -in a man to man tone, but preserving his trained high-class servant's -voice: "Oh bless you, sir, no! She does not mean to come back. She told -me so herself"--he assured Fyne with a faint shade of contempt creeping -into his tone. - -As regards their young lady nobody downstairs had any idea that she had -run out of the house. He dared say they all would have been willing to -do their very best for her, for the time being; but since she was now -with her mother's friends . . . - -He fidgeted. He murmured that all this was very unexpected. He wanted -to know what he had better do with letters or telegrams which might -arrive in the course of the day. - -"Letters addressed to Miss de Barral, you had better bring over to my -hotel over there," said Fyne beginning to feel extremely worried about -the future. The man said "Yes, sir," adding, "and if a letter comes -addressed to Mrs. . . . " - -Fyne stopped him by a gesture. "I don't know . . . Anything you like." - -"Very well, sir." - -The butler did not shut the street door after Fyne, but remained on the -doorstep for a while, looking up and down the street in the spirit of -independent expectation like a man who is again his own master. Mrs. -Fyne hearing her husband return came out of the room where the girl was -lying in bed. "No change," she whispered; and Fyne could only make a -hopeless sign of ignorance as to what all this meant and how it would -end. - -He feared future complications--naturally; a man of limited means, in a -public position, his time not his own. Yes. He owned to me in the -parlour of my farmhouse that he had been very much concerned then at the -possible consequences. But as he was making this artless confession I -said to myself that, whatever consequences and complications he might -have imagined, the complication from which he was suffering now could -never, never have presented itself to his mind. Slow but sure (for I -conceive that the Book of Destiny has been written up from the beginning -to the last page) it had been coming for something like six years--and -now it had come. The complication was there! I looked at his unshaken -solemnity with the amused pity we give the victim of a funny if somewhat -ill-natured practical joke. - -"Oh hang it," he exclaimed--in no logical connection with what he had -been relating to me. Nevertheless the exclamation was intelligible -enough. - -However at first there were, he admitted, no untoward complications, no -embarrassing consequences. To a telegram in guarded terms dispatched to -de Barral no answer was received for more than twenty-four hours. This -certainly caused the Fynes some anxiety. When the answer arrived late on -the evening of next day it was in the shape of an elderly man. An -unexpected sort of man. Fyne explained to me with precision that he -evidently belonged to what is most respectable in the lower middle -classes. He was calm and slow in his speech. He was wearing a frock- -coat, had grey whiskers meeting under his chin, and declared on entering -that Mr. de Barral was his cousin. He hastened to add that he had not -seen his cousin for many years, while he looked upon Fyne (who received -him alone) with so much distrust that Fyne felt hurt (the person actually -refusing at first the chair offered to him) and retorted tartly that he, -for his part, had _never_ seen Mr. de Barral, in his life, and that, -since the visitor did not want to sit down, he, Fyne, begged him to state -his business as shortly as possible. The man in black sat down then with -a faint superior smile. - -He had come for the girl. His cousin had asked him in a note delivered -by a messenger to go to Brighton at once and take "his girl" over from a -gentleman named Fyne and give her house-room for a time in his family. -And there he was. His business had not allowed him to come sooner. His -business was the manufacture on a large scale of cardboard boxes. He had -two grown-up girls of his own. He had consulted his wife and so that was -all right. The girl would get a welcome in his home. His home most -likely was not what she had been used to but, etc. etc. - -All the time Fyne felt subtly in that man's manner a derisive disapproval -of everything that was not lower middle class, a profound respect for -money, a mean sort of contempt for speculators that fail, and a conceited -satisfaction with his own respectable vulgarity. - -With Mrs. Fyne the manner of the obscure cousin of de Barral was but -little less offensive. He looked at her rather slyly but her cold, -decided demeanour impressed him. Mrs. Fyne on her side was simply -appalled by the personage, but did not show it outwardly. Not even when -the man remarked with false simplicity that Florrie--her name was Florrie -wasn't it? would probably miss at first all her grand friends. And when -he was informed that the girl was in bed, not feeling well at all he -showed an unsympathetic alarm. She wasn't an invalid was she? No. What -was the matter with her then? - -An extreme distaste for that respectable member of society was depicted -in Fyne's face even as he was telling me of him after all these years. He -was a specimen of precisely the class of which people like the Fynes have -the least experience; and I imagine he jarred on them painfully. He -possessed all the civic virtues in their very meanest form, and the -finishing touch was given by a low sort of consciousness he manifested of -possessing them. His industry was exemplary. He wished to catch the -earliest possible train next morning. It seems that for seven and twenty -years he had never missed being seated on his office-stool at the factory -punctually at ten o'clock every day. He listened to Mrs. Fyne's -objections with undisguised impatience. Why couldn't Florrie get up and -have her breakfast at eight like other people? In his house the -breakfast was at eight sharp. Mrs. Fyne's polite stoicism overcame him -at last. He had come down at a very great personal inconvenience, he -assured her with displeasure, but he gave up the early train. - -The good Fynes didn't dare to look at each other before this unforeseen -but perfectly authorized guardian, the same thought springing up in their -minds: Poor girl! Poor girl! If the women of the family were like this -too! . . . And of course they would be. Poor girl! But what could they -have done even if they had been prepared to raise objections. The person -in the frock-coat had the father's note; he had shown it to Fyne. Just a -request to take care of the girl--as her nearest relative--without any -explanation or a single allusion to the financial catastrophe, its tone -strangely detached and in its very silence on the point giving occasion -to think that the writer was not uneasy as to the child's future. -Probably it was that very idea which had set the cousin so readily in -motion. Men had come before out of commercial crashes with estates in -the country and a comfortable income, if not for themselves then for -their wives. And if a wife could be made comfortable by a little -dexterous management then why not a daughter? Yes. This possibility -might have been discussed in the person's household and judged worth -acting upon. - -The man actually hinted broadly that such was his belief and in face of -Fyne's guarded replies gave him to understand that he was not the dupe of -such reticences. Obviously he looked upon the Fynes as being -disappointed because the girl was taken away from them. They, by a -diplomatic sacrifice in the interests of poor Flora, had asked the man to -dinner. He accepted ungraciously, remarking that he was not used to late -hours. He had generally a bit of supper about half-past eight or nine. -However . . . - -He gazed contemptuously round the prettily decorated dining-room. He -wrinkled his nose in a puzzled way at the dishes offered to him by the -waiter but refused none, devouring the food with a great appetite and -drinking ("swilling" Fyne called it) gallons of ginger beer, which was -procured for him (in stone bottles) at his request. The difficulty of -keeping up a conversation with that being exhausted Mrs. Fyne herself, -who had come to the table armed with adamantine resolution. The only -memorable thing he said was when, in a pause of gorging himself "with -these French dishes" he deliberately let his eyes roam over the little -tables occupied by parties of diners, and remarked that his wife did for -a moment think of coming down with him, but that he was glad she didn't -do so. "She wouldn't have been at all happy seeing all this alcohol -about. Not at all happy," he declared weightily. - -"You must have had a charming evening," I said to Fyne, "if I may judge -from the way you have kept the memory green." - -"Delightful," he growled with, positively, a flash of anger at the -recollection, but lapsed back into his solemnity at once. After we had -been silent for a while I asked whether the man took away the girl next -day. - -Fyne said that he did; in the afternoon, in a fly, with a few clothes the -maid had got together and brought across from the big house. He only saw -Flora again ten minutes before they left for the railway station, in the -Fynes' sitting-room at the hotel. It was a most painful ten minutes for -the Fynes. The respectable citizen addressed Miss de Barral as "Florrie" -and "my dear," remarking to her that she was not very big "there's not -much of you my dear" in a familiarly disparaging tone. Then turning to -Mrs. Fyne, and quite loud "She's very white in the face. Why's that?" To -this Mrs. Fyne made no reply. She had put the girl's hair up that -morning with her own hands. It changed her very much, observed Fyne. He, -naturally, played a subordinate, merely approving part. All he could do -for Miss de Barral personally was to go downstairs and put her into the -fly himself, while Miss de Barral's nearest relation, having been -shouldered out of the way, stood by, with an umbrella and a little black -bag, watching this proceeding with grim amusement, as it seemed. It was -difficult to guess what the girl thought or what she felt. She no longer -looked a child. She whispered to Fyne a faint "Thank you," from the fly, -and he said to her in very distinct tones and while still holding her -hand: "Pray don't forget to write fully to my wife in a day or two, Miss -de Barral." Then Fyne stepped back and the cousin climbed into the fly -muttering quite audibly: "I don't think you'll be troubled much with her -in the future;" without however looking at Fyne on whom he did not even -bestow a nod. The fly drove away. - - - -CHAPTER FIVE--THE TEA-PARTY - - -"Amiable personality," I observed seeing Fyne on the point of falling -into a brown study. But I could not help adding with meaning: "He hadn't -the gift of prophecy though." - -Fyne got up suddenly with a muttered "No, evidently not." He was gloomy, -hesitating. I supposed that he would not wish to play chess that -afternoon. This would dispense me from leaving my rooms on a day much -too fine to be wasted in walking exercise. And I was disappointed when -picking up his cap he intimated to me his hope of seeing me at the -cottage about four o'clock--as usual. - -"It wouldn't be as usual." I put a particular stress on that remark. He -admitted, after a short reflection, that it would not be. No. Not as -usual. In fact it was his wife who hoped, rather, for my presence. She -had formed a very favourable opinion of my practical sagacity. - -This was the first I ever heard of it. I had never suspected that Mrs. -Fyne had taken the trouble to distinguish in me the signs of sagacity or -folly. The few words we had exchanged last night in the excitement--or -the bother--of the girl's disappearance, were the first moderately -significant words which had ever passed between us. I had felt myself -always to be in Mrs. Fyne's view her husband's chess-player and nothing -else--a convenience--almost an implement. - -"I am highly flattered," I said. "I have always heard that there are no -limits to feminine intuition; and now I am half inclined to believe it is -so. But still I fail to see in what way my sagacity, practical or -otherwise, can be of any service to Mrs. Fyne. One man's sagacity is -very much like any other man's sagacity. And with you at hand--" - -Fyne, manifestly not attending to what I was saying, directed straight at -me his worried solemn eyes and struck in: - -"Yes, yes. Very likely. But you will come--won't you?" - -I had made up my mind that no Fyne of either sex would make me walk three -miles (there and back to their cottage) on this fine day. If the Fynes -had been an average sociable couple one knows only because leisure must -be got through somehow, I would have made short work of that special -invitation. But they were not that. Their undeniable humanity had to be -acknowledged. At the same time I wanted to have my own way. So I -proposed that I should be allowed the pleasure of offering them a cup of -tea at my rooms. - -A short reflective pause--and Fyne accepted eagerly in his own and his -wife's name. A moment after I heard the click of the gate-latch and then -in an ecstasy of barking from his demonstrative dog his serious head went -past my window on the other side of the hedge, its troubled gaze fixed -forward, and the mind inside obviously employed in earnest speculation of -an intricate nature. One at least of his wife's girl-friends had become -more than a mere shadow for him. I surmised however that it was not of -the girl-friend but of his wife that Fyne was thinking. He was an -excellent husband. - -I prepared myself for the afternoon's hospitalities, calling in the -farmer's wife and reviewing with her the resources of the house and the -village. She was a helpful woman. But the resources of my sagacity I -did not review. Except in the gross material sense of the afternoon tea -I made no preparations for Mrs. Fyne. - -It was impossible for me to make any such preparations. I could not tell -what sort of sustenance she would look for from my sagacity. And as to -taking stock of the wares of my mind no one I imagine is anxious to do -that sort of thing if it can be avoided. A vaguely grandiose state of -mental self-confidence is much too agreeable to be disturbed recklessly -by such a delicate investigation. Perhaps if I had had a helpful woman -at my elbow, a dear, flattering acute, devoted woman . . . There are in -life moments when one positively regrets not being married. No! I don't -exaggerate. I have said--moments, not years or even days. Moments. The -farmer's wife obviously could not be asked to assist. She could not have -been expected to possess the necessary insight and I doubt whether she -would have known how to be flattering enough. She was being helpful in -her own way, with an extraordinary black bonnet on her head, a good mile -off by that time, trying to discover in the village shops a piece of -eatable cake. The pluck of women! The optimism of the dear creatures! - -And she managed to find something which looked eatable. That's all I -know as I had no opportunity to observe the more intimate effects of that -comestible. I myself never eat cake, and Mrs. Fyne, when she arrived -punctually, brought with her no appetite for cake. She had no appetite -for anything. But she had a thirst--the sign of deep, of tormenting -emotion. Yes it was emotion, not the brilliant sunshine--more brilliant -than warm as is the way of our discreet self-repressed, distinguished, -insular sun, which would not turn a real lady scarlet--not on any -account. Mrs. Fyne looked even cool. She wore a white skirt and coat; a -white hat with a large brim reposed on her smoothly arranged hair. The -coat was cut something like an army mess-jacket and the style suited her. -I dare say there are many youthful subalterns, and not the worst-looking -too, who resemble Mrs. Fyne in the type of face, in the sunburnt -complexion, down to that something alert in bearing. But not many would -have had that aspect breathing a readiness to assume any responsibility -under Heaven. This is the sort of courage which ripens late in life and -of course Mrs. Fyne was of mature years for all her unwrinkled face. - -She looked round the room, told me positively that I was very comfortable -there; to which I assented, humbly, acknowledging my undeserved good -fortune. - -"Why undeserved?" she wanted to know. - -"I engaged these rooms by letter without asking any questions. It might -have been an abominable hole," I explained to her. "I always do things -like that. I don't like to be bothered. This is no great proof of -sagacity--is it? Sagacious people I believe like to exercise that -faculty. I have heard that they can't even help showing it in the -veriest trifles. It must be very delightful. But I know nothing of it. -I think that I have no sagacity--no practical sagacity." - -Fyne made an inarticulate bass murmur of protest. I asked after the -children whom I had not seen yet since my return from town. They had -been very well. They were always well. Both Fyne and Mrs. Fyne spoke of -the rude health of their children as if it were a result of moral -excellence; in a peculiar tone which seemed to imply some contempt for -people whose children were liable to be unwell at times. One almost felt -inclined to apologize for the inquiry. And this annoyed me; -unreasonably, I admit, because the assumption of superior merit is not a -very exceptional weakness. Anxious to make myself disagreeable by way of -retaliation I observed in accents of interested civility that the dear -girls must have been wondering at the sudden disappearance of their -mother's young friend. Had they been putting any awkward questions about -Miss Smith. Wasn't it as Miss Smith that Miss de Barral had been -introduced to me? - -Mrs. Fyne, staring fixedly but also colouring deeper under her tan, told -me that the children had never liked Flora very much. She hadn't the -high spirits which endear grown-ups to healthy children, Mrs. Fyne -explained unflinchingly. Flora had been staying at the cottage several -times before. Mrs. Fyne assured me that she often found it very -difficult to have her in the house. - -"But what else could we do?" she exclaimed. - -That little cry of distress quite genuine in its inexpressiveness, -altered my feeling towards Mrs. Fyne. It would have been so easy to have -done nothing and to have thought no more about it. My liking for her -began while she was trying to tell me of the night she spent by the -girl's bedside, the night before her departure with her unprepossessing -relative. That Mrs. Fyne found means to comfort the child I doubt very -much. She had not the genius for the task of undoing that which the hate -of an infuriated woman had planned so well. - -You will tell me perhaps that children's impressions are not durable. -That's true enough. But here, child is only a manner of speaking. The -girl was within a few days of her sixteenth birthday; she was old enough -to be matured by the shock. The very effort she had to make in conveying -the impression to Mrs. Fyne, in remembering the details, in finding -adequate words--or any words at all--was in itself a terribly -enlightening, an ageing process. She had talked a long time, -uninterrupted by Mrs. Fyne, childlike enough in her wonder and pain, -pausing now and then to interject the pitiful query: "It was cruel of -her. Wasn't it cruel, Mrs. Fyne?" - -For Charley she found excuses. He at any rate had not said anything, -while he had looked very gloomy and miserable. He couldn't have taken -part against his aunt--could he? But after all he did, when she called -upon him, take "that cruel woman away." He had dragged her out by the -arm. She had seen that plainly. She remembered it. That was it! The -woman was mad. "Oh! Mrs. Fyne, don't tell me she wasn't mad. If you -had only seen her face . . . " - -But Mrs. Fyne was unflinching in her idea that as much truth as could be -told was due in the way of kindness to the girl, whose fate she feared -would be to live exposed to the hardest realities of unprivileged -existences. She explained to her that there were in the world -evil-minded, selfish people. Unscrupulous people . . . These two persons -had been after her father's money. The best thing she could do was to -forget all about them. - -"After papa's money? I don't understand," poor Flora de Barral had -murmured, and lay still as if trying to think it out in the silence and -shadows of the room where only a night-light was burning. Then she had a -long shivering fit while holding tight the hand of Mrs. Fyne whose -patient immobility by the bedside of that brutally murdered childhood did -infinite honour to her humanity. That vigil must have been the more -trying because I could see very well that at no time did she think the -victim particularly charming or sympathetic. It was a manifestation of -pure compassion, of compassion in itself, so to speak, not many women -would have been capable of displaying with that unflinching steadiness. -The shivering fit over, the girl's next words in an outburst of sobs -were, "Oh! Mrs. Fyne, am I really such a horrid thing as she has made me -out to be?" - -"No, no!" protested Mrs. Fyne. "It is your former governess who is -horrid and odious. She is a vile woman. I cannot tell you that she was -mad but I think she must have been beside herself with rage and full of -evil thoughts. You must try not to think of these abominations, my dear -child." - -They were not fit for anyone to think of much, Mrs. Fyne commented to me -in a curt positive tone. All that had been very trying. The girl was -like a creature struggling under a net. - -"But how can I forget? she called my father a cheat and a swindler! Do -tell me Mrs. Fyne that it isn't true. It can't be true. How can it be -true?" - -She sat up in bed with a sudden wild motion as if to jump out and flee -away from the sound of the words which had just passed her own lips. Mrs. -Fyne restrained her, soothed her, induced her at last to lay her head on -her pillow again, assuring her all the time that nothing this woman had -had the cruelty to say deserved to be taken to heart. The girl, -exhausted, cried quietly for a time. It may be she had noticed something -evasive in Mrs. Fyne's assurances. After a while, without stirring, she -whispered brokenly: - -"That awful woman told me that all the world would call papa these awful -names. Is it possible? Is it possible?" - -Mrs. Fyne kept silent. - -"Do say something to me, Mrs. Fyne," the daughter of de Barral insisted -in the same feeble whisper. - -Again Mrs. Fyne assured me that it had been very trying. Terribly -trying. "Yes, thanks, I will." She leaned back in the chair with folded -arms while I poured another cup of tea for her, and Fyne went out to -pacify the dog which, tied up under the porch, had become suddenly very -indignant at somebody having the audacity to walk along the lane. Mrs. -Fyne stirred her tea for a long time, drank a little, put the cup down -and said with that air of accepting all the consequences: - -"Silence would have been unfair. I don't think it would have been kind -either. I told her that she must be prepared for the world passing a -very severe judgment on her father . . . " - -* * * * * - -"Wasn't it admirable," cried Marlow interrupting his narrative. -"Admirable!" And as I looked dubiously at this unexpected enthusiasm he -started justifying it after his own manner. - -"I say admirable because it was so characteristic. It was perfect. -Nothing short of genius could have found better. And this was nature! As -they say of an artist's work: this was a perfect Fyne. -Compassion--judiciousness--something correctly measured. None of your -dishevelled sentiment. And right! You must confess that nothing could -have been more right. I had a mind to shout "Brava! Brava!" but I did -not do that. I took a piece of cake and went out to bribe the Fyne dog -into some sort of self-control. His sharp comical yapping was -unbearable, like stabs through one's brain, and Fyne's deeply modulated -remonstrances abashed the vivacious animal no more than the deep, patient -murmur of the sea abashes a nigger minstrel on a popular beach. Fyne was -beginning to swear at him in low, sepulchral tones when I appeared. The -dog became at once wildly demonstrative, half strangling himself in his -collar, his eyes and tongue hanging out in the excess of his -incomprehensible affection for me. This was before he caught sight of -the cake in my hand. A series of vertical springs high up in the air -followed, and then, when he got the cake, he instantly lost his interest -in everything else. - -Fyne was slightly vexed with me. As kind a master as any dog could wish -to have, he yet did not approve of cake being given to dogs. The Fyne -dog was supposed to lead a Spartan existence on a diet of repulsive -biscuits with an occasional dry, hygienic, bone thrown in. Fyne looked -down gloomily at the appeased animal, I too looked at that fool-dog; and -(you know how one's memory gets suddenly stimulated) I was reminded -visually, with an almost painful distinctness, of the ghostly white face -of the girl I saw last accompanied by that dog--deserted by that dog. I -almost heard her distressed voice as if on the verge of resentful tears -calling to the dog, the unsympathetic dog. Perhaps she had not the power -of evoking sympathy, that personal gift of direct appeal to the feelings. -I said to Fyne, mistrusting the supine attitude of the dog: - -"Why don't you let him come inside?" - -Oh dear no! He couldn't think of it! I might indeed have saved my -breath, I knew it was one of the Fynes' rules of life, part of their -solemnity and responsibility, one of those things that were part of their -unassertive but ever present superiority, that their dog must not be -allowed in. It was most improper to intrude the dog into the houses of -the people they were calling on--if it were only a careless bachelor in -farmhouse lodgings and a personal friend of the dog. It was out of the -question. But they would let him bark one's sanity away outside one's -window. They were strangely consistent in their lack of imaginative -sympathy. I didn't insist but simply led the way back to the parlour, -hoping that no wayfarer would happen along the lane for the next hour or -so to disturb the dog's composure. - -Mrs. Fyne seated immovable before the table charged with plates, cups, -jugs, a cold teapot, crumbs, and the general litter of the entertainment -turned her head towards us. - -"You see, Mr. Marlow," she said in an unexpectedly confidential tone: -"they are so utterly unsuited for each other." - -At the moment I did not know how to apply this remark. I thought at -first of Fyne and the dog. Then I adjusted it to the matter in hand -which was neither more nor less than an elopement. Yes, by Jove! It was -something very much like an elopement--with certain unusual -characteristics of its own which made it in a sense equivocal. With -amused wonder I remembered that my sagacity was requisitioned in such a -connection. How unexpected! But we never know what tests our gifts may -be put to. Sagacity dictated caution first of all. I believe caution to -be the first duty of sagacity. Fyne sat down as if preparing himself to -witness a joust, I thought. - -"Do you think so, Mrs. Fyne?" I said sagaciously. "Of course you are in -a position . . . " I was continuing with caution when she struck out -vivaciously for immediate assent. - -"Obviously! Clearly! You yourself must admit . . . " - -"But, Mrs. Fyne," I remonstrated, "you forget that I don't know your -brother." - -This argument which was not only sagacious but true, overwhelmingly true, -unanswerably true, seemed to surprise her. - -I wondered why. I did not know enough of her brother for the remotest -guess at what he might be like. I had never set eyes on the man. I -didn't know him so completely that by contrast I seemed to have known -Miss de Barral--whom I had seen twice (altogether about sixty minutes) -and with whom I had exchanged about sixty words--from the cradle so to -speak. And perhaps, I thought, looking down at Mrs. Fyne (I had remained -standing) perhaps she thinks that this ought to be enough for a sagacious -assent. - -She kept silent; and I looking at her with polite expectation, went on -addressing her mentally in a mood of familiar approval which would have -astonished her had it been audible: You my dear at any rate are a sincere -woman . . . " - -"I call a woman sincere," Marlow began again after giving me a cigar and -lighting one himself, "I call a woman sincere when she volunteers a -statement resembling remotely in form what she really would like to say, -what she really thinks ought to be said if it were not for the necessity -to spare the stupid sensitiveness of men. The women's rougher, simpler, -more upright judgment, embraces the whole truth, which their tact, their -mistrust of masculine idealism, ever prevents them from speaking in its -entirety. And their tact is unerring. We could not stand women speaking -the truth. We could not bear it. It would cause infinite misery and -bring about most awful disturbances in this rather mediocre, but still -idealistic fool's paradise in which each of us lives his own little -life--the unit in the great sum of existence. And they know it. They -are merciful. This generalization does not apply exactly to Mrs. Fyne's -outburst of sincerity in a matter in which neither my affections nor my -vanity were engaged. That's why, may be, she ventured so far. For a -woman she chose to be as open as the day with me. There was not only the -form but almost the whole substance of her thought in what she said. She -believed she could risk it. She had reasoned somewhat in this way; -there's a man, possessing a certain amount of sagacity . . . " - -Marlow paused with a whimsical look at me. The last few words he had -spoken with the cigar in his teeth. He took it out now by an ample -movement of his arm and blew a thin cloud. - -"You smile? It would have been more kind to spare my blushes. But as a -matter of fact I need not blush. This is not vanity; it is analysis. -We'll let sagacity stand. But we must also note what sagacity in this -connection stands for. When you see this you shall see also that there -was nothing in it to alarm my modesty. I don't think Mrs. Fyne credited -me with the possession of wisdom tempered by common sense. And had I had -the wisdom of the Seven Sages of Antiquity, she would not have been moved -to confidence or admiration. The secret scorn of women for the capacity -to consider judiciously and to express profoundly a meditated conclusion -is unbounded. They have no use for these lofty exercises which they look -upon as a sort of purely masculine game--game meaning a respectable -occupation devised to kill time in this man-arranged life which must be -got through somehow. What women's acuteness really respects are the -inept "ideas" and the sheeplike impulses by which our actions and -opinions are determined in matters of real importance. For if women are -not rational they are indeed acute. Even Mrs. Fyne was acute. The good -woman was making up to her husband's chess-player simply because she had -scented in him that small portion of 'femininity,' that drop of superior -essence of which I am myself aware; which, I gratefully acknowledge, has -saved me from one or two misadventures in my life either ridiculous or -lamentable, I am not very certain which. It matters very little. Anyhow -misadventures. Observe that I say 'femininity,' a privilege--not -'feminism,' an attitude. I am not a feminist. It was Fyne who on -certain solemn grounds had adopted that mental attitude; but it was -enough to glance at him sitting on one side, to see that he was purely -masculine to his finger-tips, masculine solidly, densely, -amusingly,--hopelessly. - -I did glance at him. You don't get your sagacity recognized by a man's -wife without feeling the propriety and even the need to glance at the man -now and again. So I glanced at him. Very masculine. So much so that -"hopelessly" was not the last word of it. He was helpless. He was bound -and delivered by it. And if by the obscure promptings of my composite -temperament I beheld him with malicious amusement, yet being in fact, by -definition and especially from profound conviction, a man, I could not -help sympathizing with him largely. Seeing him thus disarmed, so -completely captive by the very nature of things I was moved to speak to -him kindly. - -"Well. And what do you think of it?" - -"I don't know. How's one to tell? But I say that the thing is done now -and there's an end of it," said the masculine creature as bluntly as his -innate solemnity permitted. - -Mrs. Fyne moved a little in her chair. I turned to her and remarked -gently that this was a charge, a criticism, which was often made. Some -people always ask: What could he see in her? Others wonder what she -could have seen in him? Expressions of unsuitability. - -She said with all the emphasis of her quietly folded arms: - -"I know perfectly well what Flora has seen in my brother." - -I bowed my head to the gust but pursued my point. - -"And then the marriage in most cases turns out no worse than the average, -to say the least of it." - -Mrs. Fyne was disappointed by the optimistic turn of my sagacity. She -rested her eyes on my face as though in doubt whether I had enough -femininity in my composition to understand the case. - -I waited for her to speak. She seemed to be asking herself; Is it after -all, worth while to talk to that man? You understand how provoking this -was. I looked in my mind for something appallingly stupid to say, with -the object of distressing and teasing Mrs. Fyne. It is humiliating to -confess a failure. One would think that a man of average intelligence -could command stupidity at will. But it isn't so. I suppose it's a -special gift or else the difficulty consists in being relevant. -Discovering that I could find no really telling stupidity, I turned to -the next best thing; a platitude. I advanced, in a common-sense tone, -that, surely, in the matter of marriage a man had only himself to please. - -Mrs. Fyne received this without the flutter of an eyelid. Fyne's -masculine breast, as might have been expected, was pierced by that old, -regulation shaft. He grunted most feelingly. I turned to him with false -simplicity. "Don't you agree with me?" - -"The very thing I've been telling my wife," he exclaimed in his extra- -manly bass. "We have been discussing--" - -A discussion in the Fyne menage! How portentous! Perhaps the very first -difference they had ever had: Mrs. Fyne unflinching and ready for any -responsibility, Fyne solemn and shrinking--the children in bed upstairs; -and outside the dark fields, the shadowy contours of the land on the -starry background of the universe, with the crude light of the open -window like a beacon for the truant who would never come back now; a -truant no longer but a downright fugitive. Yet a fugitive carrying off -spoils. It was the flight of a raider--or a traitor? This affair of the -purloined brother, as I had named it to myself, had a very puzzling -physiognomy. The girl must have been desperate, I thought, hearing the -grave voice of Fyne well enough but catching the sense of his words not -at all, except the very last words which were: - -"Of course, it's extremely distressing." - -I looked at him inquisitively. What was distressing him? The purloining -of the son of the poet-tyrant by the daughter of the financier-convict. -Or only, if I may say so, the wind of their flight disturbing the solemn -placidity of the Fynes' domestic atmosphere. My incertitude did not last -long, for he added: - -"Mrs. Fyne urges me to go to London at once." - -One could guess at, almost see, his profound distaste for the journey, -his distress at a difference of feeling with his wife. With his serious -view of the sublunary comedy Fyne suffered from not being able to agree -solemnly with her sentiment as he was accustomed to do, in recognition of -having had his way in one supreme instance; when he made her elope with -him--the most momentous step imaginable in a young lady's life. He had -been really trying to acknowledge it by taking the rightness of her -feeling for granted on every other occasion. It had become a sort of -habit at last. And it is never pleasant to break a habit. The man was -deeply troubled. I said: "Really! To go to London!" - -He looked dumbly into my eyes. It was pathetic and funny. "And you of -course feel it would be useless," I pursued. - -He evidently felt that, though he said nothing. He only went on blinking -at me with a solemn and comical slowness. "Unless it be to carry there -the family's blessing," I went on, indulging my chaffing humour steadily, -in a rather sneaking fashion, for I dared not look at Mrs. Fyne, to my -right. No sound or movement came from that direction. "You think very -naturally that to match mere good, sound reasons, against the passionate -conclusions of love is a waste of intellect bordering on the absurd." - -He looked surprised as if I had discovered something very clever. He, -dear man, had thought of nothing at all. - -He simply knew that he did not want to go to London on that mission. Mere -masculine delicacy. In a moment he became enthusiastic. - -"Yes! Yes! Exactly. A man in love . . . You hear, my dear? Here you -have an independent opinion--" - -"Can anything be more hopeless," I insisted to the fascinated little -Fyne, "than to pit reason against love. I must confess however that in -this case when I think of that poor girl's sharp chin I wonder if . . . " - -My levity was too much for Mrs. Fyne. Still leaning back in her chair -she exclaimed: - -"Mr. Marlow!" - -* * * * * - -As if mysteriously affected by her indignation the absurd Fyne dog began -to bark in the porch. It might have been at a trespassing bumble-bee -however. That animal was capable of any eccentricity. Fyne got up -quickly and went out to him. I think he was glad to leave us alone to -discuss that matter of his journey to London. A sort of anti-sentimental -journey. He, too, apparently, had confidence in my sagacity. It was -touching, this confidence. It was at any rate more genuine than the -confidence his wife pretended to have in her husband's chess-player, of -three successive holidays. Confidence be hanged! Sagacity--indeed! She -had simply marched in without a shadow of misgiving to make me back her -up. But she had delivered herself into my hands . . . " - -Interrupting his narrative Marlow addressed me in his tone between grim -jest and grim earnest: - -"Perhaps you didn't know that my character is upon the whole rather -vindictive." - -"No, I didn't know," I said with a grin. "That's rather unusual for a -sailor. They always seemed to me the least vindictive body of men in the -world." - -"H'm! Simple souls," Marlow muttered moodily. "Want of opportunity. The -world leaves them alone for the most part. For myself it's towards women -that I feel vindictive mostly, in my small way. I admit that it is -small. But then the occasions in themselves are not great. Mainly I -resent that pretence of winding us round their dear little fingers, as of -right. Not that the result ever amounts to much generally. There are so -very few momentous opportunities. It is the assumption that each of us -is a combination of a kid and an imbecile which I find provoking--in a -small way; in a very small way. You needn't stare as though I were -breathing fire and smoke out of my nostrils. I am not a women-devouring -monster. I am not even what is technically called "a brute." I hope -there's enough of a kid and an imbecile in me to answer the requirements -of some really good woman eventually--some day . . . Some day. Why do -you gasp? You don't suppose I should be afraid of getting married? That -supposition would be offensive . . . " - -"I wouldn't dream of offending you," I said. - -"Very well. But meantime please remember that I was not married to Mrs. -Fyne. That lady's little finger was none of my legal property. I had -not run off with it. It was Fyne who had done that thing. Let him be -wound round as much as his backbone could stand--or even more, for all I -cared. His rushing away from the discussion on the transparent pretence -of quieting the dog confirmed my notion of there being a considerable -strain on his elasticity. I confronted Mrs. Fyne resolved not to assist -her in her eminently feminine occupation of thrusting a stick in the -spokes of another woman's wheel. - -She tried to preserve her calm-eyed superiority. She was familiar and -olympian, fenced in by the tea-table, that excellent symbol of domestic -life in its lighter hour and its perfect security. In a few severely -unadorned words she gave me to understand that she had ventured to hope -for some really helpful suggestion from me. To this almost chiding -declaration--because my vindictiveness seldom goes further than a bit of -teasing--I said that I was really doing my best. And being a -physiognomist . . . " - -"Being what?" she interrupted me. - -"A physiognomist," I repeated raising my voice a little. "A -physiognomist, Mrs. Fyne. And on the principles of that science a -pointed little chin is a sufficient ground for interference. You want to -interfere--do you not?" - -Her eyes grew distinctly bigger. She had never been bantered before in -her life. The late subtle poet's method of making himself unpleasant was -merely savage and abusive. Fyne had been always solemnly subservient. -What other men she knew I cannot tell but I assume they must have been -gentlemanly creatures. The girl-friends sat at her feet. How could she -recognize my intention. She didn't know what to make of my tone. - -"Are you serious in what you say?" she asked slowly. And it was -touching. It was as if a very young, confiding girl had spoken. I felt -myself relenting. - -"No. I am not, Mrs. Fyne," I said. "I didn't know I was expected to be -serious as well as sagacious. No. That science is farcical and -therefore I am not serious. It's true that most sciences are farcical -except those which teach us how to put things together." - -"The question is how to keep these two people apart," she struck in. She -had recovered. I admired the quickness of women's wit. Mental agility -is a rare perfection. And aren't they agile! Aren't they--just! And -tenacious! When they once get hold you may uproot the tree but you won't -shake them off the branch. In fact the more you shake . . . But only -look at the charm of contradictory perfections! No wonder men give -in--generally. I won't say I was actually charmed by Mrs. Fyne. I was -not delighted with her. What affected me was not what she displayed but -something which she could not conceal. And that was emotion--nothing -less. The form of her declaration was dry, almost peremptory--but not -its tone. Her voice faltered just the least bit, she smiled faintly; and -as we were looking straight at each other I observed that her eyes were -glistening in a peculiar manner. She was distressed. And indeed that -Mrs. Fyne should have appealed to me at all was in itself the evidence of -her profound distress. "By Jove she's desperate too," I thought. This -discovery was followed by a movement of instinctive shrinking from this -unreasonable and unmasculine affair. They were all alike, with their -supreme interest aroused only by fighting with each other about some man: -a lover, a son, a brother. - -"But do you think there's time yet to do anything?" I asked. - -She had an impatient movement of her shoulders without detaching herself -from the back of the chair. Time! Of course? It was less than forty- -eight hours since she had followed him to London . . . I am no great -clerk at those matters but I murmured vaguely an allusion to special -licences. We couldn't tell what might have happened to-day already. But -she knew better, scornfully. Nothing had happened. - -"Nothing's likely to happen before next Friday week,--if then." - -This was wonderfully precise. Then after a pause she added that she -should never forgive herself if some effort were not made, an appeal. - -"To your brother?" I asked. - -"Yes. John ought to go to-morrow. Nine o'clock train." - -"So early as that!" I said. But I could not find it in my heart to -pursue this discussion in a jocular tone. I submitted to her several -obvious arguments, dictated apparently by common sense but in reality by -my secret compassion. Mrs. Fyne brushed them aside, with the -semi-conscious egoism of all safe, established, existences. They had -known each other so little. Just three weeks. And of that time, too -short for the birth of any serious sentiment, the first week had to be -deducted. They would hardly look at each other to begin with. Flora -barely consented to acknowledge Captain Anthony's presence. Good -morning--good night--that was all--absolutely the whole extent of their -intercourse. Captain Anthony was a silent man, completely unused to the -society of girls of any sort and so shy in fact that he avoided raising -his eyes to her face at the table. It was perfectly absurd. It was even -inconvenient, embarrassing to her--Mrs. Fyne. After breakfast Flora -would go off by herself for a long walk and Captain Anthony (Mrs. Fyne -referred to him at times also as Roderick) joined the children. But he -was actually too shy to get on terms with his own nieces. - -This would have sounded pathetic if I hadn't known the Fyne children who -were at the same time solemn and malicious, and nursed a secret contempt -for all the world. No one could get on terms with those fresh and comely -young monsters! They just tolerated their parents and seemed to have a -sort of mocking understanding among themselves against all outsiders, yet -with no visible affection for each other. They had the habit of -exchanging derisive glances which to a shy man must have been very -trying. They thought their uncle no doubt a bore and perhaps an ass. - -I was not surprised to hear that very soon Anthony formed the habit of -crossing the two neighbouring fields to seek the shade of a clump of elms -at a good distance from the cottage. He lay on the grass and smoked his -pipe all the morning. Mrs. Fyne wondered at her brother's indolent -habits. He had asked for books it is true but there were but few in the -cottage. He read them through in three days and then continued to lie -contentedly on his back with no other companion but his pipe. Amazing -indolence! The live-long morning, Mrs. Fyne, busy writing upstairs in -the cottage, could see him out of the window. She had a very long sight, -and these elms were grouped on a rise of the ground. His indolence was -plainly exposed to her criticism on a gentle green slope. Mrs. Fyne -wondered at it; she was disgusted too. But having just then 'commenced -author,' as you know, she could not tear herself away from the -fascinating novelty. She let him wallow in his vice. I imagine Captain -Anthony must have had a rather pleasant time in a quiet way. It was, I -remember, a hot dry summer, favourable to contemplative life out of -doors. And Mrs. Fyne was scandalized. Women don't understand the force -of a contemplative temperament. It simply shocks them. They feel -instinctively that it is the one which escapes best the domination of -feminine influences. The dear girls were exchanging jeering remarks -about "lazy uncle Roderick" openly, in her indulgent hearing. And it was -so strange, she told me, because as a boy he was anything but indolent. -On the contrary. Always active. - -I remarked that a man of thirty-five was no longer a boy. It was an -obvious remark but she received it without favour. She told me -positively that the best, the nicest men remained boys all their lives. -She was disappointed not to be able to detect anything boyish in her -brother. Very, very sorry. She had not seen him for fifteen years or -thereabouts, except on three or four occasions for a few hours at a time. -No. Not a trace of the boy, he used to be, left in him. - -She fell silent for a moment and I mused idly on the boyhood of little -Fyne. I could not imagine what it might have been like. His dominant -trait was clearly the remnant of still earlier days, because I've never -seen such staring solemnity as Fyne's except in a very young baby. But -where was he all that time? Didn't he suffer contamination from the -indolence of Captain Anthony, I inquired. I was told that Mr. Fyne was -very little at the cottage at the time. Some colleague of his was -convalescing after a severe illness in a little seaside village in the -neighbourhood and Fyne went off every morning by train to spend the day -with the elderly invalid who had no one to look after him. It was a very -praiseworthy excuse for neglecting his brother-in-law "the son of the -poet, you know," with whom he had nothing in common even in the remotest -degree. If Captain Anthony (Roderick) had been a pedestrian it would -have been sufficient; but he was not. Still, in the afternoon, he went -sometimes for a slow casual stroll, by himself of course, the children -having definitely cold-shouldered him, and his only sister being busy -with that inflammatory book which was to blaze upon the world a year or -more afterwards. It seems however that she was capable of detaching her -eyes from her task now and then, if only for a moment, because it was -from that garret fitted out for a study that one afternoon she observed -her brother and Flora de Barral coming down the road side by side. They -had met somewhere accidentally (which of them crossed the other's path, -as the saying is, I don't know), and were returning to tea together. She -noticed that they appeared to be conversing without constraint. - -"I had the simplicity to be pleased," Mrs. Fyne commented with a dry -little laugh. "Pleased for both their sakes." Captain Anthony shook off -his indolence from that day forth, and accompanied Miss Flora frequently -on her morning walks. Mrs. Fyne remained pleased. She could now forget -them comfortably and give herself up to the delights of audacious thought -and literary composition. Only a week before the blow fell she, -happening to raise her eyes from the paper, saw two figures seated on the -grass under the shade of the elms. She could make out the white blouse. -There could be no mistake. - -"I suppose they imagined themselves concealed by the hedge. They forgot -no doubt I was working in the garret," she said bitterly. "Or perhaps -they didn't care. They were right. I am rather a simple person . . . " -She laughed again . . . "I was incapable of suspecting such duplicity." - -"Duplicity is a strong word, Mrs. Fyne--isn't it?" I expostulated. "And -considering that Captain Anthony himself . . . " - -"Oh well--perhaps," she interrupted me. Her eyes which never strayed -away from mine, her set features, her whole immovable figure, how well I -knew those appearances of a person who has "made up her mind." A very -hopeless condition that, specially in women. I mistrusted her concession -so easily, so stonily made. She reflected a moment. "Yes. I ought to -have said--ingratitude, perhaps." - -After having thus disengaged her brother and pushed the poor girl a -little further off as it were--isn't women's cleverness perfectly -diabolic when they are really put on their mettle?--after having done -these things and also made me feel that I was no match for her, she went -on scrupulously: "One doesn't like to use that word either. The claim is -very small. It's so little one could do for her. Still . . . " - -"I dare say," I exclaimed, throwing diplomacy to the winds. "But really, -Mrs. Fyne, it's impossible to dismiss your brother like this out of the -business . . . " - -"She threw herself at his head," Mrs. Fyne uttered firmly. - -"He had no business to put his head in the way, then," I retorted with an -angry laugh. I didn't restrain myself because her fixed stare seemed to -express the purpose to daunt me. I was not afraid of her, but it -occurred to me that I was within an ace of drifting into a downright -quarrel with a lady and, besides, my guest. There was the cold teapot, -the emptied cups, emblems of hospitality. It could not be. I cut short -my angry laugh while Mrs. Fyne murmured with a slight movement of her -shoulders, "He! Poor man! Oh come . . . " - -By a great effort of will I found myself able to smile amiably, to speak -with proper softness. - -"My dear Mrs. Fyne, you forget that I don't know him--not even by sight. -It's difficult to imagine a victim as passive as all that; but granting -you the (I very nearly said: imbecility, but checked myself in time) -innocence of Captain Anthony, don't you think now, frankly, that there is -a little of your own fault in what has happened. You bring them -together, you leave your brother to himself!" - -She sat up and leaning her elbow on the table sustained her head in her -open palm casting down her eyes. Compunction? It was indeed a very off- -hand way of treating a brother come to stay for the first time in fifteen -years. I suppose she discovered very soon that she had nothing in common -with that sailor, that stranger, fashioned and marked by the sea of long -voyages. In her strong-minded way she had scorned pretences, had gone to -her writing which interested her immensely. A very praiseworthy thing -your sincere conduct,--if it didn't at times resemble brutality so much. -But I don't think it was compunction. That sentiment is rare in women -. . . " - -"Is it?" I interrupted indignantly. - -"You know more women than I do," retorted the unabashed Marlow. "You -make it your business to know them--don't you? You go about a lot -amongst all sorts of people. You are a tolerably honest observer. Well, -just try to remember how many instances of compunction you have seen. I -am ready to take your bare word for it. Compunction! Have you ever seen -as much as its shadow? Have you ever? Just a shadow--a passing shadow! -I tell you it is so rare that you may call it non-existent. They are too -passionate. Too pedantic. Too courageous with themselves--perhaps. No -I don't think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne felt the slightest compunction -at her treatment of her sea-going brother. What _he_ thought of it who -can tell? It is possible that he wondered why he had been so insistently -urged to come. It is possible that he wondered bitterly--or -contemptuously--or humbly. And it may be that he was only surprised and -bored. Had he been as sincere in his conduct as his only sister he would -have probably taken himself off at the end of the second day. But -perhaps he was afraid of appearing brutal. I am not far removed from the -conviction that between the sincerities of his sister and of his dear -nieces, Captain Anthony of the _Ferndale_ must have had his loneliness -brought home to his bosom for the first time of his life, at an age, -thirty-five or thereabouts, when one is mature enough to feel the pang of -such a discovery. Angry or simply sad but certainly disillusioned he -wanders about and meets the girl one afternoon and under the sway of a -strong feeling forgets his shyness. This is no supposition. It is a -fact. There was such a meeting in which the shyness must have perished -before we don't know what encouragement, or in the community of mood made -apparent by some casual word. You remember that Mrs. Fyne saw them one -afternoon coming back to the cottage together. Don't you think that I -have hit on the psychology of the situation? . . . " - -"Doubtless . . . " I began to ponder. - -"I was very certain of my conclusions at the time," Marlow went on -impatiently. "But don't think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne in her new -attitude and toying thoughtfully with a teaspoon was about to surrender. -She murmured: - -"It's the last thing I should have thought could happen." - -"You didn't suppose they were romantic enough," I suggested dryly. - -She let it pass and with great decision but as if speaking to herself, - -"Roderick really must be warned." - -She didn't give me the time to ask of what precisely. She raised her -head and addressed me. - -"I am surprised and grieved more than I can tell you at Mr. Fyne's -resistance. We have been always completely at one on every question. And -that we should differ now on a point touching my brother so closely is a -most painful surprise to me." Her hand rattled the teaspoon brusquely by -an involuntary movement. "It is intolerable," she added -tempestuously--for Mrs. Fyne that is. I suppose she had nerves of her -own like any other woman. - -Under the porch where Fyne had sought refuge with the dog there was -silence. I took it for a proof of deep sagacity. I don't mean on the -part of the dog. He was a confirmed fool. - -I said: - -"You want absolutely to interfere . . . ?" Mrs. Fyne nodded just -perceptibly . . . "Well--for my part . . . but I don't really know how -matters stand at the present time. You have had a letter from Miss de -Barral. What does that letter say?" - -"She asks for her valise to be sent to her town address," Mrs. Fyne -uttered reluctantly and stopped. I waited a bit--then exploded. - -"Well! What's the matter? Where's the difficulty? Does your husband -object to that? You don't mean to say that he wants you to appropriate -the girl's clothes?" - -"Mr. Marlow!" - -"Well, but you talk of a painful difference of opinion with your husband, -and then, when I ask for information on the point, you bring out a -valise. And only a few moments ago you reproached me for not being -serious. I wonder who is the serious person of us two now." - -She smiled faintly and in a friendly tone, from which I concluded at once -that she did not mean to show me the girl's letter, she said that -undoubtedly the letter disclosed an understanding between Captain Anthony -and Flora de Barral. - -"What understanding?" I pressed her. "An engagement is an -understanding." - -"There is no engagement--not yet," she said decisively. "That letter, -Mr. Marlow, is couched in very vague terms. That is why--" - -I interrupted her without ceremony. - -"You still hope to interfere to some purpose. Isn't it so? Yes? But -how should you have liked it if anybody had tried to interfere between -you and Mr. Fyne at the time when your understanding with each other -could still have been described in vague terms?" - -She had a genuine movement of astonished indignation. It is with the -accent of perfect sincerity that she cried out at me: - -"But it isn't at all the same thing! How can you!" - -Indeed how could I! The daughter of a poet and the daughter of a convict -are not comparable in the consequences of their conduct if their -necessity may wear at times a similar aspect. Amongst these consequences -I could perceive undesirable cousins for these dear healthy girls, and -such like, possible causes of embarrassment in the future. - -"No! You can't be serious," Mrs. Fyne's smouldering resentment broke out -again. "You haven't thought--" - -"Oh yes, Mrs. Fyne! I have thought. I am still thinking. I am even -trying to think like you." - -"Mr. Marlow," she said earnestly. "Believe me that I really am thinking -of my brother in all this . . . " I assured her that I quite believed -she was. For there is no law of nature making it impossible to think of -more than one person at a time. Then I said: - -"She has told him all about herself of course." - -"All about her life," assented Mrs. Fyne with an air, however, of making -some mental reservation which I did not pause to investigate. "Her -life!" I repeated. "That girl must have had a mighty bad time of it." - -"Horrible," Mrs. Fyne admitted with a ready frankness very creditable -under the circumstances, and a warmth of tone which made me look at her -with a friendly eye. "Horrible! No! You can't imagine the sort of -vulgar people she became dependent on . . . You know her father never -attempted to see her while he was still at large. After his arrest he -instructed that relative of his--the odious person who took her away from -Brighton--not to let his daughter come to the court during the trial. He -refused to hold any communication with her whatever." - -I remembered what Mrs. Fyne had told me before of the view she had years -ago of de Barral clinging to the child at the side of his wife's grave -and later on of these two walking hand in hand the observed of all eyes -by the sea. Pictures from Dickens--pregnant with pathos. - - - -CHAPTER SIX--FLORA - - -"A very singular prohibition," remarked Mrs. Fyne after a short silence. -"He seemed to love the child." - -She was puzzled. But I surmised that it might have been the sullenness -of a man unconscious of guilt and standing at bay to fight his -"persecutors," as he called them; or else the fear of a softer emotion -weakening his defiant attitude; perhaps, even, it was a self-denying -ordinance, in order to spare the girl the sight of her father in the -dock, accused of cheating, sentenced as a swindler--proving the -possession of a certain moral delicacy. - -Mrs. Fyne didn't know what to think. She supposed it might have been -mere callousness. But the people amongst whom the girl had fallen had -positively not a grain of moral delicacy. Of that she was certain. Mrs. -Fyne could not undertake to give me an idea of their abominable -vulgarity. Flora used to tell her something of her life in that -household, over there, down Limehouse way. It was incredible. It passed -Mrs. Fyne's comprehension. It was a sort of moral savagery which she -could not have thought possible. - -I, on the contrary, thought it very possible. I could imagine easily how -the poor girl must have been bewildered and hurt at her reception in that -household--envied for her past while delivered defenceless to the tender -mercies of people without any fineness either of feeling or mind, unable -to understand her misery, grossly curious, mistaking her manner for -disdain, her silent shrinking for pride. The wife of the "odious person" -was witless and fatuously conceited. Of the two girls of the house one -was pious and the other a romp; both were coarse-minded--if they may be -credited with any mind at all. The rather numerous men of the family -were dense and grumpy, or dense and jocose. None in that grubbing lot -had enough humanity to leave her alone. At first she was made much of, -in an offensively patronising manner. The connection with the great de -Barral gratified their vanity even in the moment of the smash. They -dragged her to their place of worship, whatever it might have been, where -the congregation stared at her, and they gave parties to other beings -like themselves at which they exhibited her with ignoble -self-satisfaction. She did not know how to defend herself from their -importunities, insolence and exigencies. She lived amongst them, a -passive victim, quivering in every nerve, as if she were flayed. After -the trial her position became still worse. On the least occasion and -even on no occasions at all she was scolded, or else taunted with her -dependence. The pious girl lectured her on her defects, the romping girl -teased her with contemptuous references to her accomplishments, and was -always trying to pick insensate quarrels with her about some "fellow" or -other. The mother backed up her girls invariably, adding her own silly, -wounding remarks. I must say they were probably not aware of the -ugliness of their conduct. They were nasty amongst themselves as a -matter of course; their disputes were nauseating in origin, in manner, in -the spirit of mean selfishness. These women, too, seemed to enjoy -greatly any sort of row and were always ready to combine together to make -awful scenes to the luckless girl on incredibly flimsy pretences. Thus -Flora on one occasion had been reduced to rage and despair, had her most -secret feelings lacerated, had obtained a view of the utmost baseness to -which common human nature can descend--I won't say _a propos de bottes_ -as the French would excellently put it, but literally _a propos_ of some -mislaid cheap lace trimmings for a nightgown the romping one was making -for herself. Yes, that was the origin of one of the grossest scenes -which, in their repetition, must have had a deplorable effect on the -unformed character of the most pitiful of de Barral's victims. I have it -from Mrs. Fyne. The girl turned up at the Fynes' house at half-past nine -on a cold, drizzly evening. She had walked bareheaded, I believe, just -as she ran out of the house, from somewhere in Poplar to the -neighbourhood of Sloane Square--without stopping, without drawing breath, -if only for a sob. - -"We were having some people to dinner," said the anxious sister of -Captain Anthony. - -She had heard the front door bell and wondered what it might mean. The -parlourmaid managed to whisper to her without attracting attention. The -servants had been frightened by the invasion of that wild girl in a muddy -skirt and with wisps of damp hair sticking to her pale cheeks. But they -had seen her before. This was not the first occasion, nor yet the last. - -Directly she could slip away from her guests Mrs. Fyne ran upstairs. - -"I found her in the night nursery crouching on the floor, her head -resting on the cot of the youngest of my girls. The eldest was sitting -up in bed looking at her across the room." - -Only a nightlight was burning there. Mrs. Fyne raised her up, took her -over to Mr. Fyne's little dressing-room on the other side of the landing, -to a fire by which she could dry herself, and left her there. She had to -go back to her guests. - -A most disagreeable surprise it must have been to the Fynes. Afterwards -they both went up and interviewed the girl. She jumped up at their -entrance. She had shaken her damp hair loose; her eyes were dry--with -the heat of rage. - -I can imagine little Fyne solemnly sympathetic, solemnly listening, -solemnly retreating to the marital bedroom. Mrs. Fyne pacified the girl, -and, fortunately, there was a bed which could be made up for her in the -dressing-room. - -"But--what could one do after all!" concluded Mrs. Fyne. - -And this stereotyped exclamation, expressing the difficulty of the -problem and the readiness (at any rate) of good intentions, made me, as -usual, feel more kindly towards her. - -Next morning, very early, long before Fyne had to start for his office, -the "odious personage" turned up, not exactly unexpected perhaps, but -startling all the same, if only by the promptness of his action. From -what Flora herself related to Mrs. Fyne, it seems that without being very -perceptibly less "odious" than his family he had in a rather mysterious -fashion interposed his authority for the protection of the girl. "Not -that he cares," explained Flora. "I am sure he does not. I could not -stand being liked by any of these people. If I thought he liked me I -would drown myself rather than go back with him." - -For of course he had come to take "Florrie" home. The scene was the -dining-room--breakfast interrupted, dishes growing cold, little Fyne's -toast growing leathery, Fyne out of his chair with his back to the fire, -the newspaper on the carpet, servants shut out, Mrs. Fyne rigid in her -place with the girl sitting beside her--the "odious person," who had -bustled in with hardly a greeting, looking from Fyne to Mrs. Fyne as -though he were inwardly amused at something he knew of them; and then -beginning ironically his discourse. He did not apologize for disturbing -Fyne and his "good lady" at breakfast, because he knew they did not want -(with a nod at the girl) to have more of her than could be helped. He -came the first possible moment because he had his business to attend to. -He wasn't drawing a tip-top salary (this staring at Fyne) in a -luxuriously furnished office. Not he. He had risen to be an employer of -labour and was bound to give a good example. - -I believe the fellow was aware of, and enjoyed quietly, the consternation -his presence brought to the bosom of Mr. and Mrs. Fyne. He turned -briskly to the girl. Mrs. Fyne confessed to me that they had remained -all three silent and inanimate. He turned to the girl: "What's this -game, Florrie? You had better give it up. If you expect me to run all -over London looking for you every time you happen to have a tiff with -your auntie and cousins you are mistaken. I can't afford it." - -Tiff--was the sort of definition to take one's breath away, having regard -to the fact that both the word convict and the word pauper had been used -a moment before Flora de Barral ran away from the quarrel about the lace -trimmings. Yes, these very words! So at least the girl had told Mrs. -Fyne the evening before. The word tiff in connection with her tale had a -peculiar savour, a paralysing effect. Nobody made a sound. The relative -of de Barral proceeded uninterrupted to a display of magnanimity. "Auntie -told me to tell you she's sorry--there! And Amelia (the romping sister) -shan't worry you again. I'll see to that. You ought to be satisfied. -Remember your position." - -Emboldened by the utter stillness pervading the room he addressed himself -to Mrs. Fyne with stolid effrontery: - -"What I say is that people should be good-natured. She can't stand being -chaffed. She puts on her grand airs. She won't take a bit of a joke -from people as good as herself anyway. We are a plain lot. We don't -like it. And that's how trouble begins." - -Insensible to the stony stare of three pairs of eyes, which, if the -stories of our childhood as to the power of the human eye are true, ought -to have been enough to daunt a tiger, that unabashed manufacturer from -the East End fastened his fangs, figuratively speaking, into the poor -girl and prepared to drag her away for a prey to his cubs of both sexes. -"Auntie has thought of sending you your hat and coat. I've got them -outside in the cab." - -Mrs. Fyne looked mechanically out of the window. A four-wheeler stood -before the gate under the weeping sky. The driver in his conical cape -and tarpaulin hat, streamed with water. The drooping horse looked as -though it had been fished out, half unconscious, from a pond. Mrs. Fyne -found some relief in looking at that miserable sight, away from the room -in which the voice of the amiable visitor resounded with a vulgar -intonation exhorting the strayed sheep to return to the delightful fold. -"Come, Florrie, make a move. I can't wait on you all day here." - -Mrs. Fyne heard all this without turning her head away from the window. -Fyne on the hearthrug had to listen and to look on too. I shall not try -to form a surmise as to the real nature of the suspense. Their very -goodness must have made it very anxious. The girl's hands were lying in -her lap; her head was lowered as if in deep thought; and the other went -on delivering a sort of homily. Ingratitude was condemned in it, the -sinfulness of pride was pointed out--together with the proverbial fact -that it "goes before a fall." There were also some sound remarks as to -the danger of nonsensical notions and the disadvantages of a quick -temper. It sets one's best friends against one. "And if anybody ever -wanted friends in the world it's you, my girl." Even respect for -parental authority was invoked. "In the first hour of his trouble your -father wrote to me to take care of you--don't forget it. Yes, to me, -just a plain man, rather than to any of his fine West-End friends. You -can't get over that. And a father's a father no matter what a mess he's -got himself into. You ain't going to throw over your own father--are -you?" - -It was difficult to say whether he was more absurd than cruel or more -cruel than absurd. Mrs. Fyne, with the fine ear of a woman, seemed to -detect a jeering intention in his meanly unctuous tone, something more -vile than mere cruelty. She glanced quickly over her shoulder and saw -the girl raise her two hands to her head, then let them fall again on her -lap. Fyne in front of the fire was like the victim of an unholy -spell--bereft of motion and speech but obviously in pain. It was a short -pause of perfect silence, and then that "odious creature" (he must have -been really a remarkable individual in his way) struck out into sarcasm. - -"Well? . . . " Again a silence. "If you have fixed it up with the lady -and gentleman present here for your board and lodging you had better say -so. I don't want to interfere in a bargain I know nothing of. But I -wonder how your father will take it when he comes out . . . or don't you -expect him ever to come out?" - -At that moment, Mrs. Fyne told me she met the girl's eyes. There was -that in them which made her shut her own. She also felt as though she -would have liked to put her fingers in her ears. She restrained herself, -however; and the "plain man" passed in his appalling versatility from -sarcasm to veiled menace. - -"You have--eh? Well and good. But before I go home let me ask you, my -girl, to think if by any chance you throwing us over like this won't be -rather bad for your father later on? Just think it over." - -He looked at his victim with an air of cunning mystery. She jumped up so -suddenly that he started back. Mrs. Fyne rose too, and even the spell -was removed from her husband. But the girl dropped again into the chair -and turned her head to look at Mrs. Fyne. This time it was no accidental -meeting of fugitive glances. It was a deliberate communication. To my -question as to its nature Mrs. Fyne said she did not know. "Was it -appealing?" I suggested. "No," she said. "Was it frightened, angry, -crushed, resigned?" "No! No! Nothing of these." But it had frightened -her. She remembered it to this day. She had been ever since fancying -she could detect the lingering reflection of that look in all the girl's -glances. In the attentive, in the casual--even in the grateful -glances--in the expression of the softest moods. - -"Has she her soft moods, then?" I asked with interest. - -Mrs Fyne, much moved by her recollections, heeded not my inquiry. All -her mental energy was concentrated on the nature of that memorable -glance. The general tradition of mankind teaches us that glances occupy -a considerable place in the self-expression of women. Mrs. Fyne was -trying honestly to give me some idea, as much perhaps to satisfy her own -uneasiness as my curiosity. She was frowning in the effort as you see -sometimes a child do (what is delightful in women is that they so often -resemble intelligent children--I mean the crustiest, the sourest, the -most battered of them do--at times). She was frowning, I say, and I was -beginning to smile faintly at her when all at once she came out with -something totally unexpected. - -"It was horribly merry," she said. - -I suppose she must have been satisfied by my sudden gravity because she -looked at me in a friendly manner. - -"Yes, Mrs. Fyne," I said, smiling no longer. "I see. It would have been -horrible even on the stage." - -"Ah!" she interrupted me--and I really believe her change of attitude -back to folded arms was meant to check a shudder. "But it wasn't on the -stage, and it was not with her lips that she laughed." - -"Yes. It must have been horrible," I assented. "And then she had to go -away ultimately--I suppose. You didn't say anything?" - -"No," said Mrs. Fyne. "I rang the bell and told one of the maids to go -and bring the hat and coat out of the cab. And then we waited." - -I don't think that there ever was such waiting unless possibly in a jail -at some moment or other on the morning of an execution. The servant -appeared with the hat and coat, and then, still as on the morning of an -execution, when the condemned, I believe, is offered a breakfast, Mrs. -Fyne, anxious that the white-faced girl should swallow something warm (if -she could) before leaving her house for an interminable drive through raw -cold air in a damp four-wheeler--Mrs. Fyne broke the awful silence: "You -really must try to eat something," in her best resolute manner. She -turned to the "odious person" with the same determination. "Perhaps you -will sit down and have a cup of coffee, too." - -The worthy "employer of labour" sat down. He might have been awed by -Mrs. Fyne's peremptory manner--for she did not think of conciliating him -then. He sat down, provisionally, like a man who finds himself much -against his will in doubtful company. He accepted ungraciously the cup -handed to him by Mrs. Fyne, took an unwilling sip or two and put it down -as if there were some moral contamination in the coffee of these -"swells." Between whiles he directed mysteriously inexpressive glances -at little Fyne, who, I gather, had no breakfast that morning at all. -Neither had the girl. She never moved her hands from her lap till her -appointed guardian got up, leaving his cup half full. - -"Well. If you don't mean to take advantage of this lady's kind offer I -may just as well take you home at once. I want to begin my day--I do." - -After a few more dumb, leaden-footed minutes while Flora was putting on -her hat and jacket, the Fynes without moving, without saying anything, -saw these two leave the room. - -"She never looked back at us," said Mrs. Fyne. "She just followed him -out. I've never had such a crushing impression of the miserable -dependence of girls--of women. This was an extreme case. But a young -man--any man--could have gone to break stones on the roads or something -of that kind--or enlisted--or--" - -It was very true. Women can't go forth on the high roads and by-ways to -pick up a living even when dignity, independence, or existence itself are -at stake. But what made me interrupt Mrs. Fyne's tirade was my profound -surprise at the fact of that respectable citizen being so willing to keep -in his home the poor girl for whom it seemed there was no place in the -world. And not only willing but anxious. I couldn't credit him with -generous impulses. For it seemed obvious to me from what I had learned -that, to put it mildly, he was not an impulsive person. - -"I confess that I can't understand his motive," I exclaimed. - -"This is exactly what John wondered at, at first," said Mrs. Fyne. By -that time an intimacy--if not exactly confidence--had sprung up between -us which permitted her in this discussion to refer to her husband as -John. "You know he had not opened his lips all that time," she pursued. -"I don't blame his restraint. On the contrary. What could he have said? -I could see he was observing the man very thoughtfully." - -"And so, Mr. Fyne listened, observed and meditated," I said. "That's an -excellent way of coming to a conclusion. And may I ask at what -conclusion he had managed to arrive? On what ground did he cease to -wonder at the inexplicable? For I can't admit humanity to be the -explanation. It would be too monstrous." - -It was nothing of the sort, Mrs. Fyne assured me with some resentment, as -though I had aspersed little Fyne's sanity. Fyne very sensibly had set -himself the mental task of discovering the self-interest. I should not -have thought him capable of so much cynicism. He said to himself that -for people of that sort (religious fears or the vanity of righteousness -put aside) money--not great wealth, but money, just a little money--is -the measure of virtue, of expediency, of wisdom--of pretty well -everything. But the girl was absolutely destitute. The father was in -prison after the most terribly complete and disgraceful smash of modern -times. And then it dawned upon Fyne that this was just it. The great -smash, in the great dust of vanishing millions! Was it possible that -they all had vanished to the last penny? Wasn't there, somewhere, -something palpable; some fragment of the fabric left? - -"That's it," had exclaimed Fyne, startling his wife by this explosive -unseating of his lips less than half an hour after the departure of de -Barral's cousin with de Barral's daughter. It was still in the dining- -room, very near the time for him to go forth affronting the elements in -order to put in another day's work in his country's service. All he -could say at the moment in elucidation of this breakdown from his usual -placid solemnity was: - -"The fellow imagines that de Barral has got some plunder put away -somewhere." - -This being the theory arrived at by Fyne, his comment on it was that a -good many bankrupts had been known to have taken such a precaution. It -was possible in de Barral's case. Fyne went so far in his display of -cynical pessimism as to say that it was extremely probable. - -He explained at length to Mrs. Fyne that de Barral certainly did not take -anyone into his confidence. But the beastly relative had made up his low -mind that it was so. He was selfish and pitiless in his stupidity, but -he had clearly conceived the notion of making a claim on de Barral when -de Barral came out of prison on the strength of having "looked after" (as -he would have himself expressed it) his daughter. He nursed his hopes, -such as they were, in secret, and it is to be supposed kept them even -from his wife. - -I could see it very well. That belief accounted for his mysterious air -while he interfered in favour of the girl. He was the only protector she -had. It was as though Flora had been fated to be always surrounded by -treachery and lies stifling every better impulse, every instinctive -aspiration of her soul to trust and to love. It would have been enough -to drive a fine nature into the madness of universal suspicion--into any -sort of madness. I don't know how far a sense of humour will stand by -one. To the foot of the gallows, perhaps. But from my recollection of -Flora de Barral I feared that she hadn't much sense of humour. She had -cried at the desertion of the absurd Fyne dog. That animal was certainly -free from duplicity. He was frank and simple and ridiculous. The -indignation of the girl at his unhypocritical behaviour had been funny -but not humorous. - -As you may imagine I was not very anxious to resume the discussion on the -justice, expediency, effectiveness or what not, of Fyne's journey to -London. It isn't that I was unfaithful to little Fyne out in the porch -with the dog. (They kept amazingly quiet there. Could they have gone to -sleep?) What I felt was that either my sagacity or my conscience would -come out damaged from that campaign. And no man will willingly put -himself in the way of moral damage. I did not want a war with Mrs. Fyne. -I much preferred to hear something more of the girl. I said: - -"And so she went away with that respectable ruffian." - -Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders slightly--"What else could she have done?" -I agreed with her by another hopeless gesture. It isn't so easy for a -girl like Flora de Barral to become a factory hand, a pathetic seamstress -or even a barmaid. She wouldn't have known how to begin. She was the -captive of the meanest conceivable fate. And she wasn't mean enough for -it. It is to be remarked that a good many people are born curiously -unfitted for the fate awaiting them on this earth. As I don't want you -to think that I am unduly partial to the girl we shall say that she -failed decidedly to endear herself to that simple, virtuous and, I -believe, teetotal household. It's my conviction that an angel would have -failed likewise. It's no use going into details; suffice it to state -that before the year was out she was again at the Fynes' door. - -This time she was escorted by a stout youth. His large pale face wore a -smile of inane cunning soured by annoyance. His clothes were new and the -indescribable smartness of their cut, a _genre_ which had never been -obtruded on her notice before, astonished Mrs. Fyne, who came out into -the hall with her hat on; for she was about to go out to hear a new -pianist (a girl) in a friend's house. The youth addressing Mrs. Fyne -easily begged her not to let "that silly thing go back to us any more." -There had been, he said, nothing but "ructions" at home about her for the -last three weeks. Everybody in the family was heartily sick of -quarrelling. His governor had charged him to bring her to this address -and say that the lady and gentleman were quite welcome to all there was -in it. She hadn't enough sense to appreciate a plain, honest English -home and she was better out of it. - -The young, pimply-faced fellow was vexed by this job his governor had -sprung on him. It was the cause of his missing an appointment for that -afternoon with a certain young lady. The lady he was engaged to. But he -meant to dash back and try for a sight of her that evening yet "if he -were to burst over it." "Good-bye, Florrie. Good luck to you--and I -hope I'll never see your face again." - -With that he ran out in lover-like haste leaving the hall-door wide open. -Mrs. Fyne had not found a word to say. She had been too much taken aback -even to gasp freely. But she had the presence of mind to grab the girl's -arm just as she, too, was running out into the street--with the haste, I -suppose, of despair and to keep I don't know what tragic tryst. - -"You stopped her with your own hand, Mrs. Fyne," I said. "I presume she -meant to get away. That girl is no comedian--if I am any judge." - -"Yes! I had to use some force to drag her in." - -Mrs. Fyne had no difficulty in stating the truth. "You see I was in the -very act of letting myself out when these two appeared. So that, when -that unpleasant young man ran off, I found myself alone with Flora. It -was all I could do to hold her in the hall while I called to the servants -to come and shut the door." - -As is my habit, or my weakness, or my gift, I don't know which, I -visualized the story for myself. I really can't help it. And the vision -of Mrs. Fyne dressed for a rather special afternoon function, engaged in -wrestling with a wild-eyed, white-faced girl had a certain dramatic -fascination. - -"Really!" I murmured. - -"Oh! There's no doubt that she struggled," said Mrs. Fyne. She -compressed her lips for a moment and then added: "As to her being a -comedian that's another question." - -Mrs. Fyne had returned to her attitude of folded arms. I saw before me -the daughter of the refined poet accepting life whole with its -unavoidable conditions of which one of the first is the instinct of self- -preservation and the egoism of every living creature. "The fact remains -nevertheless that you--yourself--have, in your own words, pulled her in," -I insisted in a jocular tone, with a serious intention. - -"What was one to do," exclaimed Mrs. Fyne with almost comic exasperation. -"Are you reproaching me with being too impulsive?" - -And she went on telling me that she was not that in the least. One of -the recommendations she always insisted on (to the girl-friends, I -imagine) was to be on guard against impulse. Always! But I had not been -there to see the face of Flora at the time. If I had it would be -haunting me to this day. Nobody unless made of iron would have allowed a -human being with a face like that to rush out alone into the streets. - -"And doesn't it haunt you, Mrs. Fyne?" I asked. - -"No, not now," she said implacably. "Perhaps if I had let her go it -might have done . . . Don't conclude, though, that I think she was -playing a comedy then, because after struggling at first she ended by -remaining. She gave up very suddenly. She collapsed in our arms, mine -and the maid's who came running up in response to my calls, and . . . " - -"And the door was then shut," I completed the phrase in my own way. - -"Yes, the door was shut," Mrs. Fyne lowered and raised her head slowly. - -I did not ask her for details. Of one thing I am certain, and that is -that Mrs. Fyne did not go out to the musical function that afternoon. She -was no doubt considerably annoyed at missing the privilege of hearing -privately an interesting young pianist (a girl) who, since, had become -one of the recognized performers. Mrs. Fyne did not dare leave her -house. As to the feelings of little Fyne when he came home from the -office, via his club, just half an hour before dinner, I have no -information. But I venture to affirm that in the main they were kindly, -though it is quite possible that in the first moment of surprise he had -to keep down a swear-word or two. - -* * * * * - -The long and the short of it all is that next day the Fynes made up their -minds to take into their confidence a certain wealthy old lady. With -certain old ladies the passing years bring back a sort of mellowed -youthfulness of feeling, an optimistic outlook, liking for novelty, -readiness for experiment. The old lady was very much interested: "Do let -me see the poor thing!" She was accordingly allowed to see Flora de -Barral in Mrs. Fyne's drawing-room on a day when there was no one else -there, and she preached to her with charming, sympathetic authority: "The -only way to deal with our troubles, my dear child, is to forget them. You -must forget yours. It's very simple. Look at me. I always forget mine. -At your age one ought to be cheerful." - -Later on when left alone with Mrs. Fyne she said to that lady: "I do hope -the child will manage to be cheerful. I can't have sad faces near me. At -my age one needs cheerful companions." - -And in this hope she carried off Flora de Barral to Bournemouth for the -winter months in the quality of reader and companion. She had said to -her with kindly jocularity: "We shall have a good time together. I am -not a grumpy old woman." But on their return to London she sought Mrs. -Fyne at once. She had discovered that Flora was not naturally cheerful. -When she made efforts to be it was still worse. The old lady couldn't -stand the strain of that. And then, to have the whole thing out, she -could not bear to have for a companion anyone who did not love her. She -was certain that Flora did not love her. Why? She couldn't say. -Moreover, she had caught the girl looking at her in a peculiar way at -times. Oh no!--it was not an evil look--it was an unusual expression -which one could not understand. And when one remembered that her father -was in prison shut up together with a lot of criminals and so on--it made -one uncomfortable. If the child had only tried to forget her troubles! -But she obviously was incapable or unwilling to do so. And that was -somewhat perverse--wasn't it? Upon the whole, she thought it would be -better perhaps-- - -Mrs. Fyne assented hurriedly to the unspoken conclusion: "Oh certainly! -Certainly," wondering to herself what was to be done with Flora next; but -she was not very much surprised at the change in the old lady's view of -Flora de Barral. She almost understood it. - -What came next was a German family, the continental acquaintances of the -wife of one of Fyne's colleagues in the Home Office. Flora of the -enigmatical glances was dispatched to them without much reflection. As -it was not considered absolutely necessary to take them into full -confidence, they neither expected the girl to be specially cheerful nor -were they discomposed unduly by the indescribable quality of her glances. -The German woman was quite ordinary; there were two boys to look after; -they were ordinary, too, I presume; and Flora, I understand, was very -attentive to them. If she taught them anything it must have been by -inspiration alone, for she certainly knew nothing of teaching. But it -was mostly "conversation" which was demanded from her. Flora de Barral -conversing with two small German boys, regularly, industriously, -conscientiously, in order to keep herself alive in the world which held -for her the past we know and the future of an even more undesirable -quality--seems to me a very fantastic combination. But I believe it was -not so bad. She was being, she wrote, mercifully drugged by her task. -She had learned to "converse" all day long, mechanically, absently, as if -in a trance. An uneasy trance it must have been! Her worst moments were -when off duty--alone in the evening, shut up in her own little room, her -dulled thoughts waking up slowly till she started into the full -consciousness of her position, like a person waking up in contact with -something venomous--a snake, for instance--experiencing a mad impulse to -fling the thing away and run off screaming to hide somewhere. - -At this period of her existence Flora de Barral used to write to Mrs. -Fyne not regularly but fairly often. I don't know how long she would -have gone on "conversing" and, incidentally, helping to supervise the -beautifully stocked linen closets of that well-to-do German household, if -the man of it had not developed in the intervals of his avocations (he -was a merchant and a thoroughly domesticated character) a psychological -resemblance to the Bournemouth old lady. It appeared that he, too, -wanted to be loved. - -He was not, however, of a conquering temperament--a kiss-snatching, door- -bursting type of libertine. In the very act of straying from the path of -virtue he remained a respectable merchant. It would have been perhaps -better for Flora if he had been a mere brute. But he set about his -sinister enterprise in a sentimental, cautious, almost paternal manner; -and thought he would be safe with a pretty orphan. The girl for all her -experience was still too innocent, and indeed not yet sufficiently aware -of herself as a woman, to mistrust these masked approaches. She did not -see them, in fact. She thought him sympathetic--the first expressively -sympathetic person she had ever met. She was so innocent that she could -not understand the fury of the German woman. For, as you may imagine, -the wifely penetration was not to be deceived for any great length of -time--the more so that the wife was older than the husband. The man with -the peculiar cowardice of respectability never said a word in Flora's -defence. He stood by and heard her reviled in the most abusive terms, -only nodding and frowning vaguely from time to time. It will give you -the idea of the girl's innocence when I say that at first she actually -thought this storm of indignant reproaches was caused by the discovery of -her real name and her relation to a convict. She had been sent out under -an assumed name--a highly recommended orphan of honourable parentage. Her -distress, her burning cheeks, her endeavours to express her regret for -this deception were taken for a confession of guilt. "You attempted to -bring dishonour to my home," the German woman screamed at her. - -Here's a misunderstanding for you! Flora de Barral, who felt the shame -but did not believe in the guilt of her father, retorted fiercely, -"Nevertheless I am as honourable as you are." And then the German woman -nearly went into a fit from rage. "I shall have you thrown out into the -street." - -Flora was not exactly thrown out into the street, I believe, but she was -bundled bag and baggage on board a steamer for London. Did I tell you -these people lived in Hamburg? Well yes--sent to the docks late on a -rainy winter evening in charge of some sneering lackey or other who -behaved to her insolently and left her on deck burning with indignation, -her hair half down, shaking with excitement and, truth to say, scared as -near as possible into hysterics. If it had not been for the stewardess -who, without asking questions, good soul, took charge of her quietly in -the ladies' saloon (luckily it was empty) it is by no means certain she -would ever have reached England. I can't tell if a straw ever saved a -drowning man, but I know that a mere glance is enough to make despair -pause. For in truth we who are creatures of impulse are not creatures of -despair. Suicide, I suspect, is very often the outcome of mere mental -weariness--not an act of savage energy but the final symptom of complete -collapse. The quiet, matter-of-fact attentions of a ship's stewardess, -who did not seem aware of other human agonies than sea-sickness, who -talked of the probable weather of the passage--it would be a rough night, -she thought--and who insisted in a professionally busy manner, "Let me -make you comfortable down below at once, miss," as though she were -thinking of nothing else but her tip--was enough to dissipate the shades -of death gathering round the mortal weariness of bewildered thinking -which makes the idea of non-existence welcome so often to the young. -Flora de Barral did lie down, and it may be presumed she slept. At any -rate she survived the voyage across the North Sea and told Mrs. Fyne all -about it, concealing nothing and receiving no rebuke--for Mrs. Fyne's -opinions had a large freedom in their pedantry. She held, I suppose, -that a woman holds an absolute right--or possesses a perfect excuse--to -escape in her own way from a man-mismanaged world. - -* * * * * - -What is to be noted is that even in London, having had time to take a -reflective view, poor Flora was far from being certain as to the true -inwardness of her violent dismissal. She felt the humiliation of it with -an almost maddened resentment. - -"And did you enlighten her on the point?" I ventured to ask. - -Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders with a philosophical acceptance of all the -necessities which ought not to be. Something had to be said, she -murmured. She had told the girl enough to make her come to the right -conclusion by herself. - -"And she did?" - -"Yes. Of course. She isn't a goose," retorted Mrs. Fyne tartly. - -"Then her education is completed," I remarked with some bitterness. -"Don't you think she ought to be given a chance?" - -Mrs. Fyne understood my meaning. - -"Not this one," she snapped in a quite feminine way. "It's all very well -for you to plead, but I--" - -"I do not plead. I simply asked. It seemed natural to ask what you -thought." - -"It's what I feel that matters. And I can't help my feelings. You may -guess," she added in a softer tone, "that my feelings are mostly -concerned with my brother. We were very fond of each other. The -difference of our ages was not very great. I suppose you know he is a -little younger than I am. He was a sensitive boy. He had the habit of -brooding. It is no use concealing from you that neither of us was happy -at home. You have heard, no doubt . . . Yes? Well, I was made still -more unhappy and hurt--I don't mind telling you that. He made his way to -some distant relations of our mother's people who I believe were not -known to my father at all. I don't wish to judge their action." - -I interrupted Mrs. Fyne here. I had heard. Fyne was not very -communicative in general, but he was proud of his father-in-law--"Carleon -Anthony, the poet, you know." Proud of his celebrity without approving -of his character. It was on that account, I strongly suspect, that he -seized with avidity upon the theory of poetical genius being allied to -madness, which he got hold of in some idiotic book everybody was reading -a few years ago. It struck him as being truth itself--illuminating like -the sun. He adopted it devoutly. He bored me with it sometimes. Once, -just to shut him up, I asked quietly if this theory which he regarded as -so incontrovertible did not cause him some uneasiness about his wife and -the dear girls? He transfixed me with a pitying stare and requested me -in his deep solemn voice to remember the "well-established fact" that -genius was not transmissible. - -I said only "Oh! Isn't it?" and he thought he had silenced me by an -unanswerable argument. But he continued to talk of his glorious father- -in-law, and it was in the course of that conversation that he told me -how, when the Liverpool relations of the poet's late wife naturally -addressed themselves to him in considerable concern, suggesting a -friendly consultation as to the boy's future, the incensed (but always -refined) poet wrote in answer a letter of mere polished _badinage_ which -offended mortally the Liverpool people. This witty outbreak of what was -in fact mortification and rage appeared to them so heartless that they -simply kept the boy. They let him go to sea not because he was in their -way but because he begged hard to be allowed to go. - -"Oh! You do know," said Mrs. Fyne after a pause. "Well--I felt myself -very much abandoned. Then his choice of life--so extraordinary, so -unfortunate, I may say. I was very much grieved. I should have liked -him to have been distinguished--or at any rate to remain in the social -sphere where we could have had common interests, acquaintances, thoughts. -Don't think that I am estranged from him. But the precise truth is that -I do not know him. I was most painfully affected when he was here by the -difficulty of finding a single topic we could discuss together." - -While Mrs. Fyne was talking of her brother I let my thoughts wander out -of the room to little Fyne who by leaving me alone with his wife had, so -to speak, entrusted his domestic peace to my honour. - -"Well, then, Mrs. Fyne, does it not strike you that it would be -reasonable under the circumstances to let your brother take care of -himself?" - -"And suppose I have grounds to think that he can't take care of himself -in a given instance." She hesitated in a funny, bashful manner which -roused my interest. Then: - -"Sailors I believe are very susceptible," she added with forced -assurance. - -I burst into a laugh which only increased the coldness of her observing -stare. - -"They are. Immensely! Hopelessly! My dear Mrs. Fyne, you had better -give it up! It only makes your husband miserable." - -"And I am quite miserable too. It is really our first difference . . . " - -"Regarding Miss de Barral?" I asked. - -"Regarding everything. It's really intolerable that this girl should be -the occasion. I think he really ought to give way." - -She turned her chair round a little and picking up the book I had been -reading in the morning began to turn the leaves absently. - -Her eyes being off me, I felt I could allow myself to leave the room. Its -atmosphere had become hopeless for little Fyne's domestic peace. You may -smile. But to the solemn all things are solemn. I had enough sagacity -to understand that. - -I slipped out into the porch. The dog was slumbering at Fyne's feet. The -muscular little man leaning on his elbow and gazing over the fields -presented a forlorn figure. He turned his head quickly, but seeing I was -alone, relapsed into his moody contemplation of the green landscape. - -I said loudly and distinctly: "I've come out to smoke a cigarette," and -sat down near him on the little bench. Then lowering my voice: -"Tolerance is an extremely difficult virtue," I said. "More difficult -for some than heroism. More difficult than compassion." - -I avoided looking at him. I knew well enough that he would not like this -opening. General ideas were not to his taste. He mistrusted them. I -lighted a cigarette, not that I wanted to smoke, but to give another -moment to the consideration of the advice--the diplomatic advice I had -made up my mind to bowl him over with. And I continued in subdued tones. - -"I have been led to make these remarks by what I have discovered since -you left us. I suspected from the first. And now I am certain. What -your wife cannot tolerate in this affair is Miss de Barral being what she -is." - -He made a movement, but I kept my eyes away from him and went on -steadily. "That is--her being a woman. I have some idea of Mrs. Fyne's -mental attitude towards society with its injustices, with its atrocious -or ridiculous conventions. As against them there is no audacity of -action your wife's mind refuses to sanction. The doctrine which I -imagine she stuffs into the pretty heads of your girl-guests is almost -vengeful. A sort of moral fire-and-sword doctrine. How far the lesson -is wise is not for me to say. I don't permit myself to judge. I seem to -see her very delightful disciples singeing themselves with the torches, -and cutting their fingers with the swords of Mrs. Fyne's furnishing." - -"My wife holds her opinions very seriously," murmured Fyne suddenly. - -"Yes. No doubt," I assented in a low voice as before. "But it is a mere -intellectual exercise. What I see is that in dealing with reality Mrs. -Fyne ceases to be tolerant. In other words, that she can't forgive Miss -de Barral for being a woman and behaving like a woman. And yet this is -not only reasonable and natural, but it is her only chance. A woman -against the world has no resources but in herself. Her only means of -action is to be what _she is_. You understand what I mean." - -Fyne mumbled between his teeth that he understood. But he did not seem -interested. What he expected of me was to extricate him from a difficult -situation. I don't know how far credible this may sound, to less solemn -married couples, but to remain at variance with his wife seemed to him a -considerable incident. Almost a disaster. - -"It looks as though I didn't care what happened to her brother," he said. -"And after all if anything . . . " - -I became a little impatient but without raising my tone: - -"What thing?" I asked. "The liability to get penal servitude is so far -like genius that it isn't hereditary. And what else can be objected to -the girl? All the energy of her deeper feelings, which she would use up -vainly in the danger and fatigue of a struggle with society may be turned -into devoted attachment to the man who offers her a way of escape from -what can be only a life of moral anguish. I don't mention the physical -difficulties." - -Glancing at Fyne out of the corner of one eye I discovered that he was -attentive. He made the remark that I should have said all this to his -wife. It was a sensible enough remark. But I had given Mrs. Fyne up. I -asked him if his impression was that his wife meant to entrust him with a -letter for her brother? - -No. He didn't think so. There were certain reasons which made Mrs. Fyne -unwilling to commit her arguments to paper. Fyne was to be primed with -them. But he had no doubt that if he persisted in his refusal she would -make up her mind to write. - -"She does not wish me to go unless with a full conviction that she is -right," said Fyne solemnly. - -"She's very exacting," I commented. And then I reflected that she was -used to it. "Would nothing less do for once?" - -"You don't mean that I should give way--do you?" asked Fyne in a whisper -of alarmed suspicion. - -As this was exactly what I meant, I let his fright sink into him. He -fidgeted. If the word may be used of so solemn a personage, he wriggled. -And when the horrid suspicion had descended into his very heels, so to -speak, he became very still. He sat gazing stonily into space bounded by -the yellow, burnt-up slopes of the rising ground a couple of miles away. -The face of the down showed the white scar of the quarry where not more -than sixteen hours before Fyne and I had been groping in the dark with -horrible apprehension of finding under our hands the shattered body of a -girl. For myself I had in addition the memory of my meeting with her. -She was certainly walking very near the edge--courting a sinister -solution. But, now, having by the most unexpected chance come upon a -man, she had found another way to escape from the world. Such world as -was open to her--without shelter, without bread, without honour. The -best she could have found in it would have been a precarious dole of pity -diminishing as her years increased. The appeal of the abandoned child -Flora to the sympathies of the Fynes had been irresistible. But now she -had become a woman, and Mrs. Fyne was presenting an implacable front to a -particularly feminine transaction. I may say triumphantly feminine. It -is true that Mrs. Fyne did not want women to be women. Her theory was -that they should turn themselves into unscrupulous sexless nuisances. An -offended theorist dwelt in her bosom somewhere. In what way she expected -Flora de Barral to set about saving herself from a most miserable -existence I can't conceive; but I verify believe that she would have -found it easier to forgive the girl an actual crime; say the rifling of -the Bournemouth old lady's desk, for instance. And then--for Mrs. Fyne -was very much of a woman herself--her sense of proprietorship was very -strong within her; and though she had not much use for her brother, yet -she did not like to see him annexed by another woman. By a chit of a -girl. And such a girl, too. Nothing is truer than that, in this world, -the luckless have no right to their opportunities--as if misfortune were -a legal disqualification. Fyne's sentiments (as they naturally would be -in a man) had more stability. A good deal of his sympathy survived. -Indeed I heard him murmur "Ghastly nuisance," but I knew it was of the -integrity of his domestic accord that he was thinking. With my eyes on -the dog lying curled up in sleep in the middle of the porch I suggested -in a subdued impersonal tone: "Yes. Why not let yourself be persuaded?" - -I never saw little Fyne less solemn. He hissed through his teeth in -unexpectedly figurative style that it would take a lot to persuade him to -"push under the head of a poor devil of a girl quite sufficiently -plucky"--and snorted. He was still gazing at the distant quarry, and I -think he was affected by that sight. I assured him that I was far from -advising him to do anything so cruel. I am convinced he had always -doubted the soundness of my principles, because he turned on me swiftly -as though he had been on the watch for a lapse from the straight path. - -"Then what do you mean? That I should pretend!" - -"No! What nonsense! It would be immoral. I may however tell you that -if I had to make a choice I would rather do something immoral than -something cruel. What I meant was that, not believing in the efficacy of -the interference, the whole question is reduced to your consenting to do -what your wife wishes you to do. That would be acting like a gentleman, -surely. And acting unselfishly too, because I can very well understand -how distasteful it may be to you. Generally speaking, an unselfish -action is a moral action. I'll tell you what. I'll go with you." - -He turned round and stared at me with surprise and suspicion. "You would -go with me?" he repeated. - -"You don't understand," I said, amused at the incredulous disgust of his -tone. "I must run up to town, to-morrow morning. Let us go together. -You have a set of travelling chessmen." - -His physiognomy, contracted by a variety of emotions, relaxed to a -certain extent at the idea of a game. I told him that as I had business -at the Docks he should have my company to the very ship. - -"We shall beguile the way to the wilds of the East by improving -conversation," I encouraged him. - -"My brother-in-law is staying at an hotel--the Eastern Hotel," he said, -becoming sombre again. "I haven't the slightest idea where it is." - -"I know the place. I shall leave you at the door with the comfortable -conviction that you are doing what's right since it pleases a lady and -cannot do any harm to anybody whatever." - -"You think so? No harm to anybody?" he repeated doubtfully. - -"I assure you it's not the slightest use," I said with all possible -emphasis which seemed only to increase the solemn discontent of his -expression. - -"But in order that my going should be a perfectly candid proceeding I -must first convince my wife that it isn't the slightest use," he objected -portentously. - -"Oh, you casuist!" I said. And I said nothing more because at that -moment Mrs. Fyne stepped out into the porch. We rose together at her -appearance. Her clear, colourless, unflinching glance enveloped us both -critically. I sustained the chill smilingly, but Fyne stooped at once to -release the dog. He was some time about it; then simultaneously with his -recovery of upright position the animal passed at one bound from -profoundest slumber into most tumultuous activity. Enveloped in the -tornado of his inane scurryings and barkings I took Mrs. Fyne's hand -extended to me woodenly and bowed over it with deference. She walked -down the path without a word; Fyne had preceded her and was waiting by -the open gate. They passed out and walked up the road surrounded by a -low cloud of dust raised by the dog gyrating madly about their two -figures progressing side by side with rectitude and propriety, and (I -don't know why) looking to me as if they had annexed the whole country- -side. Perhaps it was that they had impressed me somehow with the sense -of their superiority. What superiority? Perhaps it consisted just in -their limitations. It was obvious that neither of them had carried away -a high opinion of me. But what affected me most was the indifference of -the Fyne dog. He used to precipitate himself at full speed and with a -frightful final upward spring upon my waistcoat, at least once at each of -our meetings. He had neglected that ceremony this time notwithstanding -my correct and even conventional conduct in offering him a cake; it -seemed to me symbolic of my final separation from the Fyne household. And -I remembered against him how on a certain day he had abandoned poor Flora -de Barral--who was morbidly sensitive. - -I sat down in the porch and, maybe inspired by secret antagonism to the -Fynes, I said to myself deliberately that Captain Anthony must be a fine -fellow. Yet on the facts as I knew them he might have been a dangerous -trifler or a downright scoundrel. He had made a miserable, hopeless girl -follow him clandestinely to London. It is true that the girl had written -since, only Mrs. Fyne had been remarkably vague as to the contents. They -were unsatisfactory. They did not positively announce imminent nuptials -as far as I could make it out from her rather mysterious hints. But then -her inexperience might have led her astray. There was no fathoming the -innocence of a woman like Mrs. Fyne who, venturing as far as possible in -theory, would know nothing of the real aspect of things. It would have -been comic if she were making all this fuss for nothing. But I rejected -this suspicion for the honour of human nature. - -I imagined to myself Captain Anthony as simple and romantic. It was much -more pleasant. Genius is not hereditary but temperament may be. And he -was the son of a poet with an admirable gift of individualising, of -etherealizing the common-place; of making touching, delicate, fascinating -the most hopeless conventions of the, so-called, refined existence. - -What I could not understand was Mrs. Fyne's dog-in-the-manger attitude. -Sentimentally she needed that brother of hers so little! What could it -matter to her one way or another--setting aside common humanity which -would suggest at least a neutral attitude. Unless indeed it was the -blind working of the law that in our world of chances the luckless _must_ -be put in the wrong somehow. - -And musing thus on the general inclination of our instincts towards -injustice I met unexpectedly, at the turn of the road, as it were, a -shape of duplicity. It might have been unconscious on Mrs. Fyne's part, -but her leading idea appeared to me to be not to keep, not to preserve -her brother, but to get rid of him definitely. She did not hope to stop -anything. She had too much sense for that. Almost anyone out of an -idiot asylum would have had enough sense for that. She wanted the -protest to be made, emphatically, with Fyne's fullest concurrence in -order to make all intercourse for the future impossible. Such an action -would estrange the pair for ever from the Fynes. She understood her -brother and the girl too. Happy together, they would never forgive that -outspoken hostility--and should the marriage turn out badly . . . Well, -it would be just the same. Neither of them would be likely to bring -their troubles to such a good prophet of evil. - -Yes. That must have been her motive. The inspiration of a possibly -unconscious Machiavellism! Either she was afraid of having a sister-in- -law to look after during the husband's long absences; or dreaded the more -or less distant eventuality of her brother being persuaded to leave the -sea, the friendly refuge of his unhappy youth, and to settle on shore, -bringing to her very door this undesirable, this embarrassing connection. -She wanted to be done with it--maybe simply from the fatigue of -continuous effort in good or evil, which, in the bulk of common mortals, -accounts for so many surprising inconsistencies of conduct. - -I don't know that I had classed Mrs. Fyne, in my thoughts, amongst common -mortals. She was too quietly sure of herself for that. But little Fyne, -as I spied him next morning (out of the carriage window) speeding along -the platform, looked very much like a common, flustered mortal who has -made a very near thing of catching his train: the starting wild eyes, the -tense and excited face, the distracted gait, all the common symptoms were -there, rendered more impressive by his native solemnity which flapped -about him like a disordered garment. Had he--I asked myself with -interest--resisted his wife to the very last minute and then bolted up -the road from the last conclusive argument, as though it had been a -loaded gun suddenly produced? I opened the carriage door, and a vigorous -porter shoved him in from behind just as the end of the rustic platform -went gliding swiftly from under his feet. He was very much out of -breath, and I waited with some curiosity for the moment he would recover -his power of speech. That moment came. He said "Good morning" with a -slight gasp, remained very still for another minute and then pulled out -of his pocket the travelling chessboard, and holding it in his hand, -directed at me a glance of inquiry. - -"Yes. Certainly," I said, very much disappointed. - - - -CHAPTER SEVEN--ON THE PAVEMENT - - -Fyne was not willing to talk; but as I had been already let into the -secret, the fair-minded little man recognized that I had some right to -information if I insisted on it. And I did insist, after the third game. -We were yet some way from the end of our journey. - -"Oh, if you want to know," was his somewhat impatient opening. And then -he talked rather volubly. First of all his wife had not given him to -read the letter received from Flora (I had suspected him of having it in -his pocket), but had told him all about the contents. It was not at all -what it should have been even if the girl had wished to affirm her right -to disregard the feelings of all the world. Her own had been trampled in -the dirt out of all shape. Extraordinary thing to say--I would admit, -for a young girl of her age. The whole tone of that letter was wrong, -quite wrong. It was certainly not the product of a--say, of a -well-balanced mind. - -"If she were given some sort of footing in this world," I said, "if only -no bigger than the palm of my hand, she would probably learn to keep a -better balance." - -Fyne ignored this little remark. His wife, he said, was not the sort of -person to be addressed mockingly on a serious subject. There was an -unpleasant strain of levity in that letter, extending even to the -references to Captain Anthony himself. Such a disposition was enough, -his wife had pointed out to him, to alarm one for the future, had all the -circumstances of that preposterous project been as satisfactory as in -fact they were not. Other parts of the letter seemed to have a -challenging tone--as if daring them (the Fynes) to approve her conduct. -And at the same time implying that she did not care, that it was for -their own sakes that she hoped they would "go against the world--the -horrid world which had crushed poor papa." - -Fyne called upon me to admit that this was pretty cool--considering. And -there was another thing, too. It seems that for the last six months (she -had been assisting two ladies who kept a kindergarten school in -Bayswater--a mere pittance), Flora had insisted on devoting all her spare -time to the study of the trial. She had been looking up files of old -newspapers, and working herself up into a state of indignation with what -she called the injustice and the hypocrisy of the prosecution. Her -father, Fyne reminded me, had made some palpable hits in his answers in -Court, and she had fastened on them triumphantly. She had reached the -conclusion of her father's innocence, and had been brooding over it. Mrs. -Fyne had pointed out to him the danger of this. - -The train ran into the station and Fyne, jumping out directly it came to -a standstill, seemed glad to cut short the conversation. We walked in -silence a little way, boarded a bus, then walked again. I don't suppose -that since the days of his childhood, when surely he was taken to see the -Tower, he had been once east of Temple Bar. He looked about him -sullenly; and when I pointed out in the distance the rounded front of the -Eastern Hotel at the bifurcation of two very broad, mean, shabby -thoroughfares, rising like a grey stucco tower above the lowly roofs of -the dirty-yellow, two-storey houses, he only grunted disapprovingly. - -"I wouldn't lay too much stress on what you have been telling me," I -observed quietly as we approached that unattractive building. "No man -will believe a girl who has just accepted his suit to be not well -balanced,--you know." - -"Oh! Accepted his suit," muttered Fyne, who seemed to have been very -thoroughly convinced indeed. "It may have been the other way about." And -then he added: "I am going through with it." - -I said that this was very praiseworthy but that a certain moderation of -statement . . . He waved his hand at me and mended his pace. I guessed -that he was anxious to get his mission over as quickly as possible. He -barely gave himself time to shake hands with me and made a rush at the -narrow glass door with the words Hotel Entrance on it. It swung to -behind his back with no more noise than the snap of a toothless jaw. - -The absurd temptation to remain and see what would come of it got over my -better judgment. I hung about irresolute, wondering how long an embassy -of that sort would take, and whether Fyne on coming out would consent to -be communicative. I feared he would be shocked at finding me there, -would consider my conduct incorrect, conceivably treat me with contempt. -I walked off a few paces. Perhaps it would be possible to read something -on Fyne's face as he came out; and, if necessary, I could always eclipse -myself discreetly through the door of one of the bars. The ground floor -of the Eastern Hotel was an unabashed pub, with plate-glass fronts, a -display of brass rails, and divided into many compartments each having -its own entrance. - -But of course all this was silly. The marriage, the love, the affairs of -Captain Anthony were none of my business. I was on the point of moving -down the street for good when my attention was attracted by a girl -approaching the hotel entrance from the west. She was dressed very -modestly in black. It was the white straw hat of a good form and trimmed -with a bunch of pale roses which had caught my eye. The whole figure -seemed familiar. Of course! Flora de Barral. She was making for the -hotel, she was going in. And Fyne was with Captain Anthony! To meet him -could not be pleasant for her. I wished to save her from the -awkwardness, and as I hesitated what to do she looked up and our eyes -happened to meet just as she was turning off the pavement into the hotel -doorway. Instinctively I extended my arm. It was enough to make her -stop. I suppose she had some faint notion that she had seen me before -somewhere. She walked slowly forward, prudent and attentive, watching my -faint smile. - -"Excuse me," I said directly she had approached me near enough. "Perhaps -you would like to know that Mr. Fyne is upstairs with Captain Anthony at -this moment." - -She uttered a faint "Ah! Mr. Fyne!" I could read in her eyes that she -had recognized me now. Her serious expression extinguished the imbecile -grin of which I was conscious. I raised my hat. She responded with a -slow inclination of the head while her luminous, mistrustful, maiden's -glance seemed to whisper, "What is this one doing here?" - -"I came up to town with Fyne this morning," I said in a businesslike -tone. "I have to see a friend in East India Dock. Fyne and I parted -this moment at the door here . . . " The girl regarded me with -darkening eyes . . . "Mrs. Fyne did not come with her husband," I went -on, then hesitated before that white face so still in the pearly shadow -thrown down by the hat-brim. "But she sent him," I murmured by way of -warning. - -Her eyelids fluttered slowly over the fixed stare. I imagine she was not -much disconcerted by this development. "I live a long way from here," -she whispered. - -I said perfunctorily, "Do you?" And we remained gazing at each other. -The uniform paleness of her complexion was not that of an anaemic girl. -It had a transparent vitality and at that particular moment the faintest -possible rosy tinge, the merest suspicion of colour; an equivalent, I -suppose, in any other girl to blushing like a peony while she told me -that Captain Anthony had arranged to show her the ship that morning. - -It was easy to understand that she did not want to meet Fyne. And when I -mentioned in a discreet murmur that he had come because of her letter she -glanced at the hotel door quickly, and moved off a few steps to a -position where she could watch the entrance without being seen. I -followed her. At the junction of the two thoroughfares she stopped in -the thin traffic of the broad pavement and turned to me with an air of -challenge. "And so you know." - -I told her that I had not seen the letter. I had only heard of it. She -was a little impatient. "I mean all about me." - -Yes. I knew all about her. The distress of Mr. and Mrs. Fyne--especially -of Mrs. Fyne--was so great that they would have shared it with anybody -almost--not belonging to their circle of friends. I happened to be at -hand--that was all. - -"You understand that I am not their friend. I am only a holiday -acquaintance." - -"She was not very much upset?" queried Flora de Barral, meaning, of -course, Mrs. Fyne. And I admitted that she was less so than her -husband--and even less than myself. Mrs. Fyne was a very self-possessed -person which nothing could startle out of her extreme theoretical -position. She did not seem startled when Fyne and I proposed going to -the quarry. - -"You put that notion into their heads," the girl said. - -I advanced that the notion was in their heads already. But it was much -more vividly in my head since I had seen her up there with my own eyes, -tempting Providence. - -She was looking at me with extreme attention, and murmured: - -"Is that what you called it to them? Tempting . . . " - -"No. I told them that you were making up your mind and I came along just -then. I told them that you were saved by me. My shout checked you . . . -" She moved her head gently from right to left in negation . . . "No? -Well, have it your own way." - -I thought to myself: She has found another issue. She wants to forget -now. And no wonder. She wants to persuade herself that she had never -known such an ugly and poignant minute in her life. "After all," I -conceded aloud, "things are not always what they seem." - -Her little head with its deep blue eyes, eyes of tenderness and anger -under the black arch of fine eyebrows was very still. The mouth looked -very red in the white face peeping from under the veil, the little -pointed chin had in its form something aggressive. Slight and even -angular in her modest black dress she was an appealing and--yes--she was -a desirable little figure. - -Her lips moved very fast asking me: - -"And they believed you at once?" - -"Yes, they believed me at once. Mrs. Fyne's word to us was "Go!" - -A white gleam between the red lips was so short that I remained uncertain -whether it was a smile or a ferocious baring of little even teeth. The -rest of the face preserved its innocent, tense and enigmatical -expression. She spoke rapidly. - -"No, it wasn't your shout. I had been there some time before you saw me. -And I was not there to tempt Providence, as you call it. I went up there -for--for what you thought I was going to do. Yes. I climbed two fences. -I did not mean to leave anything to Providence. There seem to be people -for whom Providence can do nothing. I suppose you are shocked to hear me -talk like that?" - -I shook my head. I was not shocked. What had kept her back all that -time, till I appeared on the scene below, she went on, was neither fear -nor any other kind of hesitation. One reaches a point, she said with -appalling youthful simplicity, where nothing that concerns one matters -any longer. But something did keep her back. I should have never -guessed what it was. She herself confessed that it seemed absurd to say. -It was the Fyne dog. - -Flora de Barral paused, looking at me, with a peculiar expression and -then went on. You see, she imagined the dog had become extremely -attached to her. She took it into her head that he might fall over or -jump down after her. She tried to drive him away. She spoke sternly to -him. It only made him more frisky. He barked and jumped about her skirt -in his usual, idiotic, high spirits. He scampered away in circles -between the pines charging upon her and leaping as high as her waist. She -commanded, "Go away. Go home." She even picked up from the ground a bit -of a broken branch and threw it at him. At this his delight knew no -bounds; his rushes became faster, his yapping louder; he seemed to be -having the time of his life. She was convinced that the moment she threw -herself down he would spring over after her as if it were part of the -game. She was vexed almost to tears. She was touched too. And when he -stood still at some distance as if suddenly rooted to the ground wagging -his tail slowly and watching her intensely with his shining eyes another -fear came to her. She imagined herself gone and the creature sitting on -the brink, its head thrown up to the sky and howling for hours. This -thought was not to be borne. Then my shout reached her ears. - -She told me all this with simplicity. My voice had destroyed her -poise--the suicide poise of her mind. Every act of ours, the most -criminal, the most mad presupposes a balance of thought, feeling and -will, like a correct attitude for an effective stroke in a game. And I -had destroyed it. She was no longer in proper form for the act. She was -not very much annoyed. Next day would do. She would have to slip away -without attracting the notice of the dog. She thought of the necessity -almost tenderly. She came down the path carrying her despair with lucid -calmness. But when she saw herself deserted by the dog, she had an -impulse to turn round, go up again and be done with it. Not even that -animal cared for her--in the end. - -"I really did think that he was attached to me. What did he want to -pretend for, like this? I thought nothing could hurt me any more. Oh -yes. I would have gone up, but I felt suddenly so tired. So tired. And -then you were there. I didn't know what you would do. You might have -tried to follow me and I didn't think I could run--not up hill--not -then." - -She had raised her white face a little, and it was queer to hear her say -these things. At that time of the morning there are comparatively few -people out in that part of the town. The broad interminable perspective -of the East India Dock Road, the great perspective of drab brick walls, -of grey pavement, of muddy roadway rumbling dismally with loaded carts -and vans lost itself in the distance, imposing and shabby in its spacious -meanness of aspect, in its immeasurable poverty of forms, of colouring, -of life--under a harsh, unconcerned sky dried by the wind to a clear -blue. It had been raining during the night. The sunshine itself seemed -poor. From time to time a few bits of paper, a little dust and straw -whirled past us on the broad flat promontory of the pavement before the -rounded front of the hotel. - -Flora de Barral was silent for a while. I said: - -"And next day you thought better of it." - -Again she raised her eyes to mine with that peculiar expression of -informed innocence; and again her white cheeks took on the faintest tinge -of pink--the merest shadow of a blush. - -"Next day," she uttered distinctly, "I didn't think. I remembered. That -was enough. I remembered what I should never have forgotten. Never. And -Captain Anthony arrived at the cottage in the evening." - -"Ah yes. Captain Anthony," I murmured. And she repeated also in a -murmur, "Yes! Captain Anthony." The faint flush of warm life left her -face. I subdued my voice still more and not looking at her: "You found -him sympathetic?" I ventured. - -Her long dark lashes went down a little with an air of calculated -discretion. At least so it seemed to me. And yet no one could say that -I was inimical to that girl. But there you are! Explain it as you may, -in this world the friendless, like the poor, are always a little suspect, -as if honesty and delicacy were only possible to the privileged few. - -"Why do you ask?" she said after a time, raising her eyes suddenly to -mine in an effect of candour which on the same principle (of the -disinherited not being to be trusted) might have been judged equivocal. - -"If you mean what right I have . . . " She move slightly a hand in a -worn brown glove as much as to say she could not question anyone's right -against such an outcast as herself. - -I ought to have been moved perhaps; but I only noted the total absence of -humility . . . "No right at all," I continued, "but just interest. Mrs. -Fyne--it's too difficult to explain how it came about--has talked to me -of you--well--extensively." - -No doubt Mrs. Fyne had told me the truth, Flora said brusquely with an -unexpected hoarseness of tone. This very dress she was wearing had been -given her by Mrs. Fyne. Of course I looked at it. It could not have -been a recent gift. Close-fitting and black, with heliotrope silk -facings under a figured net, it looked far from new, just on this side of -shabbiness; in fact, it accentuated the slightness of her figure, it went -well in its suggestion of half mourning with the white face in which the -unsmiling red lips alone seemed warm with the rich blood of life and -passion. - -Little Fyne was staying up there an unconscionable time. Was he arguing, -preaching, remonstrating? Had he discovered in himself a capacity and a -taste for that sort of thing? Or was he perhaps, in an intense dislike -for the job, beating about the bush and only puzzling Captain Anthony, -the providential man, who, if he expected the girl to appear at any -moment, must have been on tenterhooks all the time, and beside himself -with impatience to see the back of his brother-in-law. How was it that -he had not got rid of Fyne long before in any case? I don't mean by -actually throwing him out of the window, but in some other resolute -manner. - -Surely Fyne had not impressed him. That he was an impressionable man I -could not doubt. The presence of the girl there on the pavement before -me proved this up to the hilt--and, well, yes, touchingly enough. - -It so happened that in their wanderings to and fro our glances met. They -met and remained in contact more familiar than a hand-clasp, more -communicative, more expressive. There was something comic too in the -whole situation, in the poor girl and myself waiting together on the -broad pavement at a corner public-house for the issue of Fyne's -ridiculous mission. But the comic when it is human becomes quickly -painful. Yes, she was infinitely anxious. And I was asking myself -whether this poignant tension of her suspense depended--to put it -plainly--on hunger or love. - -The answer would have been of some interest to Captain Anthony. For my -part, in the presence of a young girl I always become convinced that the -dreams of sentiment--like the consoling mysteries of Faith--are -invincible; that it is never never reason which governs men and women. - -Yet what sentiment could there have been on her part? I remembered her -tone only a moment since when she said: "That evening Captain Anthony -arrived at the cottage." And considering, too, what the arrival of -Captain Anthony meant in this connection, I wondered at the calmness with -which she could mention that fact. He arrived at the cottage. In the -evening. I knew that late train. He probably walked from the station. -The evening would be well advanced. I could almost see a dark indistinct -figure opening the wicket gate of the garden. Where was she? Did she -see him enter? Was she somewhere near by and did she hear without the -slightest premonition his chance and fateful footsteps on the flagged -path leading to the cottage door? In the shadow of the night made more -cruelly sombre for her by the very shadow of death he must have appeared -too strange, too remote, too unknown to impress himself on her thought as -a living force--such a force as a man can bring to bear on a woman's -destiny. - -She glanced towards the hotel door again; I followed suit and then our -eyes met once more, this time intentionally. A tentative, uncertain -intimacy was springing up between us two. She said simply: "You are -waiting for Mr. Fyne to come out; are you?" - -I admitted to her that I was waiting to see Mr. Fyne come out. That was -all. I had nothing to say to him. - -"I have said yesterday all I had to say to him," I added meaningly. "I -have said it to them both, in fact. I have also heard all they had to -say." - -"About me?" she murmured. - -"Yes. The conversation was about you." - -"I wonder if they told you everything." - -If she wondered I could do nothing else but wonder too. But I did not -tell her that. I only smiled. The material point was that Captain -Anthony should be told everything. But as to that I was very certain -that the good sister would see to it. Was there anything more to -disclose--some other misery, some other deception of which that girl had -been a victim? It seemed hardly probable. It was not even easy to -imagine. What struck me most was her--I suppose I must call -it--composure. One could not tell whether she understood what she had -done. One wondered. She was not so much unreadable as blank; and I did -not know whether to admire her for it or dismiss her from my thoughts as -a passive butt of ferocious misfortune. - -Looking back at the occasion when we first got on speaking terms on the -road by the quarry, I had to admit that she presented some points of a -problematic appearance. I don't know why I imagined Captain Anthony as -the sort of man who would not be likely to take the initiative; not -perhaps from indifference but from that peculiar timidity before women -which often enough is found in conjunction with chivalrous instincts, -with a great need for affection and great stability of feelings. Such -men are easily moved. At the least encouragement they go forward with -the eagerness, with the recklessness of starvation. This accounted for -the suddenness of the affair. No! With all her inexperience this girl -could not have found any great difficulty in her conquering enterprise. -She must have begun it. And yet there she was, patient, almost unmoved, -almost pitiful, waiting outside like a beggar, without a right to -anything but compassion, for a promised dole. - -Every moment people were passing close by us, singly, in two and threes; -the inhabitants of that end of the town where life goes on unadorned by -grace or splendour; they passed us in their shabby garments, with sallow -faces, haggard, anxious or weary, or simply without expression, in an -unsmiling sombre stream not made up of lives but of mere unconsidered -existences whose joys, struggles, thoughts, sorrows and their very hopes -were miserable, glamourless, and of no account in the world. And when -one thought of their reality to themselves one's heart became oppressed. -But of all the individuals who passed by none appeared to me for the -moment so pathetic in unconscious patience as the girl standing before -me; none more difficult to understand. It is perhaps because I was -thinking of things which I could not ask her about. - -In fact we had nothing to say to each other; but we two, strangers as we -really were to each other, had dealt with the most intimate and final of -subjects, the subject of death. It had created a sort of bond between -us. It made our silence weighty and uneasy. I ought to have left her -there and then; but, as I think I've told you before, the fact of having -shouted her away from the edge of a precipice seemed somehow to have -engaged my responsibility as to this other leap. And so we had still an -intimate subject between us to lend more weight and more uneasiness to -our silence. The subject of marriage. I use the word not so much in -reference to the ceremony itself (I had no doubt of this, Captain Anthony -being a decent fellow) or in view of the social institution in general, -as to which I have no opinion, but in regard to the human relation. The -first two views are not particularly interesting. The ceremony, I -suppose, is adequate; the institution, I dare say, is useful or it would -not have endured. But the human relation thus recognized is a mysterious -thing in its origins, character and consequences. Unfortunately you -can't buttonhole familiarly a young girl as you would a young fellow. I -don't think that even another woman could really do it. She would not be -trusted. There is not between women that fund of at least conditional -loyalty which men may depend on in their dealings with each other. I -believe that any woman would rather trust a man. The difficulty in such -a delicate case was how to get on terms. - -So we held our peace in the odious uproar of that wide roadway thronged -with heavy carts. Great vans carrying enormous piled-up loads advanced -swaying like mountains. It was as if the whole world existed only for -selling and buying and those who had nothing to do with the movement of -merchandise were of no account. - -"You must be tired," I said. One had to say something if only to assert -oneself against that wearisome, passionless and crushing uproar. She -raised her eyes for a moment. No, she was not. Not very. She had not -walked all the way. She came by train as far as Whitechapel Station and -had only walked from there. - -She had had an ugly pilgrimage; but whether of love or of necessity who -could tell? And that precisely was what I should have liked to get at. -This was not however a question to be asked point-blank, and I could not -think of any effective circumlocution. It occurred to me too that she -might conceivably know nothing of it herself--I mean by reflection. That -young woman had been obviously considering death. She had gone the -length of forming some conception of it. But as to its companion -fatality--love, she, I was certain, had never reflected upon its meaning. - -With that man in the hotel, whom I did not know, and this girl standing -before me in the street I felt that it was an exceptional case. He had -broken away from his surroundings; she stood outside the pale. One -aspect of conventions which people who declaim against them lose sight of -is that conventions make both joy and suffering easier to bear in a -becoming manner. But those two were outside all conventions. They would -be as untrammelled in a sense as the first man and the first woman. The -trouble was that I could not imagine anything about Flora de Barral and -the brother of Mrs. Fyne. Or, if you like, I could imagine _anything_ -which comes practically to the same thing. Darkness and chaos are first -cousins. I should have liked to ask the girl for a word which would give -my imagination its line. But how was one to venture so far? I can be -rough sometimes but I am not naturally impertinent. I would have liked -to ask her for instance: "Do you know what you have done with yourself?" -A question like that. Anyhow it was time for one of us to say something. -A question it must be. And the question I asked was: "So he's going to -show you the ship?" - -She seemed glad I had spoken at last and glad of the opportunity to speak -herself. - -"Yes. He said he would--this morning. Did you say you did not know -Captain Anthony?" - -"No. I don't know him. Is he anything like his sister?" - -She looked startled and murmured "Sister!" in a puzzled tone which -astonished me. "Oh! Mrs. Fyne," she exclaimed, recollecting herself, -and avoiding my eyes while I looked at her curiously. - -What an extraordinary detachment! And all the time the stream of shabby -people was hastening by us, with the continuous dreary shuffling of weary -footsteps on the flagstones. The sunshine falling on the grime of -surfaces, on the poverty of tones and forms seemed of an inferior -quality, its joy faded, its brilliance tarnished and dusty. I had to -raise my voice in the dull vibrating noise of the roadway. - -"You don't mean to say you have forgotten the connection?" - -She cried readily enough: "I wasn't thinking." And then, while I -wondered what could have been the images occupying her brain at this -time, she asked me: "You didn't see my letter to Mrs. Fyne--did you?" - -"No. I didn't," I shouted. Just then the racket was distracting, a pair- -horse trolly lightly loaded with loose rods of iron passing slowly very -near us. "I wasn't trusted so far." And remembering Mrs. Fyne's hints -that the girl was unbalanced, I added: "Was it an unreserved confession -you wrote?" - -She did not answer me for a time, and as I waited I thought that there's -nothing like a confession to make one look mad; and that of all -confessions a written one is the most detrimental all round. Never -confess! Never, never! An untimely joke is a source of bitter regret -always. Sometimes it may ruin a man; not because it is a joke, but -because it is untimely. And a confession of whatever sort is always -untimely. The only thing which makes it supportable for a while is -curiosity. You smile? Ah, but it is so, or else people would be sent to -the rightabout at the second sentence. How many sympathetic souls can -you reckon on in the world? One in ten, one in a hundred--in a -thousand--in ten thousand? Ah! What a sell these confessions are! What -a horrible sell! You seek sympathy, and all you get is the most -evanescent sense of relief--if you get that much. For a confession, -whatever it may be, stirs the secret depths of the hearer's character. -Often depths that he himself is but dimly aware of. And so the righteous -triumph secretly, the lucky are amused, the strong are disgusted, the -weak either upset or irritated with you according to the measure of their -sincerity with themselves. And all of them in their hearts brand you for -either mad or impudent . . . " - -I had seldom seen Marlow so vehement, so pessimistic, so earnestly -cynical before. I cut his declamation short by asking what answer Flora -de Barral had given to his question. "Did the poor girl admit firing off -her confidences at Mrs. Fyne--eight pages of close writing--that sort of -thing?" - -Marlow shook his head. - -"She did not tell me. I accepted her silence, as a kind of answer and -remarked that it would have been better if she had simply announced the -fact to Mrs. Fyne at the cottage. "Why didn't you do it?" I asked point- -blank. - -She said: "I am not a very plucky girl." She looked up at me and added -meaningly: "And _you_ know it. And you know why." - -I must remark that she seemed to have become very subdued since our first -meeting at the quarry. Almost a different person from the defiant, angry -and despairing girl with quivering lips and resentful glances. - -"I thought it was very sensible of you to get away from that sheer drop," -I said. - -She looked up with something of that old expression. - -"That's not what I mean. I see you will have it that you saved my life. -Nothing of the kind. I was concerned for that vile little beast of a -dog. No! It was the idea of--of doing away with myself which was -cowardly. That's what I meant by saying I am not a very plucky girl." - -"Oh!" I retorted airily. "That little dog. He isn't really a bad little -dog." But she lowered her eyelids and went on: - -"I was so miserable that I could think only of myself. This was mean. It -was cruel too. And besides I had _not_ given it up--not then." - -* * * * * - -Marlow changed his tone. - -"I don't know much of the psychology of self-destruction. It's a sort of -subject one has few opportunities to study closely. I knew a man once -who came to my rooms one evening, and while smoking a cigar confessed to -me moodily that he was trying to discover some graceful way of retiring -out of existence. I didn't study his case, but I had a glimpse of him -the other day at a cricket match, with some women, having a good time. -That seems a fairly reasonable attitude. Considered as a sin, it is a -case for repentance before the throne of a merciful God. But I imagine -that Flora de Barral's religion under the care of the distinguished -governess could have been nothing but outward formality. Remorse in the -sense of gnawing shame and unavailing regret is only understandable to me -when some wrong had been done to a fellow-creature. But why she, that -girl who existed on sufferance, so to speak--why she should writhe -inwardly with remorse because she had once thought of getting rid of a -life which was nothing in every respect but a curse--that I could not -understand. I thought it was very likely some obscure influence of -common forms of speech, some traditional or inherited feeling--a vague -notion that suicide is a legal crime; words of old moralists and -preachers which remain in the air and help to form all the authorized -moral conventions. Yes, I was surprised at her remorse. But lowering -her glance unexpectedly till her dark eye-lashes seemed to rest against -her white cheeks she presented a perfectly demure aspect. It was so -attractive that I could not help a faint smile. That Flora de Barral -should ever, in any aspect, have the power to evoke a smile was the very -last thing I should have believed. She went on after a slight -hesitation: - -"One day I started for there, for that place." - -Look at the influence of a mere play of physiognomy! If you remember -what we were talking about you will hardly believe that I caught myself -grinning down at that demure little girl. I must say too that I felt -more friendly to her at the moment than ever before. - -"Oh, you did? To take that jump? You are a determined young person. -Well, what happened that time?" - -An almost imperceptible alteration in her bearing; a slight droop of her -head perhaps--a mere nothing--made her look more demure than ever. - -"I had left the cottage," she began a little hurriedly. "I was walking -along the road--you know, _the_ road. I had made up my mind I was not -coming back this time." - -I won't deny that these words spoken from under the brim of her hat (oh -yes, certainly, her head was down--she had put it down) gave me a thrill; -for indeed I had never doubted her sincerity. It could never have been a -make-believe despair. - -"Yes," I whispered. "You were going along the road." - -"When . . . " Again she hesitated with an effect of innocent shyness -worlds asunder from tragic issues; then glided on . . . "When suddenly -Captain Anthony came through a gate out of a field." - -I coughed down the beginning of a most improper fit of laughter, and felt -ashamed of myself. Her eyes raised for a moment seemed full of innocent -suffering and unexpressed menace in the depths of the dilated pupils -within the rings of sombre blue. It was--how shall I say it?--a night -effect when you seem to see vague shapes and don't know what reality you -may come upon at any time. Then she lowered her eyelids again, shutting -all mysteriousness out of the situation except for the sobering memory of -that glance, nightlike in the sunshine, expressively still in the brutal -unrest of the street. - -"So Captain Anthony joined you--did he?" - -"He opened a field-gate and walked out on the road. He crossed to my -side and went on with me. He had his pipe in his hand. He said: 'Are -you going far this morning?'" - -These words (I was watching her white face as she spoke) gave me a slight -shudder. She remained demure, almost prim. And I remarked: - -"You have been talking together before, of course." - -"Not more than twenty words altogether since he arrived," she declared -without emphasis. "That day he had said 'Good morning' to me when we met -at breakfast two hours before. And I said good morning to him. I did -not see him afterwards till he came out on the road." - -I thought to myself that this was not accidental. He had been observing -her. I felt certain also that he had not been asking any questions of -Mrs. Fyne. - -"I wouldn't look at him," said Flora de Barral. "I had done with looking -at people. He said to me: 'My sister does not put herself out much for -us. We had better keep each other company. I have read every book there -is in that cottage.' I walked on. He did not leave me. I thought he -ought to. But he didn't. He didn't seem to notice that I would not talk -to him." - -She was now perfectly still. The wretched little parasol hung down -against her dress from her joined hands. I was rigid with attention. It -isn't every day that one culls such a volunteered tale on a girl's lips. -The ugly street-noises swelling up for a moment covered the next few -words she said. It was vexing. The next word I heard was "worried." - -"It worried you to have him there, walking by your side." - -"Yes. Just that," she went on with downcast eyes. There was something -prettily comical in her attitude and her tone, while I pictured to myself -a poor white-faced girl walking to her death with an unconscious man -striding by her side. Unconscious? I don't know. First of all, I felt -certain that this was no chance meeting. Something had happened before. -Was he a man for a _coup-de-foudre_, the lightning stroke of love? I -don't think so. That sort of susceptibility is luckily rare. A world of -inflammable lovers of the Romeo and Juliet type would very soon end in -barbarism and misery. But it is a fact that in every man (not in every -woman) there lives a lover; a lover who is called out in all his -potentialities often by the most insignificant little things--as long as -they come at the psychological moment: the glimpse of a face at an -unusual angle, an evanescent attitude, the curve of a cheek often looked -at before, perhaps, but then, at the moment, charged with astonishing -significance. These are great mysteries, of course. Magic signs. - -I don't know in what the sign consisted in this case. It might have been -her pallor (it wasn't pasty nor yet papery) that white face with eyes -like blue gleams of fire and lips like red coals. In certain lights, in -certain poises of head it suggested tragic sorrow. Or it might have been -her wavy hair. Or even just that pointed chin stuck out a little, -resentful and not particularly distinguished, doing away with the -mysterious aloofness of her fragile presence. But any way at a given -moment Anthony must have suddenly _seen_ the girl. And then, that -something had happened to him. Perhaps nothing more than the thought -coming into his head that this was "a possible woman." - -Followed this waylaying! Its resolute character makes me think it was -the chin's doing; that "common mortal" touch which stands in such good -stead to some women. Because men, I mean really masculine men, those -whose generations have evolved an ideal woman, are often very timid. Who -wouldn't be before the ideal? It's your sentimental trifler, who has -just missed being nothing at all, who is enterprising, simply because it -is easy to appear enterprising when one does not mean to put one's belief -to the test. - -Well, whatever it was that encouraged him, Captain Anthony stuck to Flora -de Barral in a manner which in a timid man might have been called heroic -if it had not been so simple. Whether policy, diplomacy, simplicity, or -just inspiration, he kept up his talk, rather deliberate, with very few -pauses. Then suddenly as if recollecting himself: - -"It's funny. I don't think you are annoyed with me for giving you my -company unasked. But why don't you say something?" - -I asked Miss de Barral what answer she made to this query. - -"I made no answer," she said in that even, unemotional low voice which -seemed to be her voice for delicate confidences. "I walked on. He did -not seem to mind. We came to the foot of the quarry where the road winds -up hill, past the place where you were sitting by the roadside that day. -I began to wonder what I should do. After we reached the top Captain -Anthony said that he had not been for a walk with a lady for years and -years--almost since he was a boy. We had then come to where I ought to -have turned off and struck across a field. I thought of making a run of -it. But he would have caught me up. I knew he would; and, of course, he -would not have allowed me. I couldn't give him the slip." - -"Why didn't you ask him to leave you?" I inquired curiously. - -"He would not have taken any notice," she went on steadily. "And what -could I have done then? I could not have started quarrelling with -him--could I? I hadn't enough energy to get angry. I felt very tired -suddenly. I just stumbled on straight along the road. Captain Anthony -told me that the family--some relations of his mother--he used to know in -Liverpool was broken up now, and he had never made any friends since. All -gone their different ways. All the girls married. Nice girls they were -and very friendly to him when he was but little more than a boy. He -repeated: 'Very nice, cheery, clever girls.' I sat down on a bank -against a hedge and began to cry." - -"You must have astonished him not a little," I observed. - -Anthony, it seems, remained on the road looking down at her. He did not -offer to approach her, neither did he make any other movement or gesture. -Flora de Barral told me all this. She could see him through her tears, -blurred to a mere shadow on the white road, and then again becoming more -distinct, but always absolutely still and as if lost in thought before a -strange phenomenon which demanded the closest possible attention. - -Flora learned later that he had never seen a woman cry; not in that way, -at least. He was impressed and interested by the mysteriousness of the -effect. She was very conscious of being looked at, but was not able to -stop herself crying. In fact, she was not capable of any effort. -Suddenly he advanced two steps, stooped, caught hold of her hands lying -on her lap and pulled her up to her feet; she found herself standing -close to him almost before she realized what he had done. Some people -were coming briskly along the road and Captain Anthony muttered: "You -don't want to be stared at. What about that stile over there? Can we go -back across the fields?" - -She snatched her hands out of his grasp (it seems he had omitted to let -them go), marched away from him and got over the stile. It was a big -field sprinkled profusely with white sheep. A trodden path crossed it -diagonally. After she had gone more than half way she turned her head -for the first time. Keeping five feet or so behind, Captain Anthony was -following her with an air of extreme interest. Interest or eagerness. At -any rate she caught an expression on his face which frightened her. But -not enough to make her run. And indeed it would have had to be something -incredibly awful to scare into a run a girl who had come to the end of -her courage to live. - -As if encouraged by this glance over the shoulder Captain Anthony came up -boldly, and now that he was by her side, she felt his nearness -intimately, like a touch. She tried to disregard this sensation. But -she was not angry with him now. It wasn't worth while. She was thankful -that he had the sense not to ask questions as to this crying. Of course -he didn't ask because he didn't care. No one in the world cared for her, -neither those who pretended nor yet those who did not pretend. She -preferred the latter. - -Captain Anthony opened for her a gate into another field; when they got -through he kept walking abreast, elbow to elbow almost. His voice -growled pleasantly in her very ear. Staying in this dull place was -enough to give anyone the blues. His sister scribbled all day. It was -positively unkind. He alluded to his nieces as rude, selfish monkeys, -without either feelings or manners. And he went on to talk about his -ship being laid up for a month and dismantled for repairs. The worst was -that on arriving in London he found he couldn't get the rooms he was used -to, where they made him as comfortable as such a confirmed sea-dog as -himself could be anywhere on shore. - -In the effort to subdue by dint of talking and to keep in check the -mysterious, the profound attraction he felt already for that delicate -being of flesh and blood, with pale cheeks, with darkened eyelids and -eyes scalded with hot tears, he went on speaking of himself as a -confirmed enemy of life on shore--a perfect terror to a simple man, what -with the fads and proprieties and the ceremonies and affectations. He -hated all that. He wasn't fit for it. There was no rest and peace and -security but on the sea. - -This gave one a view of Captain Anthony as a hermit withdrawn from a -wicked world. It was amusingly unexpected to me and nothing more. But -it must have appealed straight to that bruised and battered young soul. -Still shrinking from his nearness she had ended by listening to him with -avidity. His deep murmuring voice soothed her. And she thought suddenly -that there was peace and rest in the grave too. - -She heard him say: "Look at my sister. She isn't a bad woman by any -means. She asks me here because it's right and proper, I suppose, but -she has no use for me. There you have your shore people. I quite -understand anybody crying. I would have been gone already, only, truth -to say, I haven't any friends to go to." He added brusquely: "And you?" - -She made a slight negative sign. He must have been observing her, -putting two and two together. After a pause he said simply: "When I -first came here I thought you were governess to these girls. My sister -didn't say a word about you to me." - -Then Flora spoke for the first time. - -"Mrs. Fyne is my best friend." - -"So she is mine," he said without the slightest irony or bitterness, but -added with conviction: "That shows you what life ashore is. Much better -be out of it." - -As they were approaching the cottage he was heard again as though a long -silent walk had not intervened: "But anyhow I shan't ask her anything -about you." - -He stopped short and she went on alone. His last words had impressed -her. Everything he had said seemed somehow to have a special meaning -under its obvious conversational sense. Till she went in at the door of -the cottage she felt his eyes resting on her. - -That is it. He had made himself felt. That girl was, one may say, -washing about with slack limbs in the ugly surf of life with no -opportunity to strike out for herself, when suddenly she had been made to -feel that there was somebody beside her in the bitter water. A most -considerable moral event for her; whether she was aware of it or not. -They met again at the one o'clock dinner. I am inclined to think that, -being a healthy girl under her frail appearance, and fast walking and -what I may call relief-crying (there are many kinds of crying) making one -hungry, she made a good meal. It was Captain Anthony who had no -appetite. His sister commented on it in a curt, businesslike manner, and -the eldest of his delightful nieces said mockingly: "You have been taking -too much exercise this morning, Uncle Roderick." The mild Uncle Roderick -turned upon her with a "What do you know about it, young lady?" so -charged with suppressed savagery that the whole round table gave one gasp -and went dumb for the rest of the meal. He took no notice whatever of -Flora de Barral. I don't think it was from prudence or any calculated -motive. I believe he was so full of her aspects that he did not want to -look in her direction when there were other people to hamper his -imagination. - -You understand I am piecing here bits of disconnected statements. Next -day Flora saw him leaning over the field-gate. When she told me this, I -didn't of course ask her how it was she was there. Probably she could -not have told me how it was she was there. The difficulty here is to -keep steadily in view the then conditions of her existence, a combination -of dreariness and horror. - -That hermit-like but not exactly misanthropic sailor was leaning over the -gate moodily. When he saw the white-faced restless Flora drifting like a -lost thing along the road he put his pipe in his pocket and called out -"Good morning, Miss Smith" in a tone of amazing happiness. She, with one -foot in life and the other in a nightmare, was at the same time inert and -unstable, and very much at the mercy of sudden impulses. She swerved, -came distractedly right up to the gate and looking straight into his -eyes: "I am not Miss Smith. That's not my name. Don't call me by it." - -She was shaking as if in a passion. His eyes expressed nothing; he only -unlatched the gate in silence, grasped her arm and drew her in. Then -closing it with a kick-- - -"Not your name? That's all one to me. Your name's the least thing about -you I care for." He was leading her firmly away from the gate though she -resisted slightly. There was a sort of joy in his eyes which frightened -her. "You are not a princess in disguise," he said with an unexpected -laugh she found blood-curdling. "And that's all I care for. You had -better understand that I am not blind and not a fool. And then it's -plain for even a fool to see that things have been going hard with you. -You are on a lee shore and eating your heart out with worry." - -What seemed most awful to her was the elated light in his eyes, the -rapacious smile that would come and go on his lips as if he were gloating -over her misery. But her misery was his opportunity and he rejoiced -while the tenderest pity seemed to flood his whole being. He pointed out -to her that she knew who he was. He was Mrs. Fyne's brother. And, well, -if his sister was the best friend she had in the world, then, by Jove, it -was about time somebody came along to look after her a little. - -Flora had tried more than once to free herself, but he tightened his -grasp of her arm each time and even shook it a little without ceasing to -speak. The nearness of his face intimidated her. He seemed striving to -look her through. It was obvious the world had been using her ill. And -even as he spoke with indignation the very marks and stamp of this ill- -usage of which he was so certain seemed to add to the inexplicable -attraction he felt for her person. It was not pity alone, I take it. It -was something more spontaneous, perverse and exciting. It gave him the -feeling that if only he could get hold of her, no woman would belong to -him so completely as this woman. - -"Whatever your troubles," he said, "I am the man to take you away from -them; that is, if you are not afraid. You told me you had no friends. -Neither have I. Nobody ever cared for me as far as I can remember. -Perhaps you could. Yes, I live on the sea. But who would you be parting -from? No one. You have no one belonging to you." - -At this point she broke away from him and ran. He did not pursue her. -The tall hedges tossing in the wind, the wide fields, the clouds driving -over the sky and the sky itself wheeled about her in masses of green and -white and blue as if the world were breaking up silently in a whirl, and -her foot at the next step were bound to find the void. She reached the -gate all right, got out, and, once on the road, discovered that she had -not the courage to look back. The rest of that day she spent with the -Fyne girls who gave her to understand that she was a slow and -unprofitable person. Long after tea, nearly at dusk, Captain Anthony -(the son of the poet) appeared suddenly before her in the little garden -in front of the cottage. They were alone for the moment. The wind had -dropped. In the calm evening air the voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls -strolling aimlessly on the road could be heard. He said to her severely: - -"You have understood?" - -She looked at him in silence. - -"That I love you," he finished. - -She shook her head the least bit. - -"Don't you believe me?" he asked in a low, infuriated voice. - -"Nobody would love me," she answered in a very quiet tone. "Nobody -could." - -He was dumb for a time, astonished beyond measure, as he well might have -been. He doubted his ears. He was outraged. - -"Eh? What? Can't love you? What do you know about it? It's my affair, -isn't it? You dare say _that_ to a man who has just told you! You must -be mad!" - -"Very nearly," she said with the accent of pent-up sincerity, and even -relieved because she was able to say something which she felt was true. -For the last few days she had felt herself several times near that -madness which is but an intolerable lucidity of apprehension. - -The clear voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls were coming nearer, sounding -affected in the peace of the passion-laden earth. He began storming at -her hastily. - -"Nonsense! Nobody can . . . Indeed! Pah! You'll have to be shown that -somebody can. I can. Nobody . . . " He made a contemptuous hissing -noise. "More likely _you_ can't. They have done something to you. -Something's crushed your pluck. You can't face a man--that's what it is. -What made you like this? Where do you come from? You have been put -upon. The scoundrels--whoever they are, men or women, seem to have -robbed you of your very name. You say you are not Miss Smith. Who are -you, then?" - -She did not answer. He muttered, "Not that I care," and fell silent, -because the fatuous self-confident chatter of the Fyne girls could be -heard at the very gate. But they were not going to bed yet. They passed -on. He waited a little in silence and immobility, then stamped his foot -and lost control of himself. He growled at her in a savage passion. She -felt certain that he was threatening her and calling her names. She was -no stranger to abuse, as we know, but there seemed to be a particular -kind of ferocity in this which was new to her. She began to tremble. The -especially terrifying thing was that she could not make out the nature of -these awful menaces and names. Not a word. Yet it was not the shrinking -anguish of her other experiences of angry scenes. She made a mighty -effort, though her knees were knocking together, and in an expiring voice -demanded that he should let her go indoors. "Don't stop me. It's no -use. It's no use," she repeated faintly, feeling an invincible obstinacy -rising within her, yet without anger against that raging man. - -He became articulate suddenly, and, without raising his voice, perfectly -audible. - -"No use! No use! You dare stand here and tell me that--you white-faced -wisp, you wreath of mist, you little ghost of all the sorrow in the -world. You dare! Haven't I been looking at you? You are all eyes. What -makes your cheeks always so white as if you had seen something . . . -Don't speak. I love it . . . No use! And you really think that I can -now go to sea for a year or more, to the other side of the world -somewhere, leaving you behind. Why! You would vanish . . . what little -there is of you. Some rough wind will blow you away altogether. You -have no holding ground on earth. Well, then trust yourself to me--to the -sea--which is deep like your eyes." - -She said: "Impossible." He kept quiet for a while, then asked in a -totally changed tone, a tone of gloomy curiosity: - -"You can't stand me then? Is that it?" - -"No," she said, more steady herself. "I am not thinking of you at all." - -The inane voices of the Fyne girls were heard over the sombre fields -calling to each other, thin and clear. He muttered: "You could try to. -Unless you are thinking of somebody else." - -"Yes. I am thinking of somebody else, of someone who has nobody to think -of him but me." - -His shadowy form stepped out of her way, and suddenly leaned sideways -against the wooden support of the porch. And as she stood still, -surprised by this staggering movement, his voice spoke up in a tone quite -strange to her. - -"Go in then. Go out of my sight--I thought you said nobody could love -you." - -She was passing him when suddenly he struck her as so forlorn that she -was inspired to say: "No one has ever loved me--not in that way--if -that's what you mean. Nobody would." - -He detached himself brusquely from the post, and she did not shrink; but -Mrs. Fyne and the girls were already at the gate. - -All he understood was that everything was not over yet. There was no -time to lose; Mrs. Fyne and the girls had come in at the gate. He -whispered "Wait" with such authority (he was the son of Carleon Anthony, -the domestic autocrat) that it did arrest her for a moment, long enough -to hear him say that he could not be left like this to puzzle over her -nonsense all night. She was to slip down again into the garden later on, -as soon as she could do so without being heard. He would be there -waiting for her till--till daylight. She didn't think he could go to -sleep, did she? And she had better come, or--he broke off on an -unfinished threat. - -She vanished into the unlighted cottage just as Mrs. Fyne came up to the -porch. Nervous, holding her breath in the darkness of the living-room, -she heard her best friend say: "You ought to have joined us, Roderick." -And then: "Have you seen Miss Smith anywhere?" - -Flora shuddered, expecting Anthony to break out into betraying -imprecations on Miss Smith's head, and cause a painful and humiliating -explanation. She imagined him full of his mysterious ferocity. To her -great surprise, Anthony's voice sounded very much as usual, with perhaps -a slight tinge of grimness. "Miss Smith! No. I've seen no Miss Smith." - -Mrs. Fyne seemed satisfied--and not much concerned really. - -Flora, relieved, got clear away to her room upstairs, and shutting her -door quietly, dropped into a chair. She was used to reproaches, abuse, -to all sorts of wicked ill usage--short of actual beating on her body. -Otherwise inexplicable angers had cut and slashed and trampled down her -youth without mercy--and mainly, it appeared, because she was the -financier de Barral's daughter and also condemned to a degrading sort of -poverty through the action of treacherous men who had turned upon her -father in his hour of need. And she thought with the tenderest possible -affection of that upright figure buttoned up in a long frock-coat, soft- -voiced and having but little to say to his girl. She seemed to feel his -hand closed round hers. On his flying visits to Brighton he would always -walk hand in hand with her. People stared covertly at them; the band was -playing; and there was the sea--the blue gaiety of the sea. They were -quietly happy together . . . It was all over! - -An immense anguish of the present wrung her heart, and she nearly cried -aloud. That dread of what was before her which had been eating up her -courage slowly in the course of odious years, flamed up into an access of -panic, that sort of headlong panic which had already driven her out twice -to the top of the cliff-like quarry. She jumped up saying to herself: -"Why not now? At once! Yes. I'll do it now--in the dark!" The very -horror of it seemed to give her additional resolution. - -She came down the staircase quietly, and only on the point of opening the -door and because of the discovery that it was unfastened, she remembered -Captain Anthony's threat to stay in the garden all night. She hesitated. -She did not understand the mood of that man clearly. He was violent. But -she had gone beyond the point where things matter. What would he think -of her coming down to him--as he would naturally suppose. And even that -didn't matter. He could not despise her more than she despised herself. -She must have been light-headed because the thought came into her mind -that should he get into ungovernable fury from disappointment, and -perchance strangle her, it would be as good a way to be done with it as -any. - -"You had that thought," I exclaimed in wonder. - -With downcast eyes and speaking with an almost painstaking precision (her -very lips, her red lips, seemed to move just enough to be heard and no -more), she said that, yes, the thought came into her head. This makes -one shudder at the mysterious ways girls acquire knowledge. For this was -a thought, wild enough, I admit, but which could only have come from the -depths of that sort of experience which she had not had, and went far -beyond a young girl's possible conception of the strongest and most -veiled of human emotions. - -"He was there, of course?" I said. - -"Yes, he was there." She saw him on the path directly she stepped -outside the porch. He was very still. It was as though he had been -standing there with his face to the door for hours. - -Shaken up by the changing moods of passion and tenderness, he must have -been ready for any extravagance of conduct. Knowing the profound silence -each night brought to that nook of the country, I could imagine them -having the feeling of being the only two people on the wide earth. A row -of six or seven lofty elms just across the road opposite the cottage made -the night more obscure in that little garden. If these two could just -make out each other that was all. - -"Well! And were you very much terrified?" I asked. - -She made me wait a little before she said, raising her eyes: "He was -gentleness itself." - -I noticed three abominable, drink-sodden loafers, sallow and dirty, who -had come to range themselves in a row within ten feet of us against the -front of the public-house. They stared at Flora de Barral's back with -unseeing, mournful fixity. - -"Let's move this way a little," I proposed. - -She turned at once and we made a few paces; not too far to take us out of -sight of the hotel door, but very nearly. I could just keep my eyes on -it. After all, I had not been so very long with the girl. If you were -to disentangle the words we actually exchanged from my comments you would -see that they were not so very many, including everything she had so -unexpectedly told me of her story. No, not so very many. And now it -seemed as though there would be no more. No! I could expect no more. -The confidence was wonderful enough in its nature as far as it went, and -perhaps not to have been expected from any other girl under the sun. And -I felt a little ashamed. The origin of our intimacy was too gruesome. It -was as if listening to her I had taken advantage of having seen her poor -bewildered, scared soul without its veils. But I was curious, too; or, -to render myself justice without false modesty--I was anxious; anxious to -know a little more. - -I felt like a blackmailer all the same when I made my attempt with a -light-hearted remark. - -"And so you gave up that walk you proposed to take?" - -"Yes, I gave up the walk," she said slowly before raising her downcast -eyes. When she did so it was with an extraordinary effect. It was like -catching sight of a piece of blue sky, of a stretch of open water. And -for a moment I understood the desire of that man to whom the sea and sky -of his solitary life had appeared suddenly incomplete without that glance -which seemed to belong to them both. He was not for nothing the son of a -poet. I looked into those unabashed eyes while the girl went on, her -demure appearance and precise tone changed to a very earnest expression. -Woman is various indeed. - -"But I want you to understand, Mr. . . . " she had actually to think of -my name . . . "Mr. Marlow, that I have written to Mrs. Fyne that I -haven't been--that I have done nothing to make Captain Anthony behave to -me as he had behaved. I haven't. I haven't. It isn't my doing. It -isn't my fault--if she likes to put it in that way. But she, with her -ideas, ought to understand that I couldn't, that I couldn't . . . I know -she hates me now. I think she never liked me. I think nobody ever cared -for me. I was told once nobody could care for me; and I think it is -true. At any rate I can't forget it." - -Her abominable experience with the governess had implanted in her unlucky -breast a lasting doubt, an ineradicable suspicion of herself and of -others. I said: - -"Remember, Miss de Barral, that to be fair you must trust a man -altogether--or not at all." - -She dropped her eyes suddenly. I thought I heard a faint sigh. I tried -to take a light tone again, and yet it seemed impossible to get off the -ground which gave me my standing with her. - -"Mrs. Fyne is absurd. She's an excellent woman, but really you could not -be expected to throw away your chance of life simply that she might -cherish a good opinion of your memory. That would be excessive." - -"It was not of my life that I was thinking while Captain Anthony was--was -speaking to me," said Flora de Barral with an effort. - -I told her that she was wrong then. She ought to have been thinking of -her life, and not only of her life but of the life of the man who was -speaking to her too. She let me finish, then shook her head impatiently. - -"I mean--death." - -"Well," I said, "when he stood before you there, outside the cottage, he -really stood between you and that. I have it out of your own mouth. You -can't deny it." - -"If you will have it that he saved my life, then he has got it. It was -not for me. Oh no! It was not for me that I--It was not fear! There!" -She finished petulantly: "And you may just as well know it." - -She hung her head and swung the parasol slightly to and fro. I thought a -little. - -"Do you know French, Miss de Barral?" I asked. - -She made a sign with her head that she did, but without showing any -surprise at the question and without ceasing to swing her parasol. - -"Well then, somehow or other I have the notion that Captain Anthony is -what the French call _un galant homme_. I should like to think he is -being treated as he deserves." - -The form of her lips (I could see them under the brim of her hat) was -suddenly altered into a line of seriousness. The parasol stopped -swinging. - -"I have given him what he wanted--that's myself," she said without a -tremor and with a striking dignity of tone. - -Impressed by the manner and the directness of the words, I hesitated for -a moment what to say. Then made up my mind to clear up the point. - -"And you have got what you wanted? Is that it?" - -The daughter of the egregious financier de Barral did not answer at once -this question going to the heart of things. Then raising her head and -gazing wistfully across the street noisy with the endless transit of -innumerable bargains, she said with intense gravity: - -"He has been most generous." - -I was pleased to hear these words. Not that I doubted the infatuation of -Roderick Anthony, but I was pleased to hear something which proved that -she was sensible and open to the sentiment of gratitude which in this -case was significant. In the face of man's desire a girl is excusable if -she thinks herself priceless. I mean a girl of our civilization which -has established a dithyrambic phraseology for the expression of love. A -man in love will accept any convention exalting the object of his passion -and in this indirect way his passion itself. In what way the captain of -the ship _Ferndale_ gave proofs of lover-like lavishness I could not -guess very well. But I was glad she was appreciative. It is lucky that -small things please women. And it is not silly of them to be thus -pleased. It is in small things that the deepest loyalty, that which they -need most, the loyalty of the passing moment, is best expressed. - -She had remained thoughtful, letting her deep motionless eyes rest on the -streaming jumble of traffic. Suddenly she said: - -"And I wanted to ask you . . . I was really glad when I saw you actually -here. Who would have expected you here, at this spot, before this hotel! -I certainly never . . . You see it meant a lot to me. You are the only -person who knows . . . who knows for certain . . . " - -"Knows what?" I said, not discovering at first what she had in her mind. -Then I saw it. "Why can't you leave that alone?" I remonstrated, rather -annoyed at the invidious position she was forcing on me in a sense. "It's -true that I was the only person to see," I added. "But, as it happens, -after your mysterious disappearance I told the Fynes the story of our -meeting." - -Her eyes raised to mine had an expression of dreamy, unfathomable -candour, if I dare say so. And if you wonder what I mean I can only say -that I have seen the sea wear such an expression on one or two occasions -shortly before sunrise on a calm, fresh day. She said as if meditating -aloud that she supposed the Fynes were not likely to talk about that. She -couldn't imagine any connection in which . . . Why should they? - -As her tone had become interrogatory I assented. "To be sure. There's -no reason whatever--" thinking to myself that they would be more likely -indeed to keep quiet about it. They had other things to talk of. And -then remembering little Fyne stuck upstairs for an unconscionable time, -enough to blurt out everything he ever knew in his life, I reflected that -he would assume naturally that Captain Anthony had nothing to learn from -him about Flora de Barral. It had been up to now my assumption too. I -saw my mistake. The sincerest of women will make no unnecessary -confidences to a man. And this is as it should be. - -"No--no!" I said reassuringly. "It's most unlikely. Are you much -concerned?" - -"Well, you see, when I came down," she said again in that precise demure -tone, "when I came down--into the garden Captain Anthony misunderstood--" - -"Of course he would. Men are so conceited," I said. - -I saw it well enough that he must have thought she had come down to him. -What else could he have thought? And then he had been "gentleness -itself." A new experience for that poor, delicate, and yet so resisting -creature. Gentleness in passion! What could have been more seductive to -the scared, starved heart of that girl? Perhaps had he been violent, she -might have told him that what she came down to keep was the tryst of -death--not of love. It occurred to me as I looked at her, young, fragile -in aspect, and intensely alive in her quietness, that perhaps she did not -know herself then what sort of tryst she was coming down to keep. - -She smiled faintly, almost awkwardly as if she were totally unused to -smiling, at my cheap jocularity. Then she said with that forced -precision, a sort of conscious primness: - -"I didn't want him to know." - -I approved heartily. Quite right. Much better. Let him ever remain -under his misapprehension which was so much more flattering for him. - -I tried to keep it in the tone of comedy; but she was, I believe, too -simple to understand my intention. She went on, looking down. - -"Oh! You think so? When I saw you I didn't know why you were here. I -was glad when you spoke to me because this is exactly what I wanted to -ask you for. I wanted to ask you if you ever meet Captain Anthony--by -any chance--anywhere--you are a sailor too, are you not?--that you would -never mention--never--that--that you had seen me over there." - -"My dear young lady," I cried, horror-struck at the supposition. "Why -should I? What makes you think I should dream of . . . " - -She had raised her head at my vehemence. She did not understand it. The -world had treated her so dishonourably that she had no notion even of -what mere decency of feeling is like. It was not her fault. Indeed, I -don't know why she should have put her trust in anybody's promises. - -But I thought it would be better to promise. So I assured her that she -could depend on my absolute silence. - -"I am not likely to ever set eyes on Captain Anthony," I added with -conviction--as a further guarantee. - -She accepted my assurance in silence, without a sign. Her gravity had in -it something acute, perhaps because of that chin. While we were still -looking at each other she declared: - -"There's no deception in it really. I want you to believe that if I am -here, like this, to-day, it is not from fear. It is not!" - -"I quite understand," I said. But her firm yet self-conscious gaze -became doubtful. "I do," I insisted. "I understand perfectly that it -was not of death that you were afraid." - -She lowered her eyes slowly, and I went on: - -"As to life, that's another thing. And I don't know that one ought to -blame you very much--though it seemed rather an excessive step. I wonder -now if it isn't the ugliness rather than the pain of the struggle which -. . . " - -She shuddered visibly: "But I do blame myself," she exclaimed with -feeling. "I am ashamed." And, dropping her head, she looked in a moment -the very picture of remorse and shame. - -"Well, you will be going away from all its horrors," I said. "And surely -you are not afraid of the sea. You are a sailor's granddaughter, I -understand." - -She sighed deeply. She remembered her grandfather only a little. He was -a clean-shaven man with a ruddy complexion and long, perfectly white -hair. He used to take her on his knee, and putting his face near hers, -talk to her in loving whispers. If only he were alive now . . . ! - -She remained silent for a while. - -"Aren't you anxious to see the ship?" I asked. - -She lowered her head still more so that I could not see anything of her -face. - -"I don't know," she murmured. - -I had already the suspicion that she did not know her own feelings. All -this work of the merest chance had been so unexpected, so sudden. And -she had nothing to fall back upon, no experience but such as to shake her -belief in every human being. She was dreadfully and pitifully forlorn. -It was almost in order to comfort my own depression that I remarked -cheerfully: - -"Well, I know of somebody who must be growing extremely anxious to see -you." - -"I am before my time," she confessed simply, rousing herself. "I had -nothing to do. So I came out." - -I had the sudden vision of a shabby, lonely little room at the other end -of the town. It had grown intolerable to her restlessness. The mere -thought of it oppressed her. Flora de Barral was looking frankly at her -chance confidant, - -"And I came this way," she went on. "I appointed the time myself -yesterday, but Captain Anthony would not have minded. He told me he was -going to look over some business papers till I came." - -The idea of the son of the poet, the rescuer of the most forlorn damsel -of modern times, the man of violence, gentleness and generosity, sitting -up to his neck in ship's accounts amused me. "I am sure he would not -have minded," I said, smiling. But the girl's stare was sombre, her thin -white face seemed pathetically careworn. - -"I can hardly believe yet," she murmured anxiously. - -"It's quite real. Never fear," I said encouragingly, but had to change -my tone at once. "You had better go down that way a little," I directed -her abruptly. - -* * * * * - -I had seen Fyne come striding out of the hotel door. The intelligent -girl, without staying to ask questions, walked away from me quietly down -one street while I hurried on to meet Fyne coming up the other at his -efficient pedestrian gait. My object was to stop him getting as far as -the corner. He must have been thinking too hard to be aware of his -surroundings. I put myself in his way, and he nearly walked into me. - -"Hallo!" I said. - -His surprise was extreme. "You here! You don't mean to say you have -been waiting for me?" - -I said negligently that I had been detained by unexpected business in the -neighbourhood, and thus happened to catch sight of him coming out. - -He stared at me with solemn distraction, obviously thinking of something -else. I suggested that he had better take the next city-ward tramcar. He -was inattentive, and I perceived that he was profoundly perturbed. As -Miss de Barral (she had moved out of sight) could not possibly approach -the hotel door as long as we remained where we were I proposed that we -should wait for the car on the other side of the street. He obeyed -rather the slight touch on his arm than my words, and while we were -crossing the wide roadway in the midst of the lumbering wheeled traffic, -he exclaimed in his deep tone, "I don't know which of these two is more -mad than the other!" - -"Really!" I said, pulling him forward from under the noses of two -enormous sleepy-headed cart-horses. He skipped wildly out of the way and -up on the curbstone with a purely instinctive precision; his mind had -nothing to do with his movements. In the middle of his leap, and while -in the act of sailing gravely through the air, he continued to relieve -his outraged feelings. - -"You would never believe! They _are_ mad!" - -I took care to place myself in such a position that to face me he had to -turn his back on the hotel across the road. I believe he was glad I was -there to talk to. But I thought there was some misapprehension in the -first statement he shot out at me without loss of time, that Captain -Anthony had been glad to see him. It was indeed difficult to believe -that, directly he opened the door, his wife's "sailor-brother" had -positively shouted: "Oh, it's you! The very man I wanted to see." - -"I found him sitting there," went on Fyne impressively in his effortless, -grave chest voice, "drafting his will." - -This was unexpected, but I preserved a noncommittal attitude, knowing -full well that our actions in themselves are neither mad nor sane. But I -did not see what there was to be excited about. And Fyne was distinctly -excited. I understood it better when I learned that the captain of the -_Ferndale_ wanted little Fyne to be one of the trustees. He was leaving -everything to his wife. Naturally, a request which involved him into -sanctioning in a way a proceeding which he had been sent by his wife to -oppose, must have appeared sufficiently mad to Fyne. - -"Me! Me, of all people in the world!" he repeated portentously. But I -could see that he was frightened. Such want of tact! - -"He knew I came from his sister. You don't put a man into such an -awkward position," complained Fyne. "It made me speak much more strongly -against all this very painful business than I would have had the heart to -do otherwise." - -I pointed out to him concisely, and keeping my eyes on the door of the -hotel, that he and his wife were the only bond with the land Captain -Anthony had. Who else could he have asked? - -"I explained to him that he was breaking this bond," declared Fyne -solemnly. "Breaking it once for all. And for what--for what?" - -He glared at me. I could perhaps have given him an inkling for what, but -I said nothing. He started again: - -"My wife assures me that the girl does not love him a bit. She goes by -that letter she received from her. There is a passage in it where she -practically admits that she was quite unscrupulous in accepting this -offer of marriage, but says to my wife that she supposes she, my wife, -will not blame her--as it was in self-defence. My wife has her own -ideas, but this is an outrageous misapprehension of her views. -Outrageous." - -The good little man paused and then added weightily: - -"I didn't tell that to my brother-in-law--I mean, my wife's views." - -"No," I said. "What would have been the good?" - -"It's positive infatuation," agreed little Fyne, in the tone as though he -had made an awful discovery. "I have never seen anything so hopeless and -inexplicable in my life. I--I felt quite frightened and sorry," he -added, while I looked at him curiously asking myself whether this -excellent civil servant and notable pedestrian had felt the breath of a -great and fatal love-spell passing him by in the room of that East-end -hotel. He did look for a moment as though he had seen a ghost, an other- -world thing. But that look vanished instantaneously, and he nodded at me -with mere exasperation at something quite of this world--whatever it was. -"It's a bad business. My brother-in-law knows nothing of women," he -cried with an air of profound, experienced wisdom. - -What he imagined he knew of women himself I can't tell. I did not know -anything of the opportunities he might have had. But this is a subject -which, if approached with undue solemnity, is apt to elude one's grasp -entirely. No doubt Fyne knew something of a woman who was Captain -Anthony's sister. But that, admittedly, had been a very solemn study. I -smiled at him gently, and as if encouraged or provoked, he completed his -thought rather explosively. - -"And that girl understands nothing . . . It's sheer lunacy." - -"I don't know," I said, "whether the circumstances of isolation at sea -would be any alleviation to the danger. But it's certain that they shall -have the opportunity to learn everything about each other in a lonely -_tete-a-tete_." - -"But dash it all," he cried in hollow accents which at the same time had -the tone of bitter irony--I had never before heard a sound so quaintly -ugly and almost horrible--"You forget Mr. Smith." - -"What Mr. Smith?" I asked innocently. - -Fyne made an extraordinary simiesque grimace. I believe it was quite -involuntary, but you know that a grave, much-lined, shaven countenance -when distorted in an unusual way is extremely apelike. It was a -surprising sight, and rendered me not only speechless but stopped the -progress of my thought completely. I must have presented a remarkably -imbecile appearance. - -"My brother-in-law considered it amusing to chaff me about us introducing -the girl as Miss Smith," said Fyne, going surly in a moment. "He said -that perhaps if he had heard her real name from the first it might have -restrained him. As it was, he made the discovery too late. Asked me to -tell Zoe this together with a lot more nonsense." - -Fyne gave me the impression of having escaped from a man inspired by a -grimly playful ebullition of high spirits. It must have been most -distasteful to him; and his solemnity got damaged somehow in the process, -I perceived. There were holes in it through which I could see a new, an -unknown Fyne. - -"You wouldn't believe it," he went on, "but she looks upon her father -exclusively as a victim. I don't know," he burst out suddenly through an -enormous rent in his solemnity, "if she thinks him absolutely a saint, -but she certainly imagines him to be a martyr." - -It is one of the advantages of that magnificent invention, the prison, -that you may forget people which are put there as though they were dead. -One needn't worry about them. Nothing can happen to them that you can -help. They can do nothing which might possibly matter to anybody. They -come out of it, though, but that seems hardly an advantage to themselves -or anyone else. I had completely forgotten the financier de Barral. The -girl for me was an orphan, but now I perceived suddenly the force of -Fyne's qualifying statement, "to a certain extent." It would have been -infinitely more kind all round for the law to have shot, beheaded, -strangled, or otherwise destroyed this absurd de Barral, who was a danger -to a moral world inhabited by a credulous multitude not fit to take care -of itself. But I observed to Fyne that, however insane was the view she -held, one could not declare the girl mad on that account. - -"So she thinks of her father--does she? I suppose she would appear to us -saner if she thought only of herself." - -"I am positive," Fyne said earnestly, "that she went and made desperate -eyes at Anthony . . . " - -"Oh come!" I interrupted. "You haven't seen her make eyes. You don't -know the colour of her eyes." - -"Very well! It don't matter. But it could hardly have come to that if -she hadn't . . . It's all one, though. I tell you she has led him on, or -accepted him, if you like, simply because she was thinking of her father. -She doesn't care a bit about Anthony, I believe. She cares for no one. -Never cared for anyone. Ask Zoe. For myself I don't blame her," added -Fyne, giving me another view of unsuspected things through the rags and -tatters of his damaged solemnity. "No! by heavens, I don't blame her--the -poor devil." - -I agreed with him silently. I suppose affections are, in a sense, to be -learned. If there exists a native spark of love in all of us, it must be -fanned while we are young. Hers, if she ever had it, had been drenched -in as ugly a lot of corrosive liquid as could be imagined. But I was -surprised at Fyne obscurely feeling this. - -"She loves no one except that preposterous advertising shark," he pursued -venomously, but in a more deliberate manner. "And Anthony knows it." - -"Does he?" I said doubtfully. - -"She's quite capable of having told him herself," affirmed Fyne, with -amazing insight. "But whether or no, _I've_ told him." - -"You did? From Mrs. Fyne, of course." - -Fyne only blinked owlishly at this piece of my insight. - -"And how did Captain Anthony receive this interesting information?" I -asked further. - -"Most improperly," said Fyne, who really was in a state in which he -didn't mind what he blurted out. "He isn't himself. He begged me to -tell his sister that he offered no remarks on her conduct. Very improper -and inconsequent. He said . . . I was tired of this wrangling. I told -him I made allowances for the state of excitement he was in." - -"You know, Fyne," I said, "a man in jail seems to me such an incredible, -cruel, nightmarish sort of thing that I can hardly believe in his -existence. Certainly not in relation to any other existences." - -"But dash it all," cried Fyne, "he isn't shut up for life. They are -going to let him out. He's coming out! That's the whole trouble. What -is he coming out to, I want to know? It seems a more cruel business than -the shutting him up was. This has been the worry for weeks. Do you see -now?" - -I saw, all sorts of things! Immediately before me I saw the excitement -of little Fyne--mere food for wonder. Further off, in a sort of gloom -and beyond the light of day and the movement of the street, I saw the -figure of a man, stiff like a ramrod, moving with small steps, a slight -girlish figure by his side. And the gloom was like the gloom of -villainous slums, of misery, of wretchedness, of a starved and degraded -existence. It was a relief that I could see only their shabby hopeless -backs. He was an awful ghost. But indeed to call him a ghost was only a -refinement of polite speech, and a manner of concealing one's terror of -such things. Prisons are wonderful contrivances. Shut--open. Very -neat. Shut--open. And out comes some sort of corpse, to wander awfully -in a world in which it has no possible connections and carrying with it -the appalling tainted atmosphere of its silent abode. Marvellous -arrangement. It works automatically, and, when you look at it, the -perfection makes you sick; which for a mere mechanism is no mean triumph. -Sick and scared. It had nearly scared that poor girl to her death. Fancy -having to take such a thing by the hand! Now I understood the remorseful -strain I had detected in her speeches. - -"By Jove!" I said. "They are about to let him out! I never thought of -that." - -Fyne was contemptuous either of me or of things at large. - -"You didn't suppose he was to be kept in jail for life?" - -At that moment I caught sight of Flora de Barral at the junction of the -two streets. Then some vehicles following each other in quick succession -hid from my sight the black slight figure with just a touch of colour in -her hat. She was walking slowly; and it might have been caution or -reluctance. While listening to Fyne I stared hard past his shoulder -trying to catch sight of her again. He was going on with positive heat, -the rags of his solemnity dropping off him at every second sentence. - -That was just it. His wife and he had been perfectly aware of it. Of -course the girl never talked of her father with Mrs. Fyne. I suppose -with her theory of innocence she found it difficult. But she must have -been thinking of it day and night. What to do with him? Where to go? -How to keep body and soul together? He had never made any friends. The -only relations were the atrocious East-end cousins. We know what they -were. Nothing but wretchedness, whichever way she turned in an unjust -and prejudiced world. And to look at him helplessly she felt would be -too much for her. - -I won't say I was thinking these thoughts. It was not necessary. This -complete knowledge was in my head while I stared hard across the wide -road, so hard that I failed to hear little Fyne till he raised his deep -voice indignantly. - -"I don't blame the girl," he was saying. "He is infatuated with her. -Anybody can see that. Why she should have got such a hold on him I can't -understand. She said "Yes" to him only for the sake of that fatuous, -swindling father of hers. It's perfectly plain if one thinks it over a -moment. One needn't even think of it. We have it under her own hand. In -that letter to my wife she says she has acted unscrupulously. She has -owned up, then, for what else can it mean, I should like to know. And so -they are to be married before that old idiot comes out . . . He will be -surprised," commented Fyne suddenly in a strangely malignant tone. "He -shall be met at the jail door by a Mrs. Anthony, a Mrs. Captain Anthony. -Very pleasant for Zoe. And for all I know, my brother-in-law means to -turn up dutifully too. A little family event. It's extremely pleasant -to think of. Delightful. A charming family party. We three against the -world--and all that sort of thing. And what for. For a girl that -doesn't care twopence for him." - -The demon of bitterness had entered into little Fyne. He amazed me as -though he had changed his skin from white to black. It was quite as -wonderful. And he kept it up, too. - -"Luckily there are some advantages in the--the profession of a sailor. As -long as they defy the world away at sea somewhere eighteen thousand miles -from here, I don't mind so much. I wonder what that interesting old -party will say. He will have another surprise. They mean to drag him -along with them on board the ship straight away. Rescue work. Just -think of Roderick Anthony, the son of a gentleman, after all . . . " - -He gave me a little shock. I thought he was going to say the "son of the -poet" as usual; but his mind was not running on such vanities now. His -unspoken thought must have gone on "and uncle of my girls." I suspect -that he had been roughly handled by Captain Anthony up there, and the -resentment gave a tremendous fillip to the slow play of his wits. Those -men of sober fancy, when anything rouses their imaginative faculty, are -very thorough. "Just think!" he cried. "The three of them crowded into -a four-wheeler, and Anthony sitting deferentially opposite that -astonished old jail-bird!" - -The good little man laughed. An improper sound it was to come from his -manly chest; and what made it worse was the thought that for the least -thing, by a mere hair's breadth, he might have taken this affair -sentimentally. But clearly Anthony was no diplomatist. His brother-in- -law must have appeared to him, to use the language of shore people, a -perfect philistine with a heart like a flint. What Fyne precisely meant -by "wrangling" I don't know, but I had no doubt that these two had -"wrangled" to a profoundly disturbing extent. How much the other was -affected I could not even imagine; but the man before me was quite -amazingly upset. - -"In a four-wheeler! Take him on board!" I muttered, startled by the -change in Fyne. - -"That's the plan--nothing less. If I am to believe what I have been -told, his feet will scarcely touch the ground between the prison-gates -and the deck of that ship." - -The transformed Fyne spoke in a forcibly lowered tone which I heard -without difficulty. The rumbling, composite noises of the street were -hushed for a moment, during one of these sudden breaks in the traffic as -if the stream of commerce had dried up at its source. Having an -unobstructed view past Fyne's shoulder, I was astonished to see that the -girl was still there. I thought she had gone up long before. But there -was her black slender figure, her white face under the roses of her hat. -She stood on the edge of the pavement as people stand on the bank of a -stream, very still, as if waiting--or as if unconscious of where she was. -The three dismal, sodden loafers (I could see them too; they hadn't -budged an inch) seemed to me to be watching her. Which was horrible. - -Meantime Fyne was telling me rather remarkable things--for him. He -declared first it was a mercy in a sense. Then he asked me if it were -not real madness, to saddle one's existence with such a perpetual -reminder. The daily existence. The isolated sea-bound existence. To -bring such an additional strain into the solitude already trying enough -for two people was the craziest thing. Undesirable relations were bad -enough on shore. One could cut them or at least forget their existence -now and then. He himself was preparing to forget his brother-in-law's -existence as much as possible. - -That was the general sense of his remarks, not his exact words. I -thought that his wife's brother's existence had never been very -embarrassing to him but that now of course he would have to abstain from -his allusions to the "son of the poet--you know." I said "yes, yes" in -the pauses because I did not want him to turn round; and all the time I -was watching the girl intently. I thought I knew now what she meant with -her--"He was most generous." Yes. Generosity of character may carry a -man through any situation. But why didn't she go then to her generous -man? Why stand there as if clinging to this solid earth which she surely -hated as one must hate the place where one has been tormented, hopeless, -unhappy? Suddenly she stirred. Was she going to cross over? No. She -turned and began to walk slowly close to the curbstone, reminding me of -the time when I discovered her walking near the edge of a ninety-foot -sheer drop. It was the same impression, the same carriage, straight, -slim, with rigid head and the two hands hanging lightly clasped in -front--only now a small sunshade was dangling from them. I saw something -fateful in that deliberate pacing towards the inconspicuous door with the -words _Hotel Entrance_ on the glass panels. - -She was abreast of it now and I thought that she would stop again; but -no! She swerved rigidly--at the moment there was no one near her; she -had that bit of pavement to herself--with inanimate slowness as if moved -by something outside herself. - -"A confounded convict," Fyne burst out. - -With the sound of that word offending my ears I saw the girl extend her -arm, push the door open a little way and glide in. I saw plainly that -movement, the hand put out in advance with the gesture of a sleep-walker. - -She had vanished, her black figure had melted in the darkness of the open -door. For some time Fyne said nothing; and I thought of the girl going -upstairs, appearing before the man. Were they looking at each other in -silence and feeling they were alone in the world as lovers should at the -moment of meeting? But that fine forgetfulness was surely impossible to -Anthony the seaman directly after the wrangling interview with Fyne the -emissary of an order of things which stops at the edge of the sea. How -much he was disturbed I couldn't tell because I did not know what that -impetuous lover had had to listen to. - -"Going to take the old fellow to sea with them," I said. "Well I really -don't see what else they could have done with him. You told your brother- -in-law what you thought of it? I wonder how he took it." - -"Very improperly," repeated Fyne. "His manner was offensive, derisive, -from the first. I don't mean he was actually rude in words. Hang it -all, I am not a contemptible ass. But he was exulting at having got hold -of a miserable girl." - -"It is pretty certain that she will be much less poor and miserable," I -murmured. - -It looked as if the exultation of Captain Anthony had got on Fyne's -nerves. "I told the fellow very plainly that he was abominably selfish -in this," he affirmed unexpectedly. - -"You did! Selfish!" I said rather taken aback. "But what if the girl -thought that, on the contrary, he was most generous." - -"What do you know about it," growled Fyne. The rents and slashes of his -solemnity were closing up gradually but it was going to be a surly -solemnity. "Generosity! I am disposed to give it another name. No. Not -folly," he shot out at me as though I had meant to interrupt him. "Still -another. Something worse. I need not tell you what it is," he added -with grim meaning. - -"Certainly. You needn't--unless you like," I said blankly. Little Fyne -had never interested me so much since the beginning of the de -Barral-Anthony affair when I first perceived possibilities in him. The -possibilities of dull men are exciting because when they happen they -suggest legendary cases of "possession," not exactly by the devil but, -anyhow, by a strange spirit. - -"I told him it was a shame," said Fyne. "Even if the girl did make eyes -at him--but I think with you that she did not. Yes! A shame to take -advantage of a girl's--a distresses girl that does not love him in the -least." - -"You think it's so bad as that?" I said. "Because you know I don't." - -"What can you think about it," he retorted on me with a solemn stare. "I -go by her letter to my wife." - -"Ah! that famous letter. But you haven't actually read it," I said. - -"No, but my wife told me. Of course it was a most improper sort of -letter to write considering the circumstances. It pained Mrs. Fyne to -discover how thoroughly she had been misunderstood. But what is written -is not all. It's what my wife could read between the lines. She says -that the girl is really terrified at heart." - -"She had not much in life to give her any very special courage for it, or -any great confidence in mankind. That's very true. But this seems an -exaggeration." - -"I should like to know what reasons you have to say that," asked Fyne -with offended solemnity. "I really don't see any. But I had sufficient -authority to tell my brother-in-law that if he thought he was going to do -something chivalrous and fine he was mistaken. I can see very well that -he will do everything she asks him to do--but, all the same, it is rather -a pitiless transaction." - -For a moment I felt it might be so. Fyne caught sight of an approaching -tram-car and stepped out on the road to meet it. "Have you a more -compassionate scheme ready?" I called after him. He made no answer, -clambered on to the rear platform, and only then looked back. We -exchanged a perfunctory wave of the hand. We also looked at each other, -he rather angrily, I fancy, and I with wonder. I may also mention that -it was for the last time. From that day I never set eyes on the Fynes. -As usual the unexpected happened to me. It had nothing to do with Flora -de Barral. The fact is that I went away. My call was not like her call. -Mine was not urged on me with passionate vehemence or tender gentleness -made all the finer and more compelling by the allurements of generosity -which is a virtue as mysterious as any other but having a glamour of its -own. No, it was just a prosaic offer of employment on rather good terms -which, with a sudden sense of having wasted my time on shore long enough, -I accepted without misgivings. And once started out of my indolence I -went, as my habit was, very, very far away and for a long, long time. -Which is another proof of my indolence. How far Flora went I can't say. -But I will tell you my idea: my idea is that she went as far as she was -able--as far as she could bear it--as far as she had to . . . " - - - - -PART II--THE KNIGHT - - -CHAPTER ONE--THE FERNDALE - - -I have said that the story of Flora de Barral was imparted to me in -stages. At this stage I did not see Marlow for some time. At last, one -evening rather early, very soon after dinner, he turned up in my rooms. - -I had been waiting for his call primed with a remark which had not -occurred to me till after he had gone away. - -"I say," I tackled him at once, "how can you be certain that Flora de -Barral ever went to sea? After all, the wife of the captain of the -_Ferndale_--" the lady that mustn't be disturbed "of the old -ship-keeper--may not have been Flora." - -"Well, I do know," he said, "if only because I have been keeping in touch -with Mr. Powell." - -"You have!" I cried. "This is the first I hear of it. And since when?" - -"Why, since the first day. You went up to town leaving me in the inn. I -slept ashore. In the morning Mr. Powell came in for breakfast; and after -the first awkwardness of meeting a man you have been yarning with over- -night had worn off, we discovered a liking for each other." - -As I had discovered the fact of their mutual liking before either of -them, I was not surprised. - -"And so you kept in touch," I said. - -"It was not so very difficult. As he was always knocking about the river -I hired Dingle's sloop-rigged three-tonner to be more on an equality. -Powell was friendly but elusive. I don't think he ever wanted to avoid -me. But it is a fact that he used to disappear out of the river in a -very mysterious manner sometimes. A man may land anywhere and bolt -inland--but what about his five-ton cutter? You can't carry that in your -hand like a suit-case. - -"Then as suddenly he would reappear in the river, after one had given him -up. I did not like to be beaten. That's why I hired Dingle's decked -boat. There was just the accommodation in her to sleep a man and a dog. -But I had no dog-friend to invite. Fyne's dog who saved Flora de -Barral's life is the last dog-friend I had. I was rather lonely cruising -about; but that, too, on the river has its charm, sometimes. I chased -the mystery of the vanishing Powell dreamily, looking about me at the -ships, thinking of the girl Flora, of life's chances--and, do you know, -it was very simple." - -"What was very simple?" I asked innocently. - -"The mystery." - -"They generally are that," I said. - -Marlow eyed me for a moment in a peculiar manner. - -"Well, I have discovered the mystery of Powell's disappearances. The -fellow used to run into one of these narrow tidal creeks on the Essex -shore. These creeks are so inconspicuous that till I had studied the -chart pretty carefully I did not know of their existence. One afternoon, -I made Powell's boat out, heading into the shore. By the time I got -close to the mud-flat his craft had disappeared inland. But I could see -the mouth of the creek by then. The tide being on the turn I took the -risk of getting stuck in the mud suddenly and headed in. All I had to -guide me was the top of the roof of some sort of small building. I got -in more by good luck than by good management. The sun had set some time -before; my boat glided in a sort of winding ditch between two low grassy -banks; on both sides of me was the flatness of the Essex marsh, perfectly -still. All I saw moving was a heron; he was flying low, and disappeared -in the murk. Before I had gone half a mile, I was up with the building -the roof of which I had seen from the river. It looked like a small -barn. A row of piles driven into the soft bank in front of it and -supporting a few planks made a sort of wharf. All this was black in the -falling dusk, and I could just distinguish the whitish ruts of a cart- -track stretching over the marsh towards the higher land, far away. Not a -sound was to be heard. Against the low streak of light in the sky I -could see the mast of Powell's cutter moored to the bank some twenty -yards, no more, beyond that black barn or whatever it was. I hailed him -with a loud shout. Got no answer. After making fast my boat just -astern, I walked along the bank to have a look at Powell's. Being so -much bigger than mine she was aground already. Her sails were furled; -the slide of her scuttle hatch was closed and padlocked. Powell was -gone. He had walked off into that dark, still marsh somewhere. I had -not seen a single house anywhere near; there did not seem to be any human -habitation for miles; and now as darkness fell denser over the land I -couldn't see the glimmer of a single light. However, I supposed that -there must be some village or hamlet not very far away; or only one of -these mysterious little inns one comes upon sometimes in most unexpected -and lonely places. - -"The stillness was oppressive. I went back to my boat, made some coffee -over a spirit-lamp, devoured a few biscuits, and stretched myself aft, to -smoke and gaze at the stars. The earth was a mere shadow, formless and -silent, and empty, till a bullock turned up from somewhere, quite shadowy -too. He came smartly to the very edge of the bank as though he meant to -step on board, stretched his muzzle right over my boat, blew heavily -once, and walked off contemptuously into the darkness from which he had -come. I had not expected a call from a bullock, though a moment's -thought would have shown me that there must be lots of cattle and sheep -on that marsh. Then everything became still as before. I might have -imagined myself arrived on a desert island. In fact, as I reclined -smoking a sense of absolute loneliness grew on me. And just as it had -become intense, very abruptly and without any preliminary sound I heard -firm, quick footsteps on the little wharf. Somebody coming along the -cart-track had just stepped at a swinging gait on to the planks. That -somebody could only have been Mr. Powell. Suddenly he stopped short, -having made out that there were two masts alongside the bank where he had -left only one. Then he came on silent on the grass. When I spoke to him -he was astonished. - -"Who would have thought of seeing you here!" he exclaimed, after -returning my good evening. - -"I told him I had run in for company. It was rigorously true." - -"You knew I was here?" he exclaimed. - -"Of course," I said. "I tell you I came in for company." - -"He is a really good fellow," went on Marlow. "And his capacity for -astonishment is quickly exhausted, it seems. It was in the most matter- -of-fact manner that he said, 'Come on board of me, then; I have here -enough supper for two.' He was holding a bulky parcel in the crook of -his arm. I did not wait to be asked twice, as you may guess. His cutter -has a very neat little cabin, quite big enough for two men not only to -sleep but to sit and smoke in. We left the scuttle wide open, of course. -As to his provisions for supper, they were not of a luxurious kind. He -complained that the shops in the village were miserable. There was a big -village within a mile and a half. It struck me he had been very long -doing his shopping; but naturally I made no remark. I didn't want to -talk at all except for the purpose of setting him going." - -"And did you set him going?" I asked. - -"I did," said Marlow, composing his features into an impenetrable -expression which somehow assured me of his success better than an air of -triumph could have done. - -* * * * * - -"You made him talk?" I said after a silence. - -"Yes, I made him . . . about himself." - -"And to the point?" - -"If you mean by this," said Marlow, "that it was about the voyage of the -_Ferndale_, then again, yes. I brought him to talk about that voyage, -which, by the by, was not the first voyage of Flora de Barral. The man -himself, as I told you, is simple, and his faculty of wonder not very -great. He's one of those people who form no theories about facts. -Straightforward people seldom do. Neither have they much penetration. -But in this case it did not matter. I--we--have already the inner -knowledge. We know the history of Flora de Barral. We know something of -Captain Anthony. We have the secret of the situation. The man was -intoxicated with the pity and tenderness of his part. Oh yes! -Intoxicated is not too strong a word; for you know that love and desire -take many disguises. I believe that the girl had been frank with him, -with the frankness of women to whom perfect frankness is impossible, -because so much of their safety depends on judicious reticences. I am -not indulging in cheap sneers. There is necessity in these things. And -moreover she could not have spoken with a certain voice in the face of -his impetuosity, because she did not have time to understand either the -state of her feelings, or the precise nature of what she was doing. - -Had she spoken ever so clearly he was, I take it, too elated to hear her -distinctly. I don't mean to imply that he was a fool. Oh dear no! But -he had no training in the usual conventions, and we must remember that he -had no experience whatever of women. He could only have an ideal -conception of his position. An ideal is often but a flaming vision of -reality. - -To him enters Fyne, wound up, if I may express myself so irreverently, -wound up to a high pitch by his wife's interpretation of the girl's -letter. He enters with his talk of meanness and cruelty, like a bucket -of water on the flame. Clearly a shock. But the effects of a bucket of -water are diverse. They depend on the kind of flame. A mere blaze of -dry straw, of course . . . but there can be no question of straw there. -Anthony of the _Ferndale_ was not, could not have been, a straw-stuffed -specimen of a man. There are flames a bucket of water sends leaping sky- -high. - -We may well wonder what happened when, after Fyne had left him, the -hesitating girl went up at last and opened the door of that room where -our man, I am certain, was not extinguished. Oh no! Nor cold; whatever -else he might have been. - -It is conceivable he might have cried at her in the first moment of -humiliation, of exasperation, "Oh, it's you! Why are you here? If I am -so odious to you that you must write to my sister to say so, I give you -back your word." But then, don't you see, it could not have been that. I -have the practical certitude that soon afterwards they went together in a -hansom to see the ship--as agreed. That was my reason for saying that -Flora de Barral did go to sea . . . " - -"Yes. It seems conclusive," I agreed. "But even without that--if, as -you seem to think, the very desolation of that girlish figure had a sort -of perversely seductive charm, making its way through his compassion to -his senses (and everything is possible)--then such words could not have -been spoken." - -"They might have escaped him involuntarily," observed Marlow. "However, -a plain fact settles it. They went off together to see the ship." - -"Do you conclude from this that nothing whatever was said?" I inquired. - -"I should have liked to see the first meeting of their glances upstairs -there," mused Marlow. "And perhaps nothing was said. But no man comes -out of such a 'wrangle' (as Fyne called it) without showing some traces -of it. And you may be sure that a girl so bruised all over would feel -the slightest touch of anything resembling coldness. She was -mistrustful; she could not be otherwise; for the energy of evil is so -much more forcible than the energy of good that she could not help -looking still upon her abominable governess as an authority. How could -one have expected her to throw off the unholy prestige of that long -domination? She could not help believing what she had been told; that -she was in some mysterious way odious and unlovable. It was cruelly -true--_to her_. The oracle of so many years had spoken finally. Only -other people did not find her out at once . . . I would not go so far as -to say she believed it altogether. That would be hardly possible. But -then haven't the most flattered, the most conceited of us their moments -of doubt? Haven't they? Well, I don't know. There may be lucky beings -in this world unable to believe any evil of themselves. For my own part -I'll tell you that once, many years ago now, it came to my knowledge that -a fellow I had been mixed up with in a certain transaction--a clever -fellow whom I really despised--was going around telling people that I was -a consummate hypocrite. He could know nothing of it. It suited his -humour to say so. I had given him no ground for that particular calumny. -Yet to this day there are moments when it comes into my mind, and -involuntarily I ask myself, 'What if it were true?' It's absurd, but it -has on one or two occasions nearly affected my conduct. And yet I was -not an impressionable ignorant young girl. I had taken the exact measure -of the fellow's utter worthlessness long before. He had never been for -me a person of prestige and power, like that awful governess to Flora de -Barral. See the might of suggestion? We live at the mercy of a -malevolent word. A sound, a mere disturbance of the air, sinks into our -very soul sometimes. Flora de Barral had been more astounded than -convinced by the first impetuosity of Roderick Anthony. She let herself -be carried along by a mysterious force which her person had called into -being, as her father had been carried away out of his depth by the -unexpected power of successful advertising. - -They went on board that morning. The _Ferndale_ had just come to her -loading berth. The only living creature on board was the -ship-keeper--whether the same who had been described to us by Mr. Powell, -or another, I don't know. Possibly some other man. He, looking over the -side, saw, in his own words, 'the captain come sailing round the corner -of the nearest cargo-shed, in company with a girl.' He lowered the -accommodation ladder down on to the jetty . . . " - -"How do you know all this?" I interrupted. - -Marlow interjected an impatient: - -"You shall see by and by . . . Flora went up first, got down on deck and -stood stock-still till the captain took her by the arm and led her aft. -The ship-keeper let them into the saloon. He had the keys of all the -cabins, and stumped in after them. The captain ordered him to open all -the doors, every blessed door; state-rooms, passages, pantry, -fore-cabin--and then sent him away. - -"The _Ferndale_ had magnificent accommodation. At the end of a passage -leading from the quarter-deck there was a long saloon, its sumptuosity -slightly tarnished perhaps, but having a grand air of roominess and -comfort. The harbour carpets were down, the swinging lamps hung, and -everything in its place, even to the silver on the sideboard. Two large -stern cabins opened out of it, one on each side of the rudder casing. -These two cabins communicated through a small bathroom between them, and -one was fitted up as the captain's state-room. The other was vacant, and -furnished with arm-chairs and a round table, more like a room on shore, -except for the long curved settee following the shape of the ship's -stern. In a dim inclined mirror, Flora caught sight down to the waist of -a pale-faced girl in a white straw hat trimmed with roses, distant, -shadowy, as if immersed in water, and was surprised to recognize herself -in those surroundings. They seemed to her arbitrary, bizarre, strange. -Captain Anthony moved on, and she followed him. He showed her the other -cabins. He talked all the time loudly in a voice she seemed to have -known extremely well for a long time; and yet, she reflected, she had not -heard it often in her life. What he was saying she did not quite follow. -He was speaking of comparatively indifferent things in a rather moody -tone, but she felt it round her like a caress. And when he stopped she -could hear, alarming in the sudden silence, the precipitated beating of -her heart. - -The ship-keeper dodged about the quarter-deck, out of hearing, and trying -to keep out of sight. At the same time, taking advantage of the open -doors with skill and prudence, he could see the captain and "that girl" -the captain had brought aboard. The captain was showing her round very -thoroughly. Through the whole length of the passage, far away aft in the -perspective of the saloon the ship-keeper had interesting glimpses of -them as they went in and out of the various cabins, crossing from side to -side, remaining invisible for a time in one or another of the -state-rooms, and then reappearing again in the distance. The girl, -always following the captain, had her sunshade in her hands. Mostly she -would hang her head, but now and then she would look up. They had a lot -to say to each other, and seemed to forget they weren't alone in the -ship. He saw the captain put his hand on her shoulder, and was preparing -himself with a certain zest for what might follow, when the "old man" -seemed to recollect himself, and came striding down all the length of the -saloon. At this move the ship-keeper promptly dodged out of sight, as -you may believe, and heard the captain slam the inner door of the -passage. After that disappointment the ship-keeper waited resentfully -for them to clear out of the ship. It happened much sooner than he had -expected. The girl walked out on deck first. As before she did not look -round. She didn't look at anything; and she seemed to be in such a hurry -to get ashore that she made for the gangway and started down the ladder -without waiting for the captain. - -What struck the ship-keeper most was the absent, unseeing expression of -the captain, striding after the girl. He passed him, the ship-keeper, -without notice, without an order, without so much as a look. The captain -had never done so before. Always had a nod and a pleasant word for a -man. From this slight the ship-keeper drew a conclusion unfavourable to -the strange girl. He gave them time to get down on the wharf before -crossing the deck to steal one more look at the pair over the rail. The -captain took hold of the girl's arm just before a couple of railway -trucks drawn by a horse came rolling along and hid them from the ship- -keeper's sight for good. - -Next day, when the chief mate joined the ship, he told him the tale of -the visit, and expressed himself about the girl "who had got hold of the -captain" disparagingly. She didn't look healthy, he explained. "Shabby -clothes, too," he added spitefully. - -The mate was very much interested. He had been with Anthony for several -years, and had won for himself in the course of many long voyages, a -footing of familiarity, which was to be expected with a man of Anthony's -character. But in that slowly-grown intimacy of the sea, which in its -duration and solitude had its unguarded moments, no words had passed, -even of the most casual, to prepare him for the vision of his captain -associated with any kind of girl. His impression had been that women did -not exist for Captain Anthony. Exhibiting himself with a girl! A girl! -What did he want with a girl? Bringing her on board and showing her -round the cabin! That was really a little bit too much. Captain Anthony -ought to have known better. - -Franklin (the chief mate's name was Franklin) felt disappointed; almost -disillusioned. Silly thing to do! Here was a confounded old ship-keeper -set talking. He snubbed the ship-keeper, and tried to think of that -insignificant bit of foolishness no more; for it diminished Captain -Anthony in his eyes of a jealously devoted subordinate. - -Franklin was over forty; his mother was still alive. She stood in the -forefront of all women for him, just as Captain Anthony stood in the -forefront of all men. We may suppose that these groups were not very -large. He had gone to sea at a very early age. The feeling which caused -these two people to partly eclipse the rest of mankind were of course not -similar; though in time he had acquired the conviction that he was -"taking care" of them both. The "old lady" of course had to be looked -after as long as she lived. In regard to Captain Anthony, he used to say -that: why should he leave him? It wasn't likely that he would come -across a better sailor or a better man or a more comfortable ship. As to -trying to better himself in the way of promotion, commands were not the -sort of thing one picked up in the streets, and when it came to that, -Captain Anthony was as likely to give him a lift on occasion as anyone in -the world. - -From Mr. Powell's description Franklin was a short, thick black-haired -man, bald on the top. His head sunk between the shoulders, his staring -prominent eyes and a florid colour, gave him a rather apoplectic -appearance. In repose, his congested face had a humorously melancholy -expression. - -The ship-keeper having given him up all the keys and having been chased -forward with the admonition to mind his own business and not to chatter -about what did not concern him, Mr. Franklin went under the poop. He -opened one door after another; and, in the saloon, in the captain's state- -room and everywhere, he stared anxiously as if expecting to see on the -bulkheads, on the deck, in the air, something unusual--sign, mark, -emanation, shadow--he hardly knew what--some subtle change wrought by the -passage of a girl. But there was nothing. He entered the unoccupied -stern cabin and spent some time there unscrewing the two stern ports. In -the absence of all material evidences his uneasiness was passing away. -With a last glance round he came out and found himself in the presence of -his captain advancing from the other end of the saloon. - -Franklin, at once, looked for the girl. She wasn't to be seen. The -captain came up quickly. 'Oh! you are here, Mr. Franklin.' And the mate -said, 'I was giving a little air to the place, sir.' Then the captain, -his hat pulled down over his eyes, laid his stick on the table and asked -in his kind way: 'How did you find your mother, Franklin?'--'The old -lady's first-rate, sir, thank you.' And then they had nothing to say to -each other. It was a strange and disturbing feeling for Franklin. He, -just back from leave, the ship just come to her loading berth, the -captain just come on board, and apparently nothing to say! The several -questions he had been anxious to ask as to various things which had to be -done had slipped out of his mind. He, too, felt as though he had nothing -to say. - -The captain, picking up his stick off the table, marched into his state- -room and shut the door after him. Franklin remained still for a moment -and then started slowly to go on deck. But before he had time to reach -the other end of the saloon he heard himself called by name. He turned -round. The captain was staring from the doorway of his state-room. -Franklin said, "Yes, sir." But the captain, silent, leaned a little -forward grasping the door handle. So he, Franklin, walked aft keeping -his eyes on him. When he had come up quite close he said again, "Yes, -sir?" interrogatively. Still silence. The mate didn't like to be stared -at in that manner, a manner quite new in his captain, with a defiant and -self-conscious stare, like a man who feels ill and dares you to notice -it. Franklin gazed at his captain, felt that there was something wrong, -and in his simplicity voiced his feelings by asking point-blank: - -"What's wrong, sir?" - -The captain gave a slight start, and the character of his stare changed -to a sort of sinister surprise. Franklin grew very uncomfortable, but -the captain asked negligently: - -"What makes you think that there's something wrong?" - -"I can't say exactly. You don't look quite yourself, sir," Franklin -owned up. - -"You seem to have a confoundedly piercing eye," said the captain in such -an aggressive tone that Franklin was moved to defend himself. - -"We have been together now over six years, sir, so I suppose I know you a -bit by this time. I could see there was something wrong directly you -came on board." - -"Mr. Franklin," said the captain, "we have been more than six years -together, it is true, but I didn't know you for a reader of faces. You -are not a correct reader though. It's very far from being wrong. You -understand? As far from being wrong as it can very well be. It ought to -teach you not to make rash surmises. You should leave that to the shore -people. They are great hands at spying out something wrong. I dare say -they know what they have made of the world. A dam' poor job of it and -that's plain. It's a confoundedly ugly place, Mr. Franklin. You don't -know anything of it? Well--no, we sailors don't. Only now and then one -of us runs against something cruel or underhand, enough to make your hair -stand on end. And when you do see a piece of their wickedness you find -that to set it right is not so easy as it looks . . . Oh! I called you -back to tell you that there will be a lot of workmen, joiners and all -that sent down on board first thing to-morrow morning to start making -alterations in the cabin. You will see to it that they don't loaf. There -isn't much time." - -Franklin was impressed by this unexpected lecture upon the wickedness of -the solid world surrounded by the salt, uncorruptible waters on which he -and his captain had dwelt all their lives in happy innocence. What he -could not understand was why it should have been delivered, and what -connection it could have with such a matter as the alterations to be -carried out in the cabin. The work did not seem to him to be called for -in such a hurry. What was the use of altering anything? It was a very -good accommodation, spacious, well-distributed, on a rather old-fashioned -plan, and with its decorations somewhat tarnished. But a dab of varnish, -a touch of gilding here and there, was all that was necessary. As to -comfort, it could not be improved by any alterations. He resented the -notion of change; but he said dutifully that he would keep his eye on the -workmen if the captain would only let him know what was the nature of the -work he had ordered to be done. - -"You'll find a note of it on this table. I'll leave it for you as I go -ashore," said Captain Anthony hastily. Franklin thought there was no -more to hear, and made a movement to leave the saloon. But the captain -continued after a slight pause, "You will be surprised, no doubt, when -you look at it. There'll be a good many alterations. It's on account of -a lady coming with us. I am going to get married, Mr. Franklin!" - - - -CHAPTER TWO--YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS - - -"You remember," went on Marlow, "how I feared that Mr. Powell's want of -experience would stand in his way of appreciating the unusual. The -unusual I had in my mind was something of a very subtle sort: the unusual -in marital relations. I may well have doubted the capacity of a young -man too much concerned with the creditable performance of his -professional duties to observe what in the nature of things is not easily -observable in itself, and still less so under the special circumstances. -In the majority of ships a second officer has not many points of contact -with the captain's wife. He sits at the same table with her at meals, -generally speaking; he may now and then be addressed more or less kindly -on insignificant matters, and have the opportunity to show her some small -attentions on deck. And that is all. Under such conditions, signs can -be seen only by a sharp and practised eye. I am alluding now to troubles -which are subtle often to the extent of not being understood by the very -hearts they devastate or uplift. - -Yes, Mr. Powell, whom the chance of his name had thrown upon the floating -stage of that tragicomedy would have been perfectly useless for my -purpose if the unusual of an obvious kind had not aroused his attention -from the first. - -We know how he joined that ship so suddenly offered to his anxious desire -to make a real start in his profession. He had come on board breathless -with the hurried winding up of his shore affairs, accompanied by two -horrible night-birds, escorted by a dock policeman on the make, received -by an asthmatic shadow of a ship-keeper, warned not to make a noise in -the darkness of the passage because the captain and his wife were already -on board. That in itself was already somewhat unusual. Captains and -their wives do not, as a rule, join a moment sooner than is necessary. -They prefer to spend the last moments with their friends and relations. A -ship in one of London's older docks with their restrictions as to lights -and so on is not the place for a happy evening. Still, as the tide -served at six in the morning, one could understand them coming on board -the evening before. - -Just then young Powell felt as if anybody ought to be glad enough to be -quit of the shore. We know he was an orphan from a very early age, -without brothers or sisters--no near relations of any kind, I believe, -except that aunt who had quarrelled with his father. No affection stood -in the way of the quiet satisfaction with which he thought that now all -the worries were over, that there was nothing before him but duties, that -he knew what he would have to do as soon as the dawn broke and for a long -succession of days. A most soothing certitude. He enjoyed it in the -dark, stretched out in his bunk with his new blankets pulled over him. -Some clock ashore beyond the dock-gates struck two. And then he heard -nothing more, because he went off into a light sleep from which he woke -up with a start. He had not taken his clothes off, it was hardly worth -while. He jumped up and went on deck. - -The morning was clear, colourless, grey overhead; the dock like a sheet -of darkling glass crowded with upside-down reflections of warehouses, of -hulls and masts of silent ships. Rare figures moved here and there on -the distant quays. A knot of men stood alongside with clothes-bags and -wooden chests at their feet. Others were coming down the lane between -tall, blind walls, surrounding a hand-cart loaded with more bags and -boxes. It was the crew of the _Ferndale_. They began to come on board. -He scanned their faces as they passed forward filling the roomy deck with -the shuffle of their footsteps and the murmur of voices, like the -awakening to life of a world about to be launched into space. - -Far away down the clear glassy stretch in the middle of the long dock Mr. -Powell watched the tugs coming in quietly through the open gates. A -subdued firm voice behind him interrupted this contemplation. It was -Franklin, the thick chief mate, who was addressing him with a watchful -appraising stare of his prominent black eyes: "You'd better take a couple -of these chaps with you and look out for her aft. We are going to cast -off." - -"Yes, sir," Powell said with proper alacrity; but for a moment they -remained looking at each other fixedly. Something like a faint smile -altered the set of the chief mate's lips just before he moved off forward -with his brisk step. - -Mr. Powell, getting up on the poop, touched his cap to Captain Anthony, -who was there alone. He tells me that it was only then that he saw his -captain for the first time. The day before, in the shipping office, what -with the bad light and his excitement at this berth obtained as if by a -brusque and unscrupulous miracle, did not count. He had then seemed to -him much older and heavier. He was surprised at the lithe figure, broad -of shoulder, narrow at the hips, the fire of the deep-set eyes, the -springiness of the walk. The captain gave him a steady stare, nodded -slightly, and went on pacing the poop with an air of not being aware of -what was going on, his head rigid, his movements rapid. - -Powell stole several glances at him with a curiosity very natural under -the circumstances. He wore a short grey jacket and a grey cap. In the -light of the dawn, growing more limpid rather than brighter, Powell -noticed the slightly sunken cheeks under the trimmed beard, the -perpendicular fold on the forehead, something hard and set about the -mouth. - -It was too early yet for the work to have begun in the dock. The water -gleamed placidly, no movement anywhere on the long straight lines of the -quays, no one about to be seen except the few dock hands busy alongside -the _Ferndale_, knowing their work, mostly silent or exchanging a few -words in low tones as if they, too, had been aware of that lady 'who -mustn't be disturbed.' The _Ferndale_ was the only ship to leave that -tide. The others seemed still asleep, without a sound, and only here and -there a figure, coming up on the forecastle, leaned on the rail to watch -the proceedings idly. Without trouble and fuss and almost without a -sound was the _Ferndale_ leaving the land, as if stealing away. Even the -tugs, now with their engines stopped, were approaching her without a -ripple, the burly-looking paddle-boat sheering forward, while the other, -a screw, smaller and of slender shape, made for her quarter so gently -that she did not divide the smooth water, but seemed to glide on its -surface as if on a sheet of plate-glass, a man in her bow, the master at -the wheel visible only from the waist upwards above the white screen of -the bridge, both of them so still-eyed as to fascinate young Powell into -curious self-forgetfulness and immobility. He was steeped, sunk in the -general quietness, remembering the statement 'she's a lady that mustn't -be disturbed,' and repeating to himself idly: 'No. She won't be -disturbed. She won't be disturbed.' Then the first loud words of that -morning breaking that strange hush of departure with a sharp hail: 'Look -out for that line there,' made him start. The line whizzed past his -head, one of the sailors aft caught it, and there was an end to the -fascination, to the quietness of spirit which had stolen on him at the -very moment of departure. From that moment till two hours afterwards, -when the ship was brought up in one of the lower reaches of the Thames -off an apparently uninhabited shore, near some sort of inlet where -nothing but two anchored barges flying a red flag could be seen, Powell -was too busy to think of the lady 'that mustn't be disturbed,' or of his -captain--or of anything else unconnected with his immediate duties. In -fact, he had no occasion to go on the poop, or even look that way much; -but while the ship was about to anchor, casting his eyes in that -direction, he received an absurd impression that his captain (he was up -there, of course) was sitting on both sides of the aftermost skylight at -once. He was too occupied to reflect on this curious delusion, this -phenomenon of seeing double as though he had had a drop too much. He -only smiled at himself. - -As often happens after a grey daybreak the sun had risen in a warm and -glorious splendour above the smooth immense gleam of the enlarged -estuary. Wisps of mist floated like trails of luminous dust, and in the -dazzling reflections of water and vapour, the shores had the murky semi- -transparent darkness of shadows cast mysteriously from below. Powell, -who had sailed out of London all his young seaman's life, told me that it -was then, in a moment of entranced vision an hour or so after sunrise, -that the river was revealed to him for all time, like a fair face often -seen before, which is suddenly perceived to be the expression of an inner -and unsuspected beauty, of that something unique and only its own which -rouses a passion of wonder and fidelity and an unappeasable memory of its -charm. The hull of the _Ferndale_, swung head to the eastward, caught -the light, her tall spars and rigging steeped in a bath of red-gold, from -the water-line full of glitter to the trucks slight and gleaming against -the delicate expanse of the blue. - -"Time we had a mouthful to eat," said a voice at his side. It was Mr. -Franklin, the chief mate, with his head sunk between his shoulders, and -melancholy eyes. "Let the men have their breakfast, bo'sun," he went on, -"and have the fire out in the galley in half an hour at the latest, so -that we can call these barges of explosives alongside. Come along, young -man. I don't know your name. Haven't seen the captain, to speak to, -since yesterday afternoon when he rushed off to pick up a second mate -somewhere. How did he get you?" - -Young Powell, a little shy notwithstanding the friendly disposition of -the other, answered him smilingly, aware somehow that there was something -marked in this inquisitiveness, natural, after all--something anxious. -His name was Powell, and he was put in the way of this berth by Mr. -Powell, the shipping master. He blushed. - -"Ah, I see. Well, you have been smart in getting ready. The -ship-keeper, before he went away, told me you joined at one o'clock. I -didn't sleep on board last night. Not I. There was a time when I never -cared to leave this ship for more than a couple of hours in the evening, -even while in London, but now, since--" - -He checked himself with a roll of his prominent eyes towards that -youngster, that stranger. Meantime, he was leading the way across the -quarter-deck under the poop into the long passage with the door of the -saloon at the far end. It was shut. But Mr. Franklin did not go so far. -After passing the pantry he opened suddenly a door on the left of the -passage, to Powell's great surprise. - -"Our mess-room," he said, entering a small cabin painted white, bare, -lighted from part of the foremost skylight, and furnished only with a -table and two settees with movable backs. "That surprises you? Well, it -isn't usual. And it wasn't so in this ship either, before. It's only -since--" - -He checked himself again. "Yes. Here we shall feed, you and I, facing -each other for the next twelve months or more--God knows how much more! -The bo'sun keeps the deck at meal-times in fine weather." - -He talked not exactly wheezing, but like a man whose breath is somewhat -short, and the spirit (young Powell could not help thinking) embittered -by some mysterious grievance. - -There was enough of the unusual there to be recognized even by Powell's -inexperience. The officers kept out of the cabin against the custom of -the service, and then this sort of accent in the mate's talk. Franklin -did not seem to expect conversational ease from the new second mate. He -made several remarks about the old, deploring the accident. Awkward. -Very awkward this thing to happen on the very eve of sailing. - -"Collar-bone and arm broken," he sighed. "Sad, very sad. Did you notice -if the captain was at all affected? Eh? Must have been." - -Before this congested face, these globular eyes turned yearningly upon -him, young Powell (one must keep in mind he was but a youngster then) who -could not remember any signs of visible grief, confessed with an -embarrassed laugh that, owing to the suddenness of this lucky chance -coming to him, he was not in a condition to notice the state of other -people. - -"I was so pleased to get a ship at last," he murmured, further -disconcerted by the sort of pent-up gravity in Mr. Franklin's aspect. - -"One man's food another man's poison," the mate remarked. "That holds -true beyond mere victuals. I suppose it didn't occur to you that it was -a dam' poor way for a good man to be knocked out." - -Mr. Powell admitted openly that he had not thought of that. He was ready -to admit that it was very reprehensible of him. But Franklin had no -intention apparently to moralize. He did not fall silent either. His -further remarks were to the effect that there had been a time when -Captain Anthony would have showed more than enough concern for the least -thing happening to one of his officers. Yes, there had been a time! - -"And mind," he went on, laying down suddenly a half-consumed piece of -bread and butter and raising his voice, "poor Mathews was the second man -the longest on board. I was the first. He joined a month later--about -the same time as the steward by a few days. The bo'sun and the carpenter -came the voyage after. Steady men. Still here. No good man need ever -have thought of leaving the _Ferndale_ unless he were a fool. Some good -men are fools. Don't know when they are well off. I mean the best of -good men; men that you would do anything for. They go on for years, then -all of a sudden--" - -Our young friend listened to the mate with a queer sense of discomfort -growing on him. For it was as though Mr. Franklin were thinking aloud, -and putting him into the delicate position of an unwilling eavesdropper. -But there was in the mess-room another listener. It was the steward, who -had come in carrying a tin coffee-pot with a long handle, and stood -quietly by: a man with a middle-aged, sallow face, long features, heavy -eyelids, a soldierly grey moustache. His body encased in a short black -jacket with narrow sleeves, his long legs in very tight trousers, made up -an agile, youthful, slender figure. He moved forward suddenly, and -interrupted the mate's monologue. - -"More coffee, Mr. Franklin? Nice fresh lot. Piping hot. I am going to -give breakfast to the saloon directly, and the cook is raking his fire -out. Now's your chance." - -The mate who, on account of his peculiar build, could not turn his head -freely, twisted his thick trunk slightly, and ran his black eyes in the -corners towards the steward. - -"And is the precious pair of them out?" he growled. - -The steward, pouring out the coffee into the mate's cup, muttered moodily -but distinctly: "The lady wasn't when I was laying the table." - -Powell's ears were fine enough to detect something hostile in this -reference to the captain's wife. For of what other person could they be -speaking? The steward added with a gloomy sort of fairness: "But she -will be before I bring the dishes in. She never gives that sort of -trouble. That she doesn't." - -"No. Not in that way," Mr. Franklin agreed, and then both he and the -steward, after glancing at Powell--the stranger to the ship--said nothing -more. - -But this had been enough to rouse his curiosity. Curiosity is natural to -man. Of course it was not a malevolent curiosity which, if not exactly -natural, is to be met fairly frequently in men and perhaps more -frequently in women--especially if a woman be in question; and that woman -under a cloud, in a manner of speaking. For under a cloud Flora de -Barral was fated to be even at sea. Yes. Even that sort of darkness -which attends a woman for whom there is no clear place in the world hung -over her. Yes. Even at sea! - -* * * * * - -And this is the pathos of being a woman. A man can struggle to get a -place for himself or perish. But a woman's part is passive, say what you -like, and shuffle the facts of the world as you may, hinting at lack of -energy, of wisdom, of courage. As a matter of fact, almost all women -have all that--of their own kind. But they are not made for attack. Wait -they must. I am speaking here of women who are really women. And it's -no use talking of opportunities, either. I know that some of them do -talk of it. But not the genuine women. Those know better. Nothing can -beat a true woman for a clear vision of reality; I would say a cynical -vision if I were not afraid of wounding your chivalrous feelings--for -which, by the by, women are not so grateful as you may think, to fellows -of your kind . . . - -"Upon my word, Marlow," I cried, "what are you flying out at me for like -this? I wouldn't use an ill-sounding word about women, but what right -have you to imagine that I am looking for gratitude?" - -Marlow raised a soothing hand. - -"There! There! I take back the ill-sounding word, with the remark, -though, that cynicism seems to me a word invented by hypocrites. But let -that pass. As to women, they know that the clamour for opportunities for -them to become something which they cannot be is as reasonable as if -mankind at large started asking for opportunities of winning immortality -in this world, in which death is the very condition of life. You must -understand that I am not talking here of material existence. That -naturally is implied; but you won't maintain that a woman who, say, -enlisted, for instance (there have been cases) has conquered her place in -the world. She has only got her living in it--which is quite -meritorious, but not quite the same thing. - -All these reflections which arise from my picking up the thread of Flora -de Barral's existence did not, I am certain, present themselves to Mr. -Powell--not the Mr. Powell we know taking solitary week-end cruises in -the estuary of the Thames (with mysterious dashes into lonely creeks) but -to the young Mr. Powell, the chance second officer of the ship -_Ferndale_, commanded (and for the most part owned) by Roderick Anthony, -the son of the poet--you know. A Mr. Powell, much slenderer than our -robust friend is now, with the bloom of innocence not quite rubbed off -his smooth cheeks, and apt not only to be interested but also to be -surprised by the experience life was holding in store for him. This -would account for his remembering so much of it with considerable -vividness. For instance, the impressions attending his first breakfast -on board the _Ferndale_, both visual and mental, were as fresh to him as -if received yesterday. - -The surprise, it is easy to understand, would arise from the inability to -interpret aright the signs which experience (a thing mysterious in -itself) makes to our understanding and emotions. For it is never more -than that. Our experience never gets into our blood and bones. It -always remains outside of us. That's why we look with wonder at the -past. And this persists even when from practice and through growing -callousness of fibre we come to the point when nothing that we meet in -that rapid blinking stumble across a flick of sunshine--which our life -is--nothing, I say, which we run against surprises us any more. Not at -the time, I mean. If, later on, we recover the faculty with some such -exclamation: 'Well! Well! I'll be hanged if I ever, . . . ' it is -probably because this very thing that there should be a past to look back -upon, other people's, is very astounding in itself when one has the time, -a fleeting and immense instant to think of it . . . " - -I was on the point of interrupting Marlow when he stopped of himself, his -eyes fixed on vacancy, or--perhaps--(I wouldn't be too hard on him) on a -vision. He has the habit, or, say, the fault, of defective mantelpiece -clocks, of suddenly stopping in the very fulness of the tick. If you -have ever lived with a clock afflicted with that perversity, you know how -vexing it is--such a stoppage. I was vexed with Marlow. He was smiling -faintly while I waited. He even laughed a little. And then I said -acidly: - -"Am I to understand that you have ferreted out something comic in the -history of Flora de Barral?" - -"Comic!" he exclaimed. "No! What makes you say? . . . Oh, I -laughed--did I? But don't you know that people laugh at absurdities that -are very far from being comic? Didn't you read the latest books about -laughter written by philosophers, psychologists? There is a lot of them -. . . " - -"I dare say there has been a lot of nonsense written about laughter--and -tears, too, for that matter," I said impatiently. - -"They say," pursued the unabashed Marlow, "that we laugh from a sense of -superiority. Therefore, observe, simplicity, honesty, warmth of feeling, -delicacy of heart and of conduct, self-confidence, magnanimity are -laughed at, because the presence of these traits in a man's character -often puts him into difficult, cruel or absurd situations, and makes us, -the majority who are fairly free as a rule from these peculiarities, feel -pleasantly superior." - -"Speak for yourself," I said. "But have you discovered all these fine -things in the story; or has Mr. Powell discovered them to you in his -artless talk? Have you two been having good healthy laughs together? -Come! Are your sides aching yet, Marlow?" - -Marlow took no offence at my banter. He was quite serious. - -"I should not like to say off-hand how much of that there was," he -pursued with amusing caution. "But there was a situation, tense enough -for the signs of it to give many surprises to Mr. Powell--neither of them -shocking in itself, but with a cumulative effect which made the whole -unforgettable in the detail of its progress. And the first surprise came -very soon, when the explosives (to which he owed his sudden chance of -engagement)--dynamite in cases and blasting powder in barrels--taken on -board, main hatch battened for sea, cook restored to his functions in the -galley, anchor fished and the tug ahead, rounding the South Foreland, and -with the sun sinking clear and red down the purple vista of the channel, -he went on the poop, on duty, it is true, but with time to take the first -freer breath in the busy day of departure. The pilot was still on board, -who gave him first a silent glance, and then passed an insignificant -remark before resuming his lounging to and fro between the steering wheel -and the binnacle. Powell took his station modestly at the break of the -poop. He had noticed across the skylight a head in a grey cap. But -when, after a time, he crossed over to the other side of the deck he -discovered that it was not the captain's head at all. He became aware of -grey hairs curling over the nape of the neck. How could he have made -that mistake? But on board ship away from the land one does not expect -to come upon a stranger. - -Powell walked past the man. A thin, somewhat sunken face, with a tightly -closed mouth, stared at the distant French coast, vague like a suggestion -of solid darkness, lying abeam beyond the evening light reflected from -the level waters, themselves growing more sombre than the sky; a stare, -across which Powell had to pass and did pass with a quick side glance, -noting its immovable stillness. His passage disturbed those eyes no more -than if he had been as immaterial as a ghost. And this failure of his -person in producing an impression affected him strangely. Who could that -old man be? - -He was so curious that he even ventured to ask the pilot in a low voice. -The pilot turned out to be a good-natured specimen of his kind, -condescending, sententious. He had been down to his meals in the main -cabin, and had something to impart. - -"That? Queer fish--eh? Mrs. Anthony's father. I've been introduced to -him in the cabin at breakfast time. Name of Smith. Wonder if he has all -his wits about him. They take him about with them, it seems. Don't look -very happy--eh?" - -Then, changing his tone abruptly, he desired Powell to get all hands on -deck and make sail on the ship. "I shall be leaving you in half an hour. -You'll have plenty of time to find out all about the old gent," he added -with a thick laugh. - -* * * * * - -In the secret emotion of giving his first order as a fully responsible -officer, young Powell forgot the very existence of that old man in a -moment. The following days, in the interest of getting in touch with the -ship, with the men in her, with his duties, in the rather anxious period -of settling down, his curiosity slumbered; for of course the pilot's few -words had not extinguished it. - -This settling down was made easy for him by the friendly character of his -immediate superior--the chief. Powell could not defend himself from some -sympathy for that thick, bald man, comically shaped, with his crimson -complexion and something pathetic in the rolling of his very movable -black eyes in an apparently immovable head, who was so tactfully ready to -take his competency for granted. - -There can be nothing more reassuring to a young man tackling his life's -work for the first time. Mr. Powell, his mind at ease about himself, had -time to observe the people around with friendly interest. Very early in -the beginning of the passage, he had discovered with some amusement that -the marriage of Captain Anthony was resented by those to whom Powell -(conscious of being looked upon as something of an outsider) referred in -his mind as 'the old lot.' - -They had the funny, regretful glances, intonations, nods of men who had -seen other, better times. What difference it could have made to the -bo'sun and the carpenter Powell could not very well understand. Yet -these two pulled long faces and even gave hostile glances to the poop. -The cook and the steward might have been more directly concerned. But -the steward used to remark on occasion, 'Oh, she gives no extra trouble,' -with scrupulous fairness of the most gloomy kind. He was rather a silent -man with a great sense of his personal worth which made his speeches -guarded. The cook, a neat man with fair side whiskers, who had been only -three years in the ship, seemed the least concerned. He was even known -to have inquired once or twice as to the success of some of his dishes -with the captain's wife. This was considered a sort of disloyal falling -away from the ruling feeling. - -The mate's annoyance was yet the easiest to understand. As he let it out -to Powell before the first week of the passage was over: 'You can't -expect me to be pleased at being chucked out of the saloon as if I -weren't good enough to sit down to meat with that woman.' But he -hastened to add: 'Don't you think I'm blaming the captain. He isn't a -man to be found fault with. You, Mr. Powell, are too young yet to -understand such matters.' - -Some considerable time afterwards, at the end of a conversation of that -aggrieved sort, he enlarged a little more by repeating: 'Yes! You are -too young to understand these things. I don't say you haven't plenty of -sense. You are doing very well here. Jolly sight better than I -expected, though I liked your looks from the first.' - -It was in the trade-winds, at night, under a velvety, bespangled sky; a -great multitude of stars watching the shadows of the sea gleaming -mysteriously in the wake of the ship; while the leisurely swishing of the -water to leeward was like a drowsy comment on her progress. Mr. Powell -expressed his satisfaction by a half-bashful laugh. The mate mused on: -'And of course you haven't known the ship as she used to be. She was -more than a home to a man. She was not like any other ship; and Captain -Anthony was not like any other master to sail with. Neither is she now. -But before one never had a care in the world as to her--and as to him, -too. No, indeed, there was never anything to worry about.' - -Young Powell couldn't see what there was to worry about even then. The -serenity of the peaceful night seemed as vast as all space, and as -enduring as eternity itself. It's true the sea is an uncertain element, -but no sailor remembers this in the presence of its bewitching power any -more than a lover ever thinks of the proverbial inconstancy of women. And -Mr. Powell, being young, thought naively that the captain being married, -there could be no occasion for anxiety as to his condition. I suppose -that to him life, perhaps not so much his own as that of others, was -something still in the nature of a fairy-tale with a 'they lived happy -ever after' termination. We are the creatures of our light literature -much more than is generally suspected in a world which prides itself on -being scientific and practical, and in possession of incontrovertible -theories. Powell felt in that way the more because the captain of a ship -at sea is a remote, inaccessible creature, something like a prince of a -fairy-tale, alone of his kind, depending on nobody, not to be called to -account except by powers practically invisible and so distant, that they -might well be looked upon as supernatural for all that the rest of the -crew knows of them, as a rule. - -So he did not understand the aggrieved attitude of the mate--or rather he -understood it obscurely as a result of simple causes which did not seem -to him adequate. He would have dismissed all this out of his mind with a -contemptuous: 'What the devil do I care?' if the captain's wife herself -had not been so young. To see her the first time had been something of a -shock to him. He had some preconceived ideas as to captain's wives -which, while he did not believe the testimony of his eyes, made him open -them very wide. He had stared till the captain's wife noticed it plainly -and turned her face away. Captain's wife! That girl covered with rugs -in a long chair. Captain's . . . ! He gasped mentally. It had never -occurred to him that a captain's wife could be anything but a woman to be -described as stout or thin, as jolly or crabbed, but always mature, and -even, in comparison with his own years, frankly old. But this! It was a -sort of moral upset as though he had discovered a case of abduction or -something as surprising as that. You understand that nothing is more -disturbing than the upsetting of a preconceived idea. Each of us -arranges the world according to his own notion of the fitness of things. -To behold a girl where your average mediocre imagination had placed a -comparatively old woman may easily become one of the strongest shocks -. . . " - -Marlow paused, smiling to himself. - -"Powell remained impressed after all these years by the very -recollection," he continued in a voice, amused perhaps but not mocking. -"He said to me only the other day with something like the first awe of -that discovery lingering in his tone--he said to me: "Why, she seemed so -young, so girlish, that I looked round for some woman which would be the -captain's wife, though of course I knew there was no other woman on board -that voyage." The voyage before, it seems, there had been the steward's -wife to act as maid to Mrs. Anthony; but she was not taken that time for -some reason he didn't know. Mrs. Anthony . . . ! If it hadn't been the -captain's wife he would have referred to her mentally as a kid, he said. -I suppose there must be a sort of divinity hedging in a captain's wife -(however incredible) which prevented him applying to her that -contemptuous definition in the secret of his thoughts. - -I asked him when this had happened; and he told me that it was three days -after parting from the tug, just outside the channel--to be precise. A -head wind had set in with unpleasant damp weather. He had come up to -leeward of the poop, still feeling very much of a stranger, and an -untried officer, at six in the evening to take his watch. To see her was -quite as unexpected as seeing a vision. When she turned away her head he -recollected himself and dropped his eyes. What he could see then was -only, close to the long chair on which she reclined, a pair of long, thin -legs ending in black cloth boots tucked in close to the skylight seat. -Whence he concluded that the 'old gentleman,' who wore a grey cap like -the captain's, was sitting by her--his daughter. In his first -astonishment he had stopped dead short, with the consequence that now he -felt very much abashed at having betrayed his surprise. But he couldn't -very well turn tail and bolt off the poop. He had come there on duty. -So, still with downcast eyes, he made his way past them. Only when he -got as far as the wheel-grating did he look up. She was hidden from him -by the back of her deck-chair; but he had the view of the owner of the -thin, aged legs seated on the skylight, his clean-shaved cheek, his thin -compressed mouth with a hollow in each corner, the sparse grey locks -escaping from under the tweed cap, and curling slightly on the collar of -the coat. He leaned forward a little over Mrs. Anthony, but they were -not talking. Captain Anthony, walking with a springy hurried gait on the -other side of the poop from end to end, gazed straight before him. Young -Powell might have thought that his captain was not aware of his presence -either. However, he knew better, and for that reason spent a most -uncomfortable hour motionless by the compass before his captain stopped -in his swift pacing and with an almost visible effort made some remark to -him about the weather in a low voice. Before Powell, who was startled, -could find a word of answer, the captain swung off again on his endless -tramp with a fixed gaze. And till the supper bell rang silence dwelt -over that poop like an evil spell. The captain walked up and down -looking straight before him, the helmsman steered, looking upwards at the -sails, the old gent on the skylight looked down on his daughter--and Mr. -Powell confessed to me that he didn't know where to look, feeling as -though he had blundered in where he had no business--which was absurd. At -last he fastened his eyes on the compass card, took refuge, in spirit, -inside the binnacle. He felt chilled more than he should have been by -the chilly dusk falling on the muddy green sea of the soundings from a -smoothly clouded sky. A fitful wind swept the cheerless waste, and the -ship, hauled up so close as to check her way, seemed to progress by -languid fits and starts against the short seas which swept along her -sides with a snarling sound. - -Young Powell thought that this was the dreariest evening aspect of the -sea he had ever seen. He was glad when the other occupants of the poop -left it at the sound of the bell. The captain first, with a sudden -swerve in his walk towards the companion, and not even looking once -towards his wife and his wife's father. Those two got up and moved -towards the companion, the old gent very erect, his thin locks stirring -gently about the nape of his neck, and carrying the rugs over his arm. -The girl who was Mrs. Anthony went down first. The murky twilight had -settled in deep shadow on her face. She looked at Mr. Powell in passing. -He thought that she was very pale. Cold perhaps. The old gent stopped a -moment, thin and stiff, before the young man, and in a voice which was -low but distinct enough, and without any particular accent--not even of -inquiry--he said: - -"You are the new second officer, I believe." - -Mr. Powell answered in the affirmative, wondering if this were a friendly -overture. He had noticed that Mr. Smith's eyes had a sort of inward look -as though he had disliked or disdained his surroundings. The captain's -wife had disappeared then down the companion stairs. Mr. Smith said -'Ah!' and waited a little longer to put another question in his incurious -voice. - -"And did you know the man who was here before you?" - -"No," said young Powell, "I didn't know anybody belonging to this ship -before I joined." - -"He was much older than you. Twice your age. Perhaps more. His hair -was iron grey. Yes. Certainly more." - -The low, repressed voice paused, but the old man did not move away. He -added: "Isn't it unusual?" - -Mr. Powell was surprised not only by being engaged in conversation, but -also by its character. It might have been the suggestion of the word -uttered by this old man, but it was distinctly at that moment that he -became aware of something unusual not only in this encounter but -generally around him, about everybody, in the atmosphere. The very sea, -with short flashes of foam bursting out here and there in the gloomy -distances, the unchangeable, safe sea sheltering a man from all passions, -except its own anger, seemed queer to the quick glance he threw to -windward where the already effaced horizon traced no reassuring limit to -the eye. In the expiring, diffused twilight, and before the clouded -night dropped its mysterious veil, it was the immensity of space made -visible--almost palpable. Young Powell felt it. He felt it in the -sudden sense of his isolation; the trustworthy, powerful ship of his -first acquaintance reduced to a speck, to something almost -undistinguishable, the mere support for the soles of his two feet before -that unexpected old man becoming so suddenly articulate in a darkening -universe. - -It took him a moment or so to seize the drift of the question. He -repeated slowly: 'Unusual . . . Oh, you mean for an elderly man to be the -second of a ship. I don't know. There are a good many of us who don't -get on. He didn't get on, I suppose.' - -The other, his head bowed a little, had the air of listening with acute -attention. - -"And now he has been taken to the hospital," he said. - -"I believe so. Yes. I remember Captain Anthony saying so in the -shipping office." - -"Possibly about to die," went on the old man, in his careful deliberate -tone. "And perhaps glad enough to die." - -Mr. Powell was young enough to be startled at the suggestion, which -sounded confidential and blood-curdling in the dusk. He said sharply -that it was not very likely, as if defending the absent victim of the -accident from an unkind aspersion. He felt, in fact, indignant. The -other emitted a short stifled laugh of a conciliatory nature. The second -bell rang under the poop. He made a movement at the sound, but lingered. - -"What I said was not meant seriously," he murmured, with that strange air -of fearing to be overheard. "Not in this case. I know the man." - -The occasion, or rather the want of occasion, for this conversation, had -sharpened the perceptions of the unsophisticated second officer of the -_Ferndale_. He was alive to the slightest shade of tone, and felt as if -this "I know the man" should have been followed by a "he was no friend of -mine." But after the shortest possible break the old gentleman continued -to murmur distinctly and evenly: - -"Whereas you have never seen him. Nevertheless, when you have gone -through as many years as I have, you will understand how an event putting -an end to one's existence may not be altogether unwelcome. Of course -there are stupid accidents. And even then one needn't be very angry. -What is it to be deprived of life? It's soon done. But what would you -think of the feelings of a man who should have had his life stolen from -him? Cheated out of it, I say!" - -He ceased abruptly, and remained still long enough for the astonished -Powell to stammer out an indistinct: "What do you mean? I don't -understand." Then, with a low 'Good-night' glided a few steps, and sank -through the shadow of the companion into the lamplight below which did -not reach higher than the turn of the staircase. - -The strange words, the cautious tone, the whole person left a strong -uneasiness in the mind of Mr. Powell. He started walking the poop in -great mental confusion. He felt all adrift. This was funny talk and no -mistake. And this cautious low tone as though he were watched by someone -was more than funny. The young second officer hesitated to break the -established rule of every ship's discipline; but at last could not resist -the temptation of getting hold of some other human being, and spoke to -the man at the wheel. - -"Did you hear what this gentleman was saying to me?" - -"No, sir," answered the sailor quietly. Then, encouraged by this -evidence of laxity in his officer, made bold to add, "A queer fish, sir." -This was tentative, and Mr. Powell, busy with his own view, not saying -anything, he ventured further. "They are more like passengers. One sees -some queer passengers." - -"Who are like passengers?" asked Powell gruffly. - -"Why, these two, sir." - - - -CHAPTER THREE--DEVOTED SERVANTS--AND THE LIGHT OF A FLARE - - -Young Powell thought to himself: "The men, too, are noticing it." Indeed, -the captain's behaviour to his wife and to his wife's father was -noticeable enough. It was as if they had been a pair of not very -congenial passengers. But perhaps it was not always like that. The -captain might have been put out by something. - -When the aggrieved Franklin came on deck Mr. Powell made a remark to that -effect. For his curiosity was aroused. - -The mate grumbled "Seems to you? . . . Putout? . . . eh?" He buttoned -his thick jacket up to the throat, and only then added a gloomy "Aye, -likely enough," which discouraged further conversation. But no -encouragement would have induced the newly-joined second mate to enter -the way of confidences. His was an instinctive prudence. Powell did not -know why it was he had resolved to keep his own counsel as to his -colloquy with Mr. Smith. But his curiosity did not slumber. Some time -afterwards, again at the relief of watches, in the course of a little -talk, he mentioned Mrs. Anthony's father quite casually, and tried to -find out from the mate who he was. - -"It would take a clever man to find that out, as things are on board -now," Mr. Franklin said, unexpectedly communicative. "The first I saw of -him was when she brought him alongside in a four-wheeler one morning -about half-past eleven. The captain had come on board early, and was -down in the cabin that had been fitted out for him. Did I tell you that -if you want the captain for anything you must stamp on the port side of -the deck? That's so. This ship is not only unlike what she used to be, -but she is like no other ship, anyhow. Did you ever hear of the -captain's room being on the port side? Both of them stern cabins have -been fitted up afresh like a blessed palace. A gang of people from some -tip-top West-End house were fussing here on board with hangings and -furniture for a fortnight, as if the Queen were coming with us. Of -course the starboard cabin is the bedroom one, but the poor captain hangs -out to port on a couch, so that in case we want him on deck at night, -Mrs. Anthony should not be startled. Nervous! Phoo! A woman who -marries a sailor and makes up her mind to come to sea should have no -blamed jumpiness about her, I say. But never mind. Directly the old cab -pointed round the corner of the warehouse I called out to the captain -that his lady was coming aboard. He answered me, but as I didn't see him -coming, I went down the gangway myself to help her alight. She jumps out -excitedly without touching my arm, or as much as saying "thank you" or -"good morning" or anything, turns back to the cab, and then that old -joker comes out slowly. I hadn't noticed him inside. I hadn't expected -to see anybody. It gave me a start. She says: "My father--Mr. -Franklin." He was staring at me like an owl. "How do you do, sir?" says -I. Both of them looked funny. It was as if something had happened to -them on the way. Neither of them moved, and I stood by waiting. The -captain showed himself on the poop; and I saw him at the side looking -over, and then he disappeared; on the way to meet them on shore, I -expected. But he just went down below again. So, not seeing him, I -said: "Let me help you on board, sir." "On board!" says he in a silly -fashion. "On board!" "It's not a very good ladder, but it's quite -firm," says I, as he seemed to be afraid of it. And he didn't look a -broken-down old man, either. You can see yourself what he is. Straight -as a poker, and life enough in him yet. But he made no move, and I began -to feel foolish. Then she comes forward. "Oh! Thank you, Mr. Franklin. -I'll help my father up." Flabbergasted me--to be choked off like this. -Pushed in between him and me without as much as a look my way. So of -course I dropped it. What do you think? I fell back. I would have gone -up on board at once and left them on the quay to come up or stay there -till next week, only they were blocking the way. I couldn't very well -shove them on one side. Devil only knows what was up between them. There -she was, pale as death, talking to him very fast. He got as red as a -turkey-cock--dash me if he didn't. A bad-tempered old bloke, I can tell -you. And a bad lot, too. Never mind. I couldn't hear what she was -saying to him, but she put force enough into it to shake her. It -seemed--it seemed, mind!--that he didn't want to go on board. Of course -it couldn't have been that. I know better. Well, she took him by the -arm, above the elbow, as if to lead him, or push him rather. I was -standing not quite ten feet off. Why should I have gone away? I was -anxious to get back on board as soon as they would let me. I didn't want -to overhear her blamed whispering either. But I couldn't stay there for -ever, so I made a move to get past them if I could. And that's how I -heard a few words. It was the old chap--something nasty about being -"under the heel" of somebody or other. Then he says, "I don't want this -sacrifice." What it meant I can't tell. It was a quarrel--of that I am -certain. She looks over her shoulder, and sees me pretty close to them. -I don't know what she found to say into his ear, but he gave way -suddenly. He looked round at me too, and they went up together so -quickly then that when I got on the quarter-deck I was only in time to -see the inner door of the passage close after them. Queer--eh? But if -it were only queerness one wouldn't mind. Some luggage in new trunks -came on board in the afternoon. We undocked at midnight. And may I be -hanged if I know who or what he was or is. I haven't been able to find -out. No, I don't know. He may have been anything. All I know is that -once, years ago when I went to see the Derby with a friend, I saw a pea- -and-thimble chap who looked just like that old mystery father out of a -cab." - -All this the goggle-eyed mate had said in a resentful and melancholy -voice, with pauses, to the gentle murmur of the sea. It was for him a -bitter sort of pleasure to have a fresh pair of ears, a newcomer, to whom -he could repeat all these matters of grief and suspicion talked over -endlessly by the band of Captain Anthony's faithful subordinates. It was -evidently so refreshing to his worried spirit that it made him forget the -advisability of a little caution with a complete stranger. But really -with Mr. Powell there was no danger. Amused, at first, at these plaints, -he provoked them for fun. Afterwards, turning them over in his mind, he -became impressed, and as the impression grew stronger with the days his -resolution to keep it to himself grew stronger too. - -* * * * * - -What made it all the easier to keep--I mean the resolution--was that -Powell's sentiment of amused surprise at what struck him at first as mere -absurdity was not unmingled with indignation. And his years were too -few, his position too novel, his reliance on his own opinion not yet firm -enough to allow him to express it with any effect. And then--what would -have been the use, anyhow--and where was the necessity? - -But this thing, familiar and mysterious at the same time, occupied his -imagination. The solitude of the sea intensifies the thoughts and the -facts of one's experience which seems to lie at the very centre of the -world, as the ship which carries one always remains the centre figure of -the round horizon. He viewed the apoplectic, goggle-eyed mate and the -saturnine, heavy-eyed steward as the victims of a peculiar and secret -form of lunacy which poisoned their lives. But he did not give them his -sympathy on that account. No. That strange affliction awakened in him a -sort of suspicious wonder. - -Once--and it was at night again; for the officers of the _Ferndale_ -keeping watch and watch as was customary in those days, had but few -occasions for intercourse--once, I say, the thick Mr. Franklin, a -quaintly bulky figure under the stars, the usual witnesses of his -outpourings, asked him with an abruptness which was not callous, but in -his simple way: - -"I believe you have no parents living?" - -Mr. Powell said that he had lost his father and mother at a very early -age. - -"My mother is still alive," declared Mr. Franklin in a tone which -suggested that he was gratified by the fact. "The old lady is lasting -well. Of course she's got to be made comfortable. A woman must be -looked after, and, if it comes to that, I say, give me a mother. I dare -say if she had not lasted it out so well I might have gone and got -married. I don't know, though. We sailors haven't got much time to look -about us to any purpose. Anyhow, as the old lady was there I haven't, I -may say, looked at a girl in all my life. Not that I wasn't partial to -female society in my time," he added with a pathetic intonation, while -the whites of his goggle eyes gleamed amorously under the clear night -sky. "Very partial, I may say." - -Mr. Powell was amused; and as these communications took place only when -the mate was relieved off duty he had no serious objection to them. The -mate's presence made the first half-hour and sometimes even more of his -watch on deck pass away. If his senior did not mind losing some of his -rest it was not Mr. Powell's affair. Franklin was a decent fellow. His -intention was not to boast of his filial piety. - -"Of course I mean respectable female society," he explained. "The other -sort is neither here nor there. I blame no man's conduct, but a well- -brought-up young fellow like you knows that there's precious little fun -to be got out of it." He fetched a deep sigh. "I wish Captain Anthony's -mother had been a lasting sort like my old lady. He would have had to -look after her and he would have done it well. Captain Anthony is a -proper man. And it would have saved him from the most foolish--" - -He did not finish the phrase which certainly was turning bitter in his -mouth. Mr. Powell thought to himself: "There he goes again." He laughed -a little. - -"I don't understand why you are so hard on the captain, Mr. Franklin. I -thought you were a great friend of his." - -Mr. Franklin exclaimed at this. He was not hard on the captain. Nothing -was further from his thoughts. Friend! Of course he was a good friend -and a faithful servant. He begged Powell to understand that if Captain -Anthony chose to strike a bargain with Old Nick to-morrow, and Old Nick -were good to the captain, he (Franklin) would find it in his heart to -love Old Nick for the captain's sake. That was so. On the other hand, -if a saint, an angel with white wings came along and--" - -He broke off short again as if his own vehemence had frightened him. Then -in his strained pathetic voice (which he had never raised) he observed -that it was no use talking. Anybody could see that the man was changed. - -"As to that," said young Powell, "it is impossible for me to judge." - -"Good Lord!" whispered the mate. "An educated, clever young fellow like -you with a pair of eyes on him and some sense too! Is that how a happy -man looks? Eh? Young you may be, but you aren't a kid; and I dare you -to say 'Yes!'" - -Mr. Powell did not take up the challenge. He did not know what to think -of the mate's view. Still, it seemed as if it had opened his -understanding in a measure. He conceded that the captain did not look -very well. - -"Not very well," repeated the mate mournfully. "Do you think a man with -a face like that can hope to live his life out? You haven't knocked -about long in this world yet, but you are a sailor, you have been in -three or four ships, you say. Well, have you ever seen a shipmaster -walking his own deck as if he did not know what he had underfoot? Have -you? Dam'me if I don't think that he forgets where he is. Of course he -can be no other than a prime seaman; but it's lucky, all the same, he has -me on board. I know by this time what he wants done without being told. -Do you know that I have had no order given me since we left port? Do you -know that he has never once opened his lips to me unless I spoke to him -first? I? His chief officer; his shipmate for full six years, with whom -he had no cross word--not once in all that time. Aye. Not a cross look -even. True that when I do make him speak to me, there is his dear old -self, the quick eye, the kind voice. Could hardly be other to his old -Franklin. But what's the good? Eyes, voice, everything's miles away. -And for all that I take good care never to address him when the poop -isn't clear. Yes! Only we two and nothing but the sea with us. You -think it would be all right; the only chief mate he ever had--Mr. -Franklin here and Mr. Franklin there--when anything went wrong the first -word you would hear about the decks was 'Franklin!'--I am thirteen years -older than he is--you would think it would be all right, wouldn't you? -Only we two on this poop on which we saw each other first--he a young -master--told me that he thought I would suit him very well--we two, and -thirty-one days out at sea, and it's no good! It's like talking to a man -standing on shore. I can't get him back. I can't get at him. I feel -sometimes as if I must shake him by the arm: "Wake up! Wake up! You are -wanted, sir . . . !" - -Young Powell recognized the expression of a true sentiment, a thing so -rare in this world where there are so many mutes and so many excellent -reasons even at sea for an articulate man not to give himself away, that -he felt something like respect for this outburst. It was not loud. The -grotesque squat shape, with the knob of the head as if rammed down -between the square shoulders by a blow from a club, moved vaguely in a -circumscribed space limited by the two harness-casks lashed to the front -rail of the poop, without gestures, hands in the pockets of the jacket, -elbows pressed closely to its side; and the voice without resonance, -passed from anger to dismay and back again without a single louder word -in the hurried delivery, interrupted only by slight gasps for air as if -the speaker were being choked by the suppressed passion of his grief. - -Mr. Powell, though moved to a certain extent, was by no means carried -away. And just as he thought that it was all over, the other, fidgeting -in the darkness, was heard again explosive, bewildered but not very loud -in the silence of the ship and the great empty peace of the sea. - -"They have done something to him! What is it? What can it be? Can't -you guess? Don't you know?" - -"Good heavens!" Young Powell was astounded on discovering that this was -an appeal addressed to him. "How on earth can I know?" - -"You do talk to that white-faced, black-eyed . . . I've seen you talking -to her more than a dozen times." - -Young Powell, his sympathy suddenly chilled, remarked in a disdainful -tone that Mrs. Anthony's eyes were not black. - -"I wish to God she had never set them on the captain, whatever colour -they are," retorted Franklin. "She and that old chap with the scraped -jaws who sits over her and stares down at her dead-white face with his -yellow eyes--confound them! Perhaps you will tell us that his eyes are -not yellow?" - -Powell, not interested in the colour of Mr. Smith's eyes, made a vague -gesture. Yellow or not yellow, it was all one to him. - -The mate murmured to himself. "No. He can't know. No! No more than a -baby. It would take an older head." - -"I don't even understand what you mean," observed Mr. Powell coldly. - -"And even the best head would be puzzled by such devil-work," the mate -continued, muttering. "Well, I have heard tell of women doing for a man -in one way or another when they got him fairly ashore. But to bring -their devilry to sea and fasten on such a man! . . . It's something I -can't understand. But I can watch. Let them look out--I say!" - -His short figure, unable to stoop, without flexibility, could not express -dejection. He was very tired suddenly; he dragged his feet going off the -poop. Before he left it with nearly an hour of his watch below -sacrificed, he addressed himself once more to our young man who stood -abreast of the mizzen rigging in an unreceptive mood expressed by silence -and immobility. He did not regret, he said, having spoken openly on this -very serious matter. - -"I don't know about its seriousness, sir," was Mr. Powell's frank answer. -"But if you think you have been telling me something very new you are -mistaken. You can't keep that matter out of your speeches. It's the -sort of thing I've been hearing more or less ever since I came on board." - -Mr. Powell, speaking truthfully, did not mean to speak offensively. He -had instincts of wisdom; he felt that this was a serious affair, for it -had nothing to do with reason. He did not want to raise an enemy for -himself in the mate. And Mr. Franklin did not take offence. To Mr. -Powell's truthful statement he answered with equal truth and simplicity -that it was very likely, very likely. With a thing like that (next door -to witchcraft almost) weighing on his mind, the wonder was that he could -think of anything else. The poor man must have found in the restlessness -of his thoughts the illusion of being engaged in an active contest with -some power of evil; for his last words as he went lingeringly down the -poop ladder expressed the quaint hope that he would get him, Powell, "on -our side yet." - -Mr. Powell--just imagine a straightforward youngster assailed in this -fashion on the high seas--answered merely by an embarrassed and uneasy -laugh which reflected exactly the state of his innocent soul. The -apoplectic mate, already half-way down, went up again three steps of the -poop ladder. Why, yes. A proper young fellow, the mate expected, -wouldn't stand by and see a man, a good sailor and his own skipper, in -trouble without taking his part against a couple of shore people who--Mr. -Powell interrupted him impatiently, asking what was the trouble? - -"What is it you are hinting at?" he cried with an inexplicable -irritation. - -"I don't like to think of him all alone down there with these two," -Franklin whispered impressively. "Upon my word I don't. God only knows -what may be going on there . . . Don't laugh . . . It was bad enough last -voyage when Mrs. Brown had a cabin aft; but now it's worse. It frightens -me. I can't sleep sometimes for thinking of him all alone there, shut -off from us all." - -Mrs. Brown was the steward's wife. You must understand that shortly -after his visit to the Fyne cottage (with all its consequences), Anthony -had got an offer to go to the Western Islands, and bring home the cargo -of some ship which, damaged in a collision or a stranding, took refuge in -St. Michael, and was condemned there. Roderick Anthony had connections -which would put such paying jobs in his way. So Flora de Barral had but -a five months' voyage, a mere excursion, for her first trial of sea-life. -And Anthony, dearly trying to be most attentive, had induced this Mrs. -Brown, the wife of his faithful steward, to come along as maid to his -bride. But for some reason or other this arrangement was not continued. -And the mate, tormented by indefinite alarms and forebodings, regretted -it. He regretted that Jane Brown was no longer on board--as a sort of -representative of Captain Anthony's faithful servants, to watch quietly -what went on in that part of the ship this fatal marriage had closed to -their vigilance. That had been excellent. For she was a dependable -woman. - -Powell did not detect any particular excellence in what seemed a spying -employment. But in his simplicity he said that he should have thought -Mrs. Anthony would have been glad anyhow to have another woman on board. -He was thinking of the white-faced girlish personality which it seemed to -him ought to have been cared for. The innocent young man always looked -upon the girl as immature; something of a child yet. - -"She! glad! Why it was she who had her fired out. She didn't want -anybody around the cabin. Mrs. Brown is certain of it. She told her -husband so. You ask the steward and hear what he has to say about it. -That's why I don't like it. A capable woman who knew her place. But no. -Out she must go. For no fault, mind you. The captain was ashamed to -send her away. But that wife of his--aye the precious pair of them have -got hold of him. I can't speak to him for a minute on the poop without -that thimble-rigging coon coming gliding up. I'll tell you what. I -overheard once--God knows I didn't try to--only he forgot I was on the -other side of the skylight with my sextant--I overheard him--you know how -he sits hanging over her chair and talking away without properly opening -his mouth--yes I caught the word right enough. He was alluding to the -captain as "the jailer." The jail . . . !" - -Franklin broke off with a profane execration. A silence reigned for a -long time and the slight, very gentle rolling of the ship slipping before -the N.E. trade-wind seemed to be a soothing device for lulling to sleep -the suspicions of men who trust themselves to the sea. - -A deep sigh was heard followed by the mate's voice asking dismally if -that was the way one would speak of a man to whom one wished well? No -better proof of something wrong was needed. Therefore he hoped, as he -vanished at last, that Mr. Powell would be on their side. And this time -Mr. Powell did not answer this hope with an embarrassed laugh. - -That young officer was more and more surprised at the nature of the -incongruous revelations coming to him in the surroundings and in the -atmosphere of the open sea. It is difficult for us to understand the -extent, the completeness, the comprehensiveness of his inexperience, for -us who didn't go to sea out of a small private school at the age of -fourteen years and nine months. Leaning on his elbow in the mizzen -rigging and so still that the helmsman over there at the other end of the -poop might have (and he probably did) suspect him of being criminally -asleep on duty, he tried to "get hold of that thing" by some side which -would fit in with his simple notions of psychology. "What the deuce are -they worrying about?" he asked himself in a dazed and contemptuous -impatience. But all the same "jailer" was a funny name to give a man; -unkind, unfriendly, nasty. He was sorry that Mr. Smith was guilty in -that matter because, the truth must be told, he had been to a certain -extent sensible of having been noticed in a quiet manner by the father of -Mrs. Anthony. Youth appreciates that sort of recognition which is the -subtlest form of flattery age can offer. Mr. Smith seized opportunities -to approach him on deck. His remarks were sometimes weird and -enigmatical. - -He was doubtless an eccentric old gent. But from that to calling his son- -in-law (whom he never approached on deck) nasty names behind his back was -a long step. - -And Mr. Powell marvelled . . . " - -"While he was telling me all this,"--Marlow changed his tone--"I -marvelled even more. It was as if misfortune marked its victims on the -forehead for the dislike of the crowd. I am not thinking here of -numbers. Two men may behave like a crowd, three certainly will when -their emotions are engaged. It was as if the forehead of Flora de Barral -were marked. Was the girl born to be a victim; to be always disliked and -crushed as if she were too fine for this world? Or too luckless--since -that also is often counted as sin. - -Yes, I marvelled more since I knew more of the girl than Mr. Powell--if -only her true name; and more of Captain Anthony--if only the fact that he -was the son of a delicate erotic poet of a markedly refined and -autocratic temperament. Yes, I knew their joint stories which Mr. Powell -did not know. The chapter in it he was opening to me, the sea-chapter, -with such new personages as the sentimental and apoplectic chief-mate and -the morose steward, however astounding to him in its detached condition -was much more so to me as a member of a series, following the chapter -outside the Eastern Hotel in which I myself had played my part. In view -of her declarations and my sage remarks it was very unexpected. She had -meant well, and I had certainly meant well too. Captain Anthony--as far -as I could gather from little Fyne--had meant well. As far as such lofty -words may be applied to the obscure personages of this story we were all -filled with the noblest sentiments and intentions. The sea was there to -give them the shelter of its solitude free from the earth's petty -suggestions. I could well marvel in myself, as to what had happened. - -I hope that if he saw it, Mr. Powell forgave me the smile of which I was -guilty at that moment. The light in the cabin of his little cutter was -dim. And the smile was dim too. Dim and fleeting. The girl's life had -presented itself to me as a tragi-comical adventure, the saddest thing on -earth, slipping between frank laughter and unabashed tears. Yes, the -saddest facts and the most common, and, being common perhaps the most -worthy of our unreserved pity. - -The purely human reality is capable of lyrism but not of abstraction. -Nothing will serve for its understanding but the evidence of rational -linking up of characters and facts. And beginning with Flora de Barral, -in the light of my memories I was certain that she at least must have -been passive; for that is of necessity the part of women, this waiting on -fate which some of them, and not the most intelligent, cover up by the -vain appearances of agitation. Flora de Barral was not exceptionally -intelligent but she was thoroughly feminine. She would be passive (and -that does not mean inanimate) in the circumstances, where the mere fact -of being a woman was enough to give her an occult and supreme -significance. And she would be enduring which is the essence of woman's -visible, tangible power. Of that I was certain. Had she not endured -already? Yet it is so true that the germ of destruction lies in wait for -us mortals, even at the very source of our strength, that one may die of -too much endurance as well as of too little of it. - -Such was my train of thought. And I was mindful also of my first view of -her--toying or perhaps communing in earnest with the possibilities of a -precipice. But I did not ask Mr. Powell anxiously what had happened to -Mrs. Anthony in the end. I let him go on in his own way feeling that no -matter what strange facts he would have to disclose, I was certain to -know much more of them than he ever did know or could possibly guess -. . . " - -Marlow paused for quite a long time. He seemed uncertain as though he -had advanced something beyond my grasp. Purposely I made no sign. "You -understand?" he asked. - -"Perfectly," I said. "You are the expert in the psychological -wilderness. This is like one of those Red-skin stories where the noble -savages carry off a girl and the honest backwoodsman with his -incomparable knowledge follows the track and reads the signs of her fate -in a footprint here, a broken twig there, a trinket dropped by the way. I -have always liked such stories. Go on." - -Marlow smiled indulgently at my jesting. "It is not exactly a story for -boys," he said. "I go on then. The sign, as you call it, was not very -plentiful but very much to the purpose, and when Mr. Powell heard (at a -certain moment I felt bound to tell him) when he heard that I had known -Mrs. Anthony before her marriage, that, to a certain extent, I was her -confidant . . . For you can't deny that to a certain extent . . . Well -let us say that I had a look in . . . A young girl, you know, is -something like a temple. You pass by and wonder what mysterious rites -are going on in there, what prayers, what visions? The privileged men, -the lover, the husband, who are given the key of the sanctuary do not -always know how to use it. For myself, without claim, without merit, -simply by chance I had been allowed to look through the half-opened door -and I had seen the saddest possible desecration, the withered brightness -of youth, a spirit neither made cringing nor yet dulled but as if -bewildered in quivering hopelessness by gratuitous cruelty; -self-confidence destroyed and, instead, a resigned recklessness, a -mournful callousness (and all this simple, almost naive)--before the -material and moral difficulties of the situation. The passive anguish of -the luckless! - -I asked myself: wasn't that ill-luck exhausted yet? Ill-luck which is -like the hate of invisible powers interpreted, made sensible and -injurious by the actions of men? - -Mr. Powell as you may well imagine had opened his eyes at my statement. -But he was full of his recalled experiences on board the _Ferndale_, and -the strangeness of being mixed up in what went on aboard, simply because -his name was also the name of a shipping-master, kept him in a state of -wonder which made other coincidences, however unlikely, not so very -surprising after all. - -This astonishing occurrence was so present to his mind that he always -felt as though he were there under false pretences. And this feeling was -so uncomfortable that it nerved him to break through the awe-inspiring -aloofness of his captain. He wanted to make a clean breast of it. I -imagine that his youth stood in good stead to Mr. Powell. Oh, yes. Youth -is a power. Even Captain Anthony had to take some notice of it, as if it -refreshed him to see something untouched, unscarred, unhardened by -suffering. Or perhaps the very novelty of that face, on board a ship -where he had seen the same faces for years, attracted his attention. - -Whether one day he dropped a word to his new second officer or only -looked at him I don't know; but Mr. Powell seized the opportunity -whatever it was. The captain who had started and stopped in his -everlasting rapid walk smoothed his brow very soon, heard him to the end -and then laughed a little. - -"Ah! That's the story. And you felt you must put me right as to this." - -"Yes, sir." - -"It doesn't matter how you came on board," said Anthony. And then -showing that perhaps he was not so utterly absent from his ship as -Franklin supposed: "That's all right. You seem to be getting on very -well with everybody," he said in his curt hurried tone, as if talking -hurt him, and his eyes already straying over the sea as usual. - -"Yes, sir." - -Powell tells me that looking then at the strong face to which that -haggard expression was returning, he had the impulse, from some confused -friendly feeling, to add: "I am very happy on board here, sir." - -The quickly returning glance, its steadiness, abashed Mr. Powell and made -him even step back a little. The captain looked as though he had -forgotten the meaning of the word. - -"You--what? Oh yes . . . You . . . of course . . . Happy. Why not?" - -This was merely muttered; and next moment Anthony was off on his headlong -tramp his eyes turned to the sea away from his ship. - -A sailor indeed looks generally into the great distances, but in Captain -Anthony's case there was--as Powell expressed it--something particular, -something purposeful like the avoidance of pain or temptation. It was -very marked once one had become aware of it. Before, one felt only a -pronounced strangeness. Not that the captain--Powell was careful to -explain--didn't see things as a ship-master should. The proof of it was -that on that very occasion he desired him suddenly after a period of -silent pacing, to have all the staysails sheets eased off, and he was -going on with some other remarks on the subject of these staysails when -Mrs. Anthony followed by her father emerged from the companion. She -established herself in her chair to leeward of the skylight as usual. -Thereupon the captain cut short whatever he was going to say, and in a -little while went down below. - -I asked Mr. Powell whether the captain and his wife never conversed on -deck. He said no--or at any rate they never exchanged more than a couple -of words. There was some constraint between them. For instance, on that -very occasion, when Mrs. Anthony came out they did look at each other; -the captain's eyes indeed followed her till she sat down; but he did not -speak to her; he did not approach her; and afterwards left the deck -without turning his head her way after this first silent exchange of -glances. - -I asked Mr. Powell what did he do then, the captain being out of the way. -"I went over and talked to Mrs. Anthony. I was thinking that it must be -very dull for her. She seemed to be such a stranger to the ship." - -"The father was there of course?" - -"Always," said Powell. "He was always there sitting on the skylight, as -if he were keeping watch over her. And I think," he added, "that he was -worrying her. Not that she showed it in any way. Mrs. Anthony was -always very quiet and always ready to look one straight in the face." - -"You talked together a lot?" I pursued my inquiries. "She mostly let me -talk to her," confessed Mr. Powell. "I don't know that she was very much -interested--but still she let me. She never cut me short." - -All the sympathies of Mr. Powell were for Flora Anthony nee de Barral. -She was the only human being younger than himself on board that ship -since the _Ferndale_ carried no boys and was manned by a full crew of -able seamen. Yes! their youth had created a sort of bond between them. -Mr. Powell's open countenance must have appeared to her distinctly -pleasing amongst the mature, rough, crabbed or even inimical faces she -saw around her. With the warm generosity of his age young Powell was on -her side, as it were, even before he knew that there were sides to be -taken on board that ship, and what this taking sides was about. There -was a girl. A nice girl. He asked himself no questions. Flora de -Barral was not so much younger in years than himself; but for some -reason, perhaps by contrast with the accepted idea of a captain's wife, -he could not regard her otherwise but as an extremely youthful creature. -At the same time, apart from her exalted position, she exercised over him -the supremacy a woman's earlier maturity gives her over a young man of -her own age. As a matter of fact we can see that, without ever having -more than a half an hour's consecutive conversation together, and the -distances duly preserved, these two were becoming friends--under the eye -of the old man, I suppose. - -How he first got in touch with his captain's wife Powell relates in this -way. It was long before his memorable conversation with the mate and -shortly after getting clear of the channel. It was gloomy weather; dead -head wind, blowing quite half a gale; the _Ferndale_ under reduced sail -was stretching close-hauled across the track of the homeward bound ships, -just moving through the water and no more, since there was no object in -pressing her and the weather looked threatening. About ten o'clock at -night he was alone on the poop, in charge, keeping well aft by the -weather rail and staring to windward, when amongst the white, breaking -seas, under the black sky, he made out the lights of a ship. He watched -them for some time. She was running dead before the wind of course. She -will pass jolly close--he said to himself; and then suddenly he felt a -great mistrust of that approaching ship. She's heading straight for -us--he thought. It was not his business to get out of the way. On the -contrary. And his uneasiness grew by the recollection of the forty tons -of dynamite in the body of the _Ferndale_; not the sort of cargo one -thinks of with equanimity in connection with a threatened collision. He -gazed at the two small lights in the dark immensity filled with the angry -noise of the seas. They fascinated him till their plainness to his sight -gave him a conviction that there was danger there. He knew in his mind -what to do in the emergency, but very properly he felt that he must call -the captain out at once. - -He crossed the deck in one bound. By the immemorial custom and usage of -the sea the captain's room is on the starboard side. You would just as -soon expect your captain to have his nose at the back of his head as to -have his state-room on the port side of the ship. Powell forgot all -about the direction on that point given him by the chief. He flew over -as I said, stamped with his foot and then putting his face to the cowl of -the big ventilator shouted down there: "Please come on deck, sir," in a -voice which was not trembling or scared but which we may call fairly -expressive. There could not be a mistake as to the urgence of the call. -But instead of the expected alert "All right!" and the sound of a rush -down there, he heard only a faint exclamation--then silence. - -Think of his astonishment! He remained there, his ear in the cowl of the -ventilator, his eyes fastened on those menacing sidelights dancing on the -gusts of wind which swept the angry darkness of the sea. It was as -though he had waited an hour but it was something much less than a minute -before he fairly bellowed into the wide tube "Captain Anthony!" An -agitated "What is it?" was what he heard down there in Mrs. Anthony's -voice, light rapid footsteps . . . Why didn't she try to wake him up! "I -want the captain," he shouted, then gave it up, making a dash at the -companion where a blue light was kept, resolved to act for himself. - -On the way he glanced at the helmsman whose face lighted up by the -binnacle lamps was calm. He said rapidly to him: "Stand by to spin that -helm up at the first word." The answer "Aye, aye, sir," was delivered in -a steady voice. Then Mr. Powell after a shout for the watch on deck to -"lay aft," ran to the ship's side and struck the blue light on the rail. - -A sort of nasty little spitting of sparks was all that came. The light -(perhaps affected by damp) had failed to ignite. The time of all these -various acts must be counted in seconds. Powell confessed to me that at -this failure he experienced a paralysis of thought, of voice, of limbs. -The unexpectedness of this misfire positively overcame his faculties. It -was the only thing for which his imagination was not prepared. It was -knocked clean over. When it got up it was with the suggestion that he -must do something at once or there would be a broadside smash accompanied -by the explosion of dynamite, in which both ships would be blown up and -every soul on board of them would vanish off the earth in an enormous -flame and uproar. - -He saw the catastrophe happening and at the same moment, before he could -open his mouth or stir a limb to ward off the vision, a voice very near -his ear, the measured voice of Captain Anthony said: "Wouldn't light--eh? -Throw it down! Jump for the flare-up." - -The spring of activity in Mr. Powell was released with great force. He -jumped. The flare-up was kept inside the companion with a box of matches -ready to hand. Almost before he knew he had moved he was diving under -the companion slide. He got hold of the can in the dark and tried to -strike a light. But he had to press the flare-holder to his breast with -one arm, his fingers were damp and stiff, his hands trembled a little. -One match broke. Another went out. In its flame he saw the colourless -face of Mrs. Anthony a little below him, standing on the cabin stairs. -Her eyes which were very close to his (he was in a crouching posture on -the top step) seemed to burn darkly in the vanishing light. On deck the -captain's voice was heard sudden and unexpectedly sardonic: "You had -better look sharp, if you want to be in time." - -"Let me have the box," said Mrs. Anthony in a hurried and familiar -whisper which sounded amused as if they had been a couple of children up -to some lark behind a wall. He was glad of the offer which seemed to him -very natural, and without ceremony-- - -"Here you are. Catch hold." - -Their hands touched in the dark and she took the box while he held the -paraffin soaked torch in its iron holder. He thought of warning her: -"Look out for yourself." But before he had the time to finish the -sentence the flare blazed up violently between them and he saw her throw -herself back with an arm across her face. "Hallo," he exclaimed; only he -could not stop a moment to ask if she was hurt. He bolted out of the -companion straight into his captain who took the flare from him and held -it high above his head. - -The fierce flame fluttered like a silk flag, throwing an angry swaying -glare mingled with moving shadows over the poop, lighting up the concave -surfaces of the sails, gleaming on the wet paint of the white rails. And -young Powell turned his eyes to windward with a catch in his breath. - -The strange ship, a darker shape in the night, did not seem to be moving -onwards but only to grow more distinct right abeam, staring at the -_Ferndale_ with one green and one red eye which swayed and tossed as if -they belonged to the restless head of some invisible monster ambushed in -the night amongst the waves. A moment, long like eternity, elapsed, and, -suddenly, the monster which seemed to take to itself the shape of a -mountain shut its green eye without as much as a preparatory wink. - -Mr. Powell drew a free breath. "All right now," said Captain Anthony in -a quiet undertone. He gave the blazing flare to Powell and walked aft to -watch the passing of that menace of destruction coming blindly with its -parti-coloured stare out of a blind night on the wings of a sweeping -wind. Her very form could be distinguished now black and elongated -amongst the hissing patches of foam bursting along her path. - -As is always the case with a ship running before wind and sea she did not -seem to an onlooker to move very fast; but to be progressing indolently -in long leisurely bounds and pauses in the midst of the overtaking waves. -It was only when actually passing the stern within easy hail of the -_Ferndale_, that her headlong speed became apparent to the eye. With the -red light shut off and soaring like an immense shadow on the crest of a -wave she was lost to view in one great, forward swing, melting into the -lightless space. - -"Close shave," said Captain Anthony in an indifferent voice just raised -enough to be heard in the wind. "A blind lot on board that ship. Put -out the flare now." - -Silently Mr. Powell inverted the holder, smothering the flame in the can, -bringing about by the mere turn of his wrist the fall of darkness upon -the poop. And at the same time vanished out of his mind's eye the vision -of another flame enormous and fierce shooting violently from a white -churned patch of the sea, lighting up the very clouds and carrying -upwards in its volcanic rush flying spars, corpses, the fragments of two -destroyed ships. It vanished and there was an immense relief. He told -me he did not know how scared he had been, not generally but of that very -thing his imagination had conjured, till it was all over. He measured it -(for fear is a great tension) by the feeling of slack weariness which -came over him all at once. - -He walked to the companion and stooping low to put the flare in its usual -place saw in the darkness the motionless pale oval of Mrs. Anthony's -face. She whispered quietly: - -"Is anything going to happen? What is it?" - -"It's all over now," he whispered back. - -He remained bent low, his head inside the cover staring at that white -ghostly oval. He wondered she had not rushed out on deck. She had -remained quietly there. This was pluck. Wonderful self-restraint. And -it was not stupidity on her part. She knew there was imminent danger and -probably had some notion of its nature. - -"You stayed here waiting for what would come," he murmured admiringly. - -"Wasn't that the best thing to do?" she asked. - -He didn't know. Perhaps. He confessed he could not have done it. Not -he. His flesh and blood could not have stood it. He would have felt he -must see what was coming. Then he remembered that the flare might have -scorched her face, and expressed his concern. - -"A bit. Nothing to hurt. Smell the singed hair?" - -There was a sort of gaiety in her tone. She might have been frightened -but she certainly was not overcome and suffered from no reaction. This -confirmed and augmented if possible Mr. Powell's good opinion of her as a -"jolly girl," though it seemed to him positively monstrous to refer in -such terms to one's captain's wife. "But she doesn't look it," he -thought in extenuation and was going to say something more to her about -the lighting of that flare when another voice was heard in the companion, -saying some indistinct words. Its tone was contemptuous; it came from -below, from the bottom of the stairs. It was a voice in the cabin. And -the only other voice which could be heard in the main cabin at this time -of the evening was the voice of Mrs. Anthony's father. The indistinct -white oval sank from Mr. Powell's sight so swiftly as to take him by -surprise. For a moment he hung at the opening of the companion and now -that her slight form was no longer obstructing the narrow and winding -staircase the voices came up louder but the words were still indistinct. -The old gentleman was excited about something and Mrs. Anthony was -"managing him" as Powell expressed it. They moved away from the bottom -of the stairs and Powell went away from the companion. Yet he fancied he -had heard the words "Lost to me" before he withdrew his head. They had -been uttered by Mr. Smith. - -Captain Anthony had not moved away from the taffrail. He remained in the -very position he took up to watch the other ship go by rolling and -swinging all shadowy in the uproar of the following seas. He stirred -not; and Powell keeping near by did not dare speak to him, so enigmatical -in its contemplation of the night did his figure appear to his young -eyes: indistinct--and in its immobility staring into gloom, the prey of -some incomprehensible grief, longing or regret. - -Why is it that the stillness of a human being is often so impressive, so -suggestive of evil--as if our proper fate were a ceaseless agitation? The -stillness of Captain Anthony became almost intolerable to his second -officer. Mr. Powell loitering about the skylight wanted his captain off -the deck now. "Why doesn't he go below?" he asked himself impatiently. -He ventured a cough. - -Whether the effect of the cough or not Captain Anthony spoke. He did not -move the least bit. With his back remaining turned to the whole length -of the ship he asked Mr. Powell with some brusqueness if the chief mate -had neglected to instruct him that the captain was to be found on the -port side. - -"Yes, sir," said Mr. Powell approaching his back. "The mate told me to -stamp on the port side when I wanted you; but I didn't remember at the -moment." - -"You should remember," the captain uttered with an effort. Then added -mumbling "I don't want Mrs. Anthony frightened. Don't you see? . . ." - -"She wasn't this time," Powell said innocently: "She lighted the flare-up -for me, sir." - -"This time," Captain Anthony exclaimed and turned round. "Mrs. Anthony -lighted the flare? Mrs. Anthony! . . . " Powell explained that she was -in the companion all the time. - -"All the time," repeated the captain. It seemed queer to Powell that -instead of going himself to see the captain should ask him: - -"Is she there now?" - -Powell said that she had gone below after the ship had passed clear of -the _Ferndale_. Captain Anthony made a movement towards the companion -himself, when Powell added the information. "Mr. Smith called to Mrs. -Anthony from the saloon, sir. I believe they are talking there now." - -He was surprised to see the captain give up the idea of going below after -all. - -He began to walk the poop instead regardless of the cold, of the damp -wind and of the sprays. And yet he had nothing on but his sleeping suit -and slippers. Powell placing himself on the break of the poop kept a -look-out. When after some time he turned his head to steal a glance at -his eccentric captain he could not see his active and shadowy figure -swinging to and fro. The second mate of the _Ferndale_ walked aft -peering about and addressed the seaman who steered. - -"Captain gone below?" - -"Yes, sir," said the fellow who with a quid of tobacco bulging out his -left cheek kept his eyes on the compass card. "This minute. He -laughed." - -"Laughed," repeated Powell incredulously. "Do you mean the captain did? -You must be mistaken. What would he want to laugh for?" - -"Don't know, sir." - -The elderly sailor displayed a profound indifference towards human -emotions. However, after a longish pause he conceded a few words more to -the second officer's weakness. "Yes. He was walking the deck as usual -when suddenly he laughed a little and made for the companion. Thought of -something funny all at once." - -Something funny! That Mr. Powell could not believe. He did not ask -himself why, at the time. Funny thoughts come to men, though, in all -sorts of situations; they come to all sorts of men. Nevertheless Mr. -Powell was shocked to learn that Captain Anthony had laughed without -visible cause on a certain night. The impression for some reason was -disagreeable. And it was then, while finishing his watch, with the -chilly gusts of wind sweeping at him out of the darkness where the short -sea of the soundings growled spitefully all round the ship, that it -occurred to his unsophisticated mind that perhaps things are not what -they are confidently expected to be; that it was possible that Captain -Anthony was not a happy man . . . In so far you will perceive he was to a -certain extent prepared for the apoplectic and sensitive Franklin's -lamentations about his captain. And though he treated them with a -contempt which was in a great measure sincere, yet he admitted to me that -deep down within him an inexplicable and uneasy suspicion that all was -not well in that cabin, so unusually cut off from the rest of the ship, -came into being and grew against his will. - - - -CHAPTER FOUR--ANTHONY AND FLORA - - -Marlow emerged out of the shadow of the book-case to get himself a cigar -from a box which stood on a little table by my side. In the full light -of the room I saw in his eyes that slightly mocking expression with which -he habitually covers up his sympathetic impulses of mirth and pity before -the unreasonable complications the idealism of mankind puts into the -simple but poignant problem of conduct on this earth. - -He selected and lit the cigar with affected care, then turned upon me, I -had been looking at him silently. - -"I suppose," he said, the mockery of his eyes giving a pellucid quality -to his tone, "that you think it's high time I told you something -definite. I mean something about that psychological cabin mystery of -discomfort (for it's obvious that it must be psychological) which -affected so profoundly Mr. Franklin the chief mate, and had even -disturbed the serene innocence of Mr. Powell, the second of the ship -_Ferndale_, commanded by Roderick Anthony--the son of the poet, you -know." - -"You are going to confess now that you have failed to find it out," I -said in pretended indignation. - -"It would serve you right if I told you that I have. But I won't. I -haven't failed. I own though that for a time, I was puzzled. However, I -have now seen our Powell many times under the most favourable -conditions--and besides I came upon a most unexpected source of -information . . . But never mind that. The means don't concern you -except in so far as they belong to the story. I'll admit that for some -time the old-maiden-lady-like occupation of putting two and two together -failed to procure a coherent theory. I am speaking now as an -investigator--a man of deductions. With what we know of Roderick Anthony -and Flora de Barral I could not deduct an ordinary marital quarrel -beautifully matured in less than a year--could I? If you ask me what is -an ordinary marital quarrel I will tell you, that it is a difference -about nothing; I mean, these nothings which, as Mr. Powell told us when -we first met him, shore people are so prone to start a row about, and -nurse into hatred from an idle sense of wrong, from perverted ambition, -for spectacular reasons too. There are on earth no actors too humble and -obscure not to have a gallery; that gallery which envenoms the play by -stealthy jeers, counsels of anger, amused comments or words of perfidious -compassion. However, the Anthonys were free from all demoralizing -influences. At sea, you know, there is no gallery. You hear no -tormenting echoes of your own littleness there, where either a great -elemental voice roars defiantly under the sky or else an elemental -silence seems to be part of the infinite stillness of the universe. - -Remembering Flora de Barral in the depths of moral misery, and Roderick -Anthony carried away by a gust of tempestuous tenderness, I asked myself, -Is it all forgotten already? What could they have found to estrange them -from each other with this rapidity and this thoroughness so far from all -temptations, in the peace of the sea and in an isolation so complete that -if it had not been the jealous devotion of the sentimental Franklin -stimulating the attention of Powell, there would have been no record, no -evidence of it at all. - -I must confess at once that it was Flora de Barral whom I suspected. In -this world as at present organized women are the suspected half of the -population. There are good reasons for that. These reasons are so -discoverable with a little reflection that it is not worth my while to -set them out for you. I will only mention this: that the part falling to -women's share being all "influence" has an air of occult and mysterious -action, something not altogether trustworthy like all natural forces -which, for us, work in the dark because of our imperfect comprehension. - -If women were not a force of nature, blind in its strength and capricious -in its power, they would not be mistrusted. As it is one can't help it. -You will say that this force having been in the person of Flora de Barral -captured by Anthony . . . Why yes. He had dealt with her masterfully. -But man has captured electricity too. It lights him on his way, it warms -his home, it will even cook his dinner for him--very much like a woman. -But what sort of conquest would you call it? He knows nothing of it. He -has got to be mighty careful what he is about with his captive. And the -greater the demand he makes on it in the exultation of his pride the more -likely it is to turn on him and burn him to a cinder . . . " - -"A far-fetched enough parallel," I observed coldly to Marlow. He had -returned to the arm-chair in the shadow of the bookcase. "But accepting -the meaning you have in your mind it reduces itself to the knowledge of -how to use it. And if you mean that this ravenous Anthony--" - -"Ravenous is good," interrupted Marlow. "He was a-hungering and -a-thirsting for femininity to enter his life in a way no mere feminist -could have the slightest conception of. I reckon that this accounts for -much of Fyne's disgust with him. Good little Fyne. You have no idea -what infernal mischief he had worked during his call at the hotel. But -then who could have suspected Anthony of being a heroic creature. There -are several kinds of heroism and one of them at least is idiotic. It is -the one which wears the aspect of sublime delicacy. It is apparently the -one of which the son of the delicate poet was capable. - -He certainly resembled his father, who, by the way, wore out two women -without any satisfaction to himself, because they did not come up to his -supra-refined standard of the delicacy which is so perceptible in his -verses. That's your poet. He demands too much from others. The -inarticulate son had set up a standard for himself with that need for -embodying in his conduct the dreams, the passion, the impulses the poet -puts into arrangements of verses, which are dearer to him than his own -self--and may make his own self appear sublime in the eyes of other -people, and even in his own eyes. - -Did Anthony wish to appear sublime in his own eyes? I should not like to -make that charge; though indeed there are other, less noble, ambitions at -which the world does not dare to smile. But I don't think so; I do not -even think that there was in what he did a conscious and lofty confidence -in himself, a particularly pronounced sense of power which leads men so -often into impossible or equivocal situations. Looked at abstractedly -(the way in which truth is often seen in its real shape) his life had -been a life of solitude and silence--and desire. - -Chance had thrown that girl in his way; and if we may smile at his -violent conquest of Flora de Barral we must admit also that this eager -appropriation was truly the act of a man of solitude and desire; a man -also, who, unless a complete imbecile, must have been a man of long and -ardent reveries wherein the faculty of sincere passion matures slowly in -the unexplored recesses of the heart. And I know also that a passion, -dominating or tyrannical, invading the whole man and subjugating all his -faculties to its own unique end, may conduct him whom it spurs and -drives, into all sorts of adventures, to the brink of unfathomable -dangers, to the limits of folly, and madness, and death. - -To the man then of a silence made only more impressive by the -inarticulate thunders and mutters of the great seas, an utter stranger to -the clatter of tongues, there comes the muscular little Fyne, the most -marked representative of that mankind whose voice is so strange to him, -the husband of his sister, a personality standing out from the misty and -remote multitude. He comes and throws at him more talk than he had ever -heard boomed out in an hour, and certainly touching the deepest things -Anthony had ever discovered in himself, and flings words like "unfair" -whose very sound is abhorrent to him. Unfair! Undue advantage! He! -Unfair to that girl? Cruel to her! - -No scorn could stand against the impression of such charges advanced with -heat and conviction. They shook him. They were yet vibrating in the air -of that stuffy hotel-room, terrific, disturbing, impossible to get rid -of, when the door opened and Flora de Barral entered. - -He did not even notice that she was late. He was sitting on a sofa -plunged in gloom. Was it true? Having himself always said exactly what -he meant he imagined that people (unless they were liars, which of course -his brother-in-law could not be) never said more than they meant. The -deep chest voice of little Fyne was still in his ear. "He knows," -Anthony said to himself. He thought he had better go away and never see -her again. But she stood there before him accusing and appealing. How -could he abandon her? That was out of the question. She had no one. Or -rather she had someone. That father. Anthony was willing to take him at -her valuation. This father may have been the victim of the most -atrocious injustice. But what could a man coming out of jail do? An old -man too. And then--what sort of man? What would become of them both? -Anthony shuddered slightly and the faint smile with which Flora had -entered the room faded on her lips. She was used to his impetuous -tenderness. She was no longer afraid of it. But she had never seen him -look like this before, and she suspected at once some new cruelty of -life. He got up with his usual ardour but as if sobered by a momentous -resolve and said: - -"No. I can't let you out of my sight. I have seen you. You have told -me your story. You are honest. You have never told me you loved me." - -She waited, saying to herself that he had never given her time, that he -had never asked her! And that, in truth, she did not know! - -I am inclined to believe that she did not. As abundance of experience is -not precisely her lot in life, a woman is seldom an expert in matters of -sentiment. It is the man who can and generally does "see himself" pretty -well inside and out. Women's self-possession is an outward thing; -inwardly they flutter, perhaps because they are, or they feel themselves -to be, engaged. All this speaking generally. In Flora de Barral's -particular case ever since Anthony had suddenly broken his way into her -hopeless and cruel existence she lived like a person liberated from a -condemned cell by a natural cataclysm, a tempest, an earthquake; not -absolutely terrified, because nothing can be worse than the eve of -execution, but stunned, bewildered--abandoning herself passively. She -did not want to make a sound, to move a limb. She hadn't the strength. -What was the good? And deep down, almost unconsciously she was seduced -by the feeling of being supported by this violence. A sensation she had -never experienced before in her life. - -She felt as if this whirlwind were calming down somehow! As if this -feeling of support, which was tempting her to close her eyes deliciously -and let herself be carried on and on into the unknown undefiled by vile -experiences, were less certain, had wavered threateningly. She tried to -read something in his face, in that energetic kindly face to which she -had become accustomed so soon. But she was not yet capable of -understanding its expression. Scared, discouraged on the threshold of -adolescence, plunged in moral misery of the bitterest kind, she had not -learned to read--not that sort of language. - -If Anthony's love had been as egoistic as love generally is, it would -have been greater than the egoism of his vanity--or of his generosity, if -you like--and all this could not have happened. He would not have hit -upon that renunciation at which one does not know whether to grin or -shudder. It is true too that then his love would not have fastened -itself upon the unhappy daughter of de Barral. But it was a love born of -that rare pity which is not akin to contempt because rooted in an -overwhelmingly strong capacity for tenderness--the tenderness of the -fiery kind--the tenderness of silent solitary men, the voluntary, -passionate outcasts of their kind. At the time I am forced to think that -his vanity must have been enormous. - -"What big eyes she has," he said to himself amazed. No wonder. She was -staring at him with all the might of her soul awakening slowly from a -poisoned sleep, in which it could only quiver with pain but could neither -expand nor move. He plunged into them breathless and tense, deep, deep, -like a mad sailor taking a desperate dive from the masthead into the blue -unfathomable sea so many men have execrated and loved at the same time. -And his vanity was immense. It had been touched to the quick by that -muscular little feminist, Fyne. "I! I! Take advantage of her -helplessness. I! Unfair to that creature--that wisp of mist, that white -shadow homeless in an ugly dirty world. I could blow her away with a -breath," he was saying to himself with horror. "Never!" All the -supremely refined delicacy of tenderness, expressed in so many fine lines -of verse by Carleon Anthony, grew to the size of a passion filling with -inward sobs the big frame of the man who had never in his life read a -single one of those famous sonnets singing of the most highly civilized, -chivalrous love, of those sonnets which . . . You know there's a volume -of them. My edition has the portrait of the author at thirty, and when I -showed it to Mr. Powell the other day he exclaimed: "Wonderful! One -would think this the portrait of Captain Anthony himself if . . ." I -wanted to know what that if was. But Powell could not say. There was -something--a difference. No doubt there was--in fineness perhaps. The -father, fastidious, cerebral, morbidly shrinking from all contacts, could -only sing in harmonious numbers of what the son felt with a dumb and -reckless sincerity. - -* * * * * - -Possessed by most strong men's touching illusion as to the frailness of -women and their spiritual fragility, it seemed to Anthony that he would -be destroying, breaking something very precious inside that being. In -fact nothing less than partly murdering her. This seems a very extreme -effect to flow from Fyne's words. But Anthony, unaccustomed to the -chatter of the firm earth, never stayed to ask himself what value these -words could have in Fyne's mouth. And indeed the mere dark sound of them -was utterly abhorrent to his native rectitude, sea-salted, hardened in -the winds of wide horizons, open as the day. - -He wished to blurt out his indignation but she regarded him with an -expectant air which checked him. His visible discomfort made her uneasy. -He could only repeat "Oh yes. You are perfectly honest. You might have, -but I dare say you are right. At any rate you have never said anything -to me which you didn't mean." - -"Never," she whispered after a pause. - -He seemed distracted, choking with an emotion she could not understand -because it resembled embarrassment, a state of mind inconceivable in that -man. - -She wondered what it was she had said; remembering that in very truth she -had hardly spoken to him except when giving him the bare outline of her -story which he seemed to have hardly had the patience to hear, waving it -perpetually aside with exclamations of horror and anger, with fiercely -sombre mutters "Enough! Enough!" and with alarming starts from a forced -stillness, as though he meant to rush out at once and take vengeance on -somebody. She was saying to herself that he caught her words in the air, -never letting her finish her thought. Honest. Honest. Yes certainly -she had been that. Her letter to Mrs. Fyne had been prompted by honesty. -But she reflected sadly that she had never known what to say to him. That -perhaps she had nothing to say. - -"But you'll find out that I can be honest too," he burst out in a -menacing tone, she had learned to appreciate with an amused thrill. - -She waited for what was coming. But he hung in the wind. He looked -round the room with disgust as if he could see traces on the walls of all -the casual tenants that had ever passed through it. People had -quarrelled in that room; they had been ill in it, there had been misery -in that room, wickedness, crime perhaps--death most likely. This was not -a fit place. He snatched up his hat. He had made up his mind. The -ship--the ship he had known ever since she came off the stocks, his -home--her shelter--the uncontaminated, honest ship, was the place. - -"Let us go on board. We'll talk there," he said. "And you will have to -listen to me. For whatever happens, no matter what they say, I cannot -let you go." - -You can't say that (misgivings or no misgivings) she could have done -anything else but go on board. It was the appointed business of that -morning. During the drive he was silent. Anthony was the last man to -condemn conventionally any human being, to scorn and despise even -deserved misfortune. He was ready to take old de Barral--the convict--on -his daughter's valuation without the slightest reserve. But love like -his, though it may drive one into risky folly by the proud consciousness -of its own strength, has a sagacity of its own. And now, as if lifted up -into a higher and serene region by its purpose of renunciation, it gave -him leisure to reflect for the first time in these last few days. He -said to himself: "I don't know that man. She does not know him either. -She was barely sixteen when they locked him up. She was a child. What -will he say? What will he do? No, he concluded, I cannot leave her -behind with that man who would come into the world as if out of a grave. - -They went on board in silence, and it was after showing her round and -when they had returned to the saloon that he assailed her in his fiery, -masterful fashion. At first she did not understand. Then when she -understood that he was giving her her liberty she went stiff all over, -her hand resting on the edge of the table, her face set like a carving of -white marble. It was all over. It was as that abominable governess had -said. She was insignificant, contemptible. Nobody could love her. -Humiliation clung to her like a cold shroud--never to be shaken off, -unwarmed by this madness of generosity. - -"Yes. Here. Your home. I can't give it to you and go away, but it is -big enough for us two. You need not be afraid. If you say so I shall -not even look at you. Remember that grey head of which you have been -thinking night and day. Where is it going to rest? Where else if not -here, where nothing evil can touch it. Don't you understand that I won't -let you buy shelter from me at the cost of your very soul. I won't. You -are too much part of me. I have found myself since I came upon you and I -would rather sell my own soul to the devil than let you go out of my -keeping. But I must have the right." - -He went away brusquely to shut the door leading on deck and came back the -whole length of the cabin repeating: - -"I must have the legal right. Are you ashamed of letting people think -you are my wife?" - -He opened his arms as if to clasp her to his breast but mastered the -impulse and shook his clenched hands at her, repeating: "I must have the -right if only for your father's sake. I must have the right. Where -would you take him? To that infernal cardboard box-maker. I don't know -what keeps me from hunting him up in his virtuous home and bashing his -head in. I can't bear the thought. Listen to me, Flora! Do you hear -what I am saying to you? You are not so proud that you can't understand -that I as a man have my pride too?" - -He saw a tear glide down her white cheek from under each lowered eyelid. -Then, abruptly, she walked out of the cabin. He stood for a moment, -concentrated, reckoning his own strength, interrogating his heart, before -he followed her hastily. Already she had reached the wharf. - -At the sound of his pursuing footsteps her strength failed her. Where -could she escape from this? From this new perfidy of life taking upon -itself the form of magnanimity. His very voice was changed. The -sustaining whirlwind had let her down, to stumble on again, weakened by -the fresh stab, bereft of moral support which is wanted in life more than -all the charities of material help. She had never had it. Never. Not -from the Fynes. But where to go? Oh yes, this dock--a placid sheet of -water close at hand. But there was that old man with whom she had walked -hand in hand on the parade by the sea. She seemed to see him coming to -meet her, pitiful, a little greyer, with an appealing look and an -extended, tremulous arm. It was for her now to take the hand of that -wronged man more helpless than a child. But where could she lead him? -Where? And what was she to say to him? What words of cheer, of courage -and of hope? There were none. Heaven and earth were mute, unconcerned -at their meeting. But this other man was coming up behind her. He was -very close now. His fiery person seemed to radiate heat, a tingling -vibration into the atmosphere. She was exhausted, careless, afraid to -stumble, ready to fall. She fancied she could hear his breathing. A -wave of languid warmth overtook her, she seemed to lose touch with the -ground under her feet; and when she felt him slip his hand under her arm -she made no attempt to disengage herself from that grasp which closed -upon her limb, insinuating and firm. - -He conducted her through the dangers of the quayside. Her sight was dim. -A moving truck was like a mountain gliding by. Men passed by as if in a -mist; and the buildings, the sheds, the unexpected open spaces, the -ships, had strange, distorted, dangerous shapes. She said to herself -that it was good not to be bothered with what all these things meant in -the scheme of creation (if indeed anything had a meaning), or were just -piled-up matter without any sense. She felt how she had always been -unrelated to this world. She was hanging on to it merely by that one arm -grasped firmly just above the elbow. It was a captivity. So be it. Till -they got out into the street and saw the hansom waiting outside the gates -Anthony spoke only once, beginning brusquely but in a much gentler tone -than she had ever heard from his lips. - -"Of course I ought to have known that you could not care for a man like -me, a stranger. Silence gives consent. Yes? Eh? I don't want any of -that sort of consent. And unless some day you find you can speak . . . -No! No! I shall never ask you. For all the sign I will give you you -may go to your grave with sealed lips. But what I have said you must -do!" - -He bent his head over her with tender care. At the same time she felt -her arm pressed and shaken inconspicuously, but in an undeniable manner. -"You must do it." A little shake that no passer-by could notice; and -this was going on in a deserted part of the dock. "It must be done. You -are listening to me--eh? or would you go again to my sister?" - -His ironic tone, perhaps from want of use, had an awful grating ferocity. - -"Would you go to her?" he pursued in the same strange voice. "Your best -friend! And say nicely--I am sorry. Would you? No! You couldn't. -There are things that even you, poor dear lost girl, couldn't stand. Eh? -Die rather. That's it. Of course. Or can you be thinking of taking -your father to that infernal cousin's house. No! Don't speak. I can't -bear to think of it. I would follow you there and smash the door!" - -The catch in his voice astonished her by its resemblance to a sob. It -frightened her too. The thought that came to her head was: "He mustn't." -He was putting her into the hansom. "Oh! He mustn't, he mustn't." She -was still more frightened by the discovery that he was shaking all over. -Bewildered, shrinking into the far off corner, avoiding his eyes, she yet -saw the quivering of his mouth and made a wild attempt at a smile, which -broke the rigidity of her lips and set her teeth chattering suddenly. - -"I am not coming with you," he was saying. "I'll tell the man . . . I -can't. Better not. What is it? Are you cold? Come! What is it? Only -to go to a confounded stuffy room, a hole of an office. Not a quarter of -an hour. I'll come for you--in ten days. Don't think of it too much. -Think of no man, woman or child of all that silly crowd cumbering the -ground. Don't think of me either. Think of yourself. Ha! Nothing will -be able to touch you then--at last. Say nothing. Don't move. I'll have -everything arranged; and as long as you don't hate the sight of me--and -you don't--there's nothing to be frightened about. One of their silly -offices with a couple of ink-slingers of no consequence; poor, scribbling -devils." - -The hansom drove away with Flora de Barral inside, without movement, -without thought, only too glad to rest, to be alone and still moving away -without effort, in solitude and silence. - -Anthony roamed the streets for hours without being able to remember in -the evening where he had been--in the manner of a happy and exulting -lover. But nobody could have thought so from his face, which bore no -signs of blissful anticipation. Exulting indeed he was but it was a -special sort of exultation which seemed to take him by the throat like an -enemy. - -Anthony's last words to Flora referred to the registry office where they -were married ten days later. During that time Anthony saw no one or -anything, though he went about restlessly, here and there, amongst men -and things. This special state is peculiar to common lovers, who are -known to have no eyes for anything except for the contemplation, actual -or inward, of one human form which for them contains the soul of the -whole world in all its beauty, perfection, variety and infinity. It must -be extremely pleasant. But felicity was denied to Roderick Anthony's -contemplation. He was not a common sort of lover; and he was punished -for it as if Nature (which it is said abhors a vacuum) were so very -conventional as to abhor every sort of exceptional conduct. Roderick -Anthony had begun already to suffer. That is why perhaps he was so -industrious in going about amongst his fellowmen who would have been -surprised and humiliated, had they known how little solidity and even -existence they had in his eyes. But they could not suspect anything so -queer. They saw nothing extraordinary in him during that fortnight. The -proof of this is that they were willing to transact business with him. -Obviously they were; since it is then that the offer of chartering his -ship for the special purpose of proceeding to the Western Islands was put -in his way by a firm of shipbrokers who had no doubt of his sanity. - -He probably looked sane enough for all the practical purposes of -commercial life. But I am not so certain that he really was quite sane -at that time. - -However, he jumped at the offer. Providence itself was offering him this -opportunity to accustom the girl to sea-life by a comparatively short -trip. This was the time when everything that happened, everything he -heard, casual words, unrelated phrases, seemed a provocation or an -encouragement, confirmed him in his resolution. And indeed to be busy -with material affairs is the best preservative against reflection, fears, -doubts--all these things which stand in the way of achievement. I -suppose a fellow proposing to cut his throat would experience a sort of -relief while occupied in stropping his razor carefully. - -And Anthony was extremely careful in preparing for himself and for the -luckless Flora, an impossible existence. He went about it with no more -tremors than if he had been stuffed with rags or made of iron instead of -flesh and blood. An existence, mind you, which, on shore, in the thick -of mankind, of varied interests, of distractions, of infinite -opportunities to preserve your distance from each other, is hardly -conceivable; but on board ship, at sea, _en tete-a-tete_ for days and -weeks and months together, could mean nothing but mental torture, an -exquisite absurdity of torment. He was a simple soul. His hopelessly -masculine ingenuousness is displayed in a touching way by his care to -procure some woman to attend on Flora. The condition of guaranteed -perfect respectability gave him moments of anxious thought. When he -remembered suddenly his steward's wife he must have exclaimed _eureka_ -with particular exultation. One does not like to call Anthony an ass. -But really to put any woman within scenting distance of such a secret and -suppose that she would not track it out! - -No woman, however simple, could be as ingenuous as that. I don't know -how Flora de Barral qualified him in her thoughts when he told her of -having done this amongst other things intended to make her comfortable. I -should think that, for all _her_ simplicity, she must have been appalled. -He stood before her on the appointed day outwardly calmer than she had -ever seen him before. And this very calmness, that scrupulous attitude -which he felt bound in honour to assume then and for ever, unless she -would condescend to make a sign at some future time, added to the -heaviness of her heart innocent of the most pardonable guile. - -The night before she had slept better than she had done for the past ten -nights. Both youth and weariness will assert themselves in the end -against the tyranny of nerve-racking stress. She had slept but she woke -up with her eyes full of tears. There were no traces of them when she -met him in the shabby little parlour downstairs. She had swallowed them -up. She was not going to let him see. She felt bound in honour to -accept the situation for ever and ever unless . . . Ah, unless . . . She -dissembled all her sentiments but it was not duplicity on her part. All -she wanted was to get at the truth; to see what would come of it. - -She beat him at his own honourable game and the thoroughness of her -serenity disconcerted Anthony a bit. It was he who stammered when it -came to talking. The suppressed fierceness of his character carried him -on after the first word or two masterfully enough. But it was as if they -both had taken a bite of the same bitter fruit. He was thinking with -mournful regret not unmixed with surprise: "That fellow Fyne has been -telling me the truth. She does not care for me a bit." It humiliated -him and also increased his compassion for the girl who in this darkness -of life, buffeted and despairing, had fallen into the grip of his -stronger will, abandoning herself to his arms as on a night of shipwreck. -Flora on her side with partial insight (for women are never blind with -the complete masculine blindness) looked on him with some pity; and she -felt pity for herself too. It was a rejection, a casting out; nothing -new to her. But she who supposed all her sensibility dead by this time, -discovered in herself a resentment of this ultimate betrayal. She had no -resignation for this one. With a sort of mental sullenness she said to -herself: "Well, I am here. I am here without any nonsense. It is not my -fault that I am a mere worthless object of pity." - -And these things which she could tell herself with a clear conscience -served her better than the passionate obstinacy of purpose could serve -Roderick Anthony. She was much more sure of herself than he was. Such -are the advantages of mere rectitude over the most exalted generosity. - -And so they went out to get married, the people of the house where she -lodged having no suspicion of anything of the sort. They were only -excited at a "gentleman friend" (a very fine man too) calling on Miss -Smith for the first time since she had come to live in the house. When -she returned, for she did come back alone, there were allusions made to -that outing. She had to take her meals with these rather vulgar people. -The woman of the house, a scraggy, genteel person, tried even to provoke -confidences. Flora's white face with the deep blue eyes did not strike -their hearts as it did the heart of Captain Anthony, as the very face of -the suffering world. Her pained reserve had no power to awe them into -decency. - -Well, she returned alone--as in fact might have been expected. After -leaving the Registry Office Flora de Barral and Roderick Anthony had gone -for a walk in a park. It must have been an East-End park but I am not -sure. Anyway that's what they did. It was a sunny day. He said to her: -"Everything I have in the world belongs to you. I have seen to that -without troubling my brother-in-law. They have no call to interfere." - -She walked with her hand resting lightly on his arm. He had offered it -to her on coming out of the Registry Office, and she had accepted it -silently. Her head drooped, she seemed to be turning matters over in her -mind. She said, alluding to the Fynes: "They have been very good to me." -At that he exclaimed: - -"They have never understood you. Well, not properly. My sister is not a -bad woman, but . . . " - -Flora didn't protest; asking herself whether he imagined that he himself -understood her so much better. Anthony dismissing his family out of his -thoughts went on: "Yes. Everything is yours. I have kept nothing back. -As to the piece of paper we have just got from that miserable -quill-driver if it wasn't for the law, I wouldn't mind if you tore it up -here, now, on this spot. But don't you do it. Unless you should some -day feel that--" - -He choked, unexpectedly. She, reflective, hesitated a moment then making -up her mind bravely. - -"Neither am I keeping anything back from you." - -She had said it! But he in his blind generosity assumed that she was -alluding to her deplorable history and hastened to mutter: - -"Of course! Of course! Say no more. I have been lying awake thinking -of it all no end of times." - -He made a movement with his other arm as if restraining himself from -shaking an indignant fist at the universe; and she never even attempted -to look at him. His voice sounded strangely, incredibly lifeless in -comparison with these tempestuous accents that in the broad fields, in -the dark garden had seemed to shake the very earth under her weary and -hopeless feet. - -She regretted them. Hearing the sigh which escaped her Anthony instead -of shaking his fist at the universe began to pat her hand resting on his -arm and then desisted, suddenly, as though he had burnt himself. Then -after a silence: - -"You will have to go by yourself to-morrow. I . . . No, I think I -mustn't come. Better not. What you two will have to say to each other--" - -She interrupted him quickly: - -"Father is an innocent man. He was cruelly wronged." - -"Yes. That's why," Anthony insisted earnestly. "And you are the only -human being that can make it up to him. You alone must reconcile him -with the world if anything can. But of course you shall. You'll have to -find words. Oh you'll know. And then the sight of you, alone, would -soothe--" - -"He's the gentlest of men," she interrupted again. - -Anthony shook his head. "It would take no end of generosity, no end of -gentleness to forgive such a dead set. For my part I would have liked -better to have been killed and done with at once. It could not have been -worse for you--and I suppose it was of you that he was thinking most -while those infernal lawyers were badgering him in court. Of you. And -now I think of it perhaps the sight of you may bring it all back to him. -All these years, all these years--and you his child left alone in the -world. I would have gone crazy. For even if he had done wrong--" - -"But he hasn't," insisted Flora de Barral with a quite unexpected -fierceness. "You mustn't even suppose it. Haven't you read the accounts -of the trial?" - -"I am not supposing anything," Anthony defended himself. He just -remembered hearing of the trial. He assured her that he was away from -England, the second voyage of the _Ferndale_. He was crossing the -Pacific from Australia at the time and didn't see any papers for weeks -and weeks. He interrupted himself to suggest: - -"You had better tell him at once that you are happy." - -He had stammered a little, and Flora de Barral uttered a deliberate and -concise "Yes." - -A short silence ensued. She withdrew her hand from his arm. They -stopped. Anthony looked as if a totally unexpected catastrophe had -happened. - -"Ah," he said. "You mind . . . " - -"No! I think I had better," she murmured. - -"I dare say. I dare say. Bring him along straight on board to-morrow. -Stop nowhere." - -She had a movement of vague gratitude, a momentary feeling of peace which -she referred to the man before her. She looked up at Anthony. His face -was sombre. He was miles away and muttered as if to himself: - -"Where could he want to stop though?" - -"There's not a single being on earth that I would want to look at his -dear face now, to whom I would willingly take him," she said extending -her hand frankly and with a slight break in her voice, "but -you--Roderick." - -He took that hand, felt it very small and delicate in his broad palm. - -"That's right. That's right," he said with a conscious and hasty -heartiness and, as if suddenly ashamed of the sound of his voice, turned -half round and absolutely walked away from the motionless girl. He even -resisted the temptation to look back till it was too late. The gravel -path lay empty to the very gate of the park. She was gone--vanished. He -had an impression that he had missed some sort of chance. He felt sad. -That excited sense of his own conduct which had kept him up for the last -ten days buoyed him no more. He had succeeded! - -He strolled on aimlessly a prey to gentle melancholy. He walked and -walked. There were but few people about in this breathing space of a -poor neighbourhood. Under certain conditions of life there is precious -little time left for mere breathing. But still a few here and there were -indulging in that luxury; yet few as they were Captain Anthony, though -the least exclusive of men, resented their presence. Solitude had been -his best friend. He wanted some place where he could sit down and be -alone. And in his need his thoughts turned to the sea which had given -him so much of that congenial solitude. There, if always with his ship -(but that was an integral part of him) he could always be as solitary as -he chose. Yes. Get out to sea! - -The night of the town with its strings of lights, rigid, and crossed like -a net of flames, thrown over the sombre immensity of walls, closed round -him, with its artificial brilliance overhung by an emphatic blackness, -its unnatural animation of a restless, overdriven humanity. His thoughts -which somehow were inclined to pity every passing figure, every single -person glimpsed under a street lamp, fixed themselves at last upon a -figure which certainly could not have been seen under the lamps on that -particular night. A figure unknown to him. A figure shut up within high -unscaleable walls of stone or bricks till next morning . . . The figure -of Flora de Barral's father. De Barral the financier--the convict. - -There is something in that word with its suggestions of guilt and -retribution which arrests the thought. We feel ourselves in the presence -of the power of organized society--a thing mysterious in itself and still -more mysterious in its effect. Whether guilty or innocent, it was as if -old de Barral had been down to the Nether Regions. Impossible to imagine -what he would bring out from there to the light of this world of -uncondemned men. What would he think? What would he have to say? And -what was one to say to him? - -Anthony, a little awed, as one is by a range of feelings stretching -beyond one's grasp, comforted himself by the thought that probably the -old fellow would have little to say. He wouldn't want to talk about it. -No man would. It must have been a real hell to him. - -And then Anthony, at the end of the day in which he had gone through a -marriage ceremony with Flora de Barral, ceased to think of Flora's father -except, as in some sort, the captive of his triumph. He turned to the -mental contemplation of the white, delicate and appealing face with great -blue eyes which he had seen weep and wonder and look profoundly at him, -sometimes with incredulity, sometimes with doubt and pain, but always -irresistible in the power to find their way right into his breast, to -stir there a deep response which was something more than love--he said to -himself,--as men understand it. More? Or was it only something other? -Yes. It was something other. More or less. Something as incredible as -the fulfilment of an amazing and startling dream in which he could take -the world in his arms--all the suffering world--not to possess its -pathetic fairness but to console and cherish its sorrow. - -Anthony walked slowly to the ship and that night slept without dreams. - - - -CHAPTER FIVE--THE GREAT DE BARRAL - - -Renovated certainly the saloon of the _Ferndale_ was to receive the -"strange woman." The mellowness of its old-fashioned, tarnished -decoration was gone. And Anthony looking round saw the glitter, the -gleams, the colour of new things, untried, unused, very bright--too -bright. The workmen had gone only last night; and the last piece of work -they did was the hanging of the heavy curtains which looped midway the -length of the saloon--divided it in two if released, cutting off the -after end with its companion-way leading direct on the poop, from the -forepart with its outlet on the deck; making a privacy within a privacy, -as though Captain Anthony could not place obstacles enough between his -new happiness and the men who shared his life at sea. He inspected that -arrangement with an approving eye then made a particular visitation of -the whole, ending by opening a door which led into a large state-room -made of two knocked into one. It was very well furnished and had, -instead of the usual bedplace of such cabins, an elaborate swinging cot -of the latest pattern. Anthony tilted it a little by way of trial. "The -old man will be very comfortable in here," he said to himself, and -stepped back into the saloon closing the door gently. Then another -thought occurred to him obvious under the circumstances but strangely -enough presenting itself for the first time. "Jove! Won't he get a -shock," thought Roderick Anthony. - -He went hastily on deck. "Mr. Franklin, Mr. Franklin." The mate was not -very far. "Oh! Here you are. Miss . . . Mrs. Anthony'll be coming on -board presently. Just give me a call when you see the cab." - -Then, without noticing the gloominess of the mate's countenance he went -in again. Not a friendly word, not a professional remark, or a small -joke, not as much as a simple and inane "fine day." Nothing. Just -turned about and went in. - -We know that, when the moment came, he thought better of it and decided -to meet Flora's father in that privacy of the main cabin which he had -been so careful to arrange. Why Anthony appeared to shrink from the -contact, he who was sufficiently self-confident not only to face but to -absolutely create a situation almost insane in its audacious generosity, -is difficult to explain. Perhaps when he came on the poop for a glance -he found that man so different outwardly from what he expected that he -decided to meet him for the first time out of everybody's sight. Possibly -the general secrecy of his relation to the girl might have influenced -him. Truly he may well have been dismayed. That man's coming brought -him face to face with the necessity to speak and act a lie; to appear -what he was not and what he could never be, unless, unless-- - -In short, we'll say if you like that for various reasons, all having to -do with the delicate rectitude of his nature, Roderick Anthony (a man of -whom his chief mate used to say: he doesn't know what fear is) was -frightened. There is a Nemesis which overtakes generosity too, like all -the other imprudences of men who dare to be lawless and proud . . . " - -"Why do you say this?" I inquired, for Marlow had stopped abruptly and -kept silent in the shadow of the bookcase. - -"I say this because that man whom chance had thrown in Flora's way was -both: lawless and proud. Whether he knew anything about it or not it -does not matter. Very likely not. One may fling a glove in the face of -nature and in the face of one's own moral endurance quite innocently, -with a simplicity which wears the aspect of perfectly Satanic conceit. -However, as I have said it does not matter. It's a transgression all the -same and has got to be paid for in the usual way. But never mind that. I -paused because, like Anthony, I find a difficulty, a sort of dread in -coming to grips with old de Barral. - -You remember I had a glimpse of him once. He was not an imposing -personality: tall, thin, straight, stiff, faded, moving with short steps -and with a gliding motion, speaking in an even low voice. When the sea -was rough he wasn't much seen on deck--at least not walking. He caught -hold of things then and dragged himself along as far as the after -skylight where he would sit for hours. Our, then young, friend offered -once to assist him and this service was the first beginning of a sort of -friendship. He clung hard to one--Powell says, with no figurative -intention. Powell was always on the lookout to assist, and to assist -mainly Mrs. Anthony, because he clung so jolly hard to her that Powell -was afraid of her being dragged down notwithstanding that she very soon -became very sure-footed in all sorts of weather. And Powell was the only -one ready to assist at hand because Anthony (by that time) seemed to be -afraid to come near them; the unforgiving Franklin always looked -wrathfully the other way; the boatswain, if up there, acted likewise but -sheepishly; and any hands that happened to be on the poop (a feeling -spreads mysteriously all over a ship) shunned him as though he had been -the devil. - -We know how he arrived on board. For my part I know so little of prisons -that I haven't the faintest notion how one leaves them. It seems as -abominable an operation as the other, the shutting up with its mental -suggestions of bang, snap, crash and the empty silence outside--where an -instant before you were--you _were_--and now no longer are. Perfectly -devilish. And the release! I don't know which is worse. How do they do -it? Pull the string, door flies open, man flies through: Out you go! -_Adios_! And in the space where a second before you were not, in the -silent space there is a figure going away, limping. Why limping? I -don't know. That's how I see it. One has a notion of a maiming, -crippling process; of the individual coming back damaged in some subtle -way. I admit it is a fantastic hallucination, but I can't help it. Of -course I know that the proceedings of the best machine-made humanity are -employed with judicious care and so on. I am absurd, no doubt, but still -. . . Oh yes it's idiotic. When I pass one of these places . . . did you -notice that there is something infernal about the aspect of every -individual stone or brick of them, something malicious as if matter were -enjoying its revenge of the contemptuous spirit of man. Did you notice? -You didn't? Eh? Well I am perhaps a little mad on that point. When I -pass one of these places I must avert my eyes. I couldn't have gone to -meet de Barral. I should have shrunk from the ordeal. You'll notice -that it looks as if Anthony (a brave man indubitably) had shirked it too. -Little Fyne's flight of fancy picturing three people in the fatal four -wheeler--you remember?--went wide of the truth. There were only two -people in the four wheeler. Flora did not shrink. Women can stand -anything. The dear creatures have no imagination when it comes to solid -facts of life. In sentimental regions--I won't say. It's another thing -altogether. There they shrink from or rush to embrace ghosts of their -own creation just the same as any fool-man would. - -No. I suppose the girl Flora went on that errand reasonably. And then, -why! This was the moment for which she had lived. It was her only point -of contact with existence. Oh yes. She had been assisted by the Fynes. -And kindly. Certainly. Kindly. But that's not enough. There is a kind -way of assisting our fellow-creatures which is enough to break their -hearts while it saves their outer envelope. How cold, how infernally -cold she must have felt--unless when she was made to burn with -indignation or shame. Man, we know, cannot live by bread alone but hang -me if I don't believe that some women could live by love alone. If there -be a flame in human beings fed by varied ingredients earthly and -spiritual which tinge it in different hues, then I seem to see the colour -of theirs. It is azure . . . What the devil are you laughing at . . . " - -Marlow jumped up and strode out of the shadow as if lifted by indignation -but there was the flicker of a smile on his lips. "You say I don't know -women. Maybe. It's just as well not to come too close to the shrine. -But I have a clear notion of _woman_. In all of them, termagant, flirt, -crank, washerwoman, blue-stocking, outcast and even in the ordinary fool -of the ordinary commerce there is something left, if only a spark. And -when there is a spark there can always be a flame . . . " - -He went back into the shadow and sat down again. - -"I don't mean to say that Flora de Barral was one of the sort that could -live by love alone. In fact she had managed to live without. But still, -in the distrust of herself and of others she looked for love, any kind of -love, as women will. And that confounded jail was the only spot where -she could see it--for she had no reason to distrust her father. - -She was there in good time. I see her gazing across the road at these -walls which are, properly speaking, awful. You do indeed seem to feel -along the very lines and angles of the unholy bulk, the fall of time, -drop by drop, hour by hour, leaf by leaf, with a gentle and implacable -slowness. And a voiceless melancholy comes over one, invading, -overpowering like a dream, penetrating and mortal like poison. - -When de Barral came out she experienced a sort of shock to see that he -was exactly as she remembered him. Perhaps a little smaller. Otherwise -unchanged. You come out in the same clothes, you know. I can't tell -whether he was looking for her. No doubt he was. Whether he recognized -her? Very likely. She crossed the road and at once there was reproduced -at a distance of years, as if by some mocking witchcraft, the sight so -familiar on the Parade at Brighton of the financier de Barral walking -with his only daughter. One comes out of prison in the same clothes one -wore on the day of condemnation, no matter how long one has been put away -there. Oh, they last! They last! But there is something which is -preserved by prison life even better than one's discarded clothing. It -is the force, the vividness of one's sentiments. A monastery will do -that too; but in the unholy claustration of a jail you are thrown back -wholly upon yourself--for God and Faith are not there. The people -outside disperse their affections, you hoard yours, you nurse them into -intensity. What they let slip, what they forget in the movement and -changes of free life, you hold on to, amplify, exaggerate into a rank -growth of memories. They can look with a smile at the troubles and pains -of the past; but you can't. Old pains keep on gnawing at your heart, old -desires, old deceptions, old dreams, assailing you in the dead stillness -of your present where nothing moves except the irrecoverable minutes of -your life. - -De Barral was out and, for a time speechless, being led away almost -before he had taken possession of the free world, by his daughter. Flora -controlled herself well. They walked along quickly for some distance. -The cab had been left round the corner--round several corners for all I -know. He was flustered, out of breath, when she helped him in and -followed herself. Inside that rolling box, turning towards that -recovered presence with her heart too full for words she felt the desire -of tears she had managed to keep down abandon her suddenly, her -half-mournful, half-triumphant exultation subside, every fibre of her -body, relaxed in tenderness, go stiff in the close look she took at his -face. He _was_ different. There was something. Yes, there was -something between them, something hard and impalpable, the ghost of these -high walls. - -How old he was, how unlike! - -She shook off this impression, amazed and frightened by it of course. And -remorseful too. Naturally. She threw her arms round his neck. He -returned that hug awkwardly, as if not in perfect control of his arms, -with a fumbling and uncertain pressure. She hid her face on his breast. -It was as though she were pressing it against a stone. They released -each other and presently the cab was rolling along at a jog-trot to the -docks with those two people as far apart as they could get from each -other, in opposite corners. - -After a silence given up to mutual examination he uttered his first -coherent sentence outside the walls of the prison. - -"What has done for me was envy. Envy. There was a lot of them just -bursting with it every time they looked my way. I was doing too well. So -they went to the Public Prosecutor--" - -She said hastily "Yes! Yes! I know," and he glared as if resentful that -the child had turned into a young woman without waiting for him to come -out. "What do you know about it?" he asked. "You were too young." His -speech was soft. The old voice, the old voice! It gave her a thrill. -She recognized its pointless gentleness always the same no matter what he -had to say. And she remembered that he never had much to say when he -came down to see her. It was she who chattered, chattered, on their -walks, while stiff and with a rigidly-carried head, he dropped a gentle -word now and then. - -Moved by these recollections waking up within her, she explained to him -that within the last year she had read and studied the report of the -trial. - -"I went through the files of several papers, papa." - -He looked at her suspiciously. The reports were probably very -incomplete. No doubt the reporters had garbled his evidence. They were -determined to give him no chance either in court or before the public -opinion. It was a conspiracy . . . "My counsel was a fool too," he -added. "Did you notice? A perfect fool." - -She laid her hand on his arm soothingly. "Is it worth while talking -about that awful time? It is so far away now." She shuddered slightly -at the thought of all the horrible years which had passed over her young -head; never guessing that for him the time was but yesterday. He folded -his arms on his breast, leaned back in his corner and bowed his head. But -in a little while he made her jump by asking suddenly: - -"Who has got hold of the Lone Valley Railway? That's what they were -after mainly. Somebody has got it. Parfitts and Co. grabbed it--eh? Or -was it that fellow Warner . . . " - -"I--I don't know," she said quite scared by the twitching of his lips. - -"Don't know!" he exclaimed softly. Hadn't her cousin told her? Oh yes. -She had left them--of course. Why did she? It was his first question -about herself but she did not answer it. She did not want to talk of -these horrors. They were impossible to describe. She perceived though -that he had not expected an answer, because she heard him muttering to -himself that: "There was half a million's worth of work done and material -accumulated there." - -"You mustn't think of these things, papa," she said firmly. And he asked -her with that invariable gentleness, in which she seemed now to detect -some rather ugly shades, what else had he to think about? Another year -or two, if they had only left him alone, he and everybody else would have -been all right, rolling in money; and she, his daughter, could have -married anybody--anybody. A lord. - -All this was to him like yesterday, a long yesterday, a yesterday gone -over innumerable times, analysed, meditated upon for years. It had a -vividness and force for that old man of which his daughter who had not -been shut out of the world could have no idea. She was to him the only -living figure out of that past, and it was perhaps in perfect good faith -that he added, coldly, inexpressive and thin-lipped: "I lived only for -you, I may say. I suppose you understand that. There were only you and -me." - -Moved by this declaration, wondering that it did not warm her heart more, -she murmured a few endearing words while the uppermost thought in her -mind was that she must tell him now of the situation. She had expected -to be questioned anxiously about herself--and while she desired it she -shrank from the answers she would have to make. But her father seemed -strangely, unnaturally incurious. It looked as if there would be no -questions. Still this was an opening. This seemed to be the time for -her to begin. And she began. She began by saying that she had always -felt like that. There were two of them, to live for each other. And if -he only knew what she had gone through! - -Ensconced in his corner, with his arms folded, he stared out of the cab -window at the street. How little he was changed after all. It was the -unmovable expression, the faded stare she used to see on the esplanade -whenever walking by his side hand in hand she raised her eyes to his -face--while she chattered, chattered. It was the same stiff, silent -figure which at a word from her would turn rigidly into a shop and buy -her anything it occurred to her that she would like to have. Flora de -Barral's voice faltered. He bent on her that well-remembered glance in -which she had never read anything as a child, except the consciousness of -her existence. And that was enough for a child who had never known -demonstrative affection. But she had lived a life so starved of all -feeling that this was no longer enough for her. What was the good of -telling him the story of all these miseries now past and gone, of all -those bewildering difficulties and humiliations? What she must tell him -was difficult enough to say. She approached it by remarking cheerfully: - -"You haven't even asked me where I am taking you." He started like a -somnambulist awakened suddenly, and there was now some meaning in his -stare; a sort of alarmed speculation. He opened his mouth slowly. Flora -struck in with forced gaiety. "You would never, guess." - -He waited, still more startled and suspicious. "Guess! Why don't you -tell me?" - -He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward towards her. She got hold of -one of his hands. "You must know first . . . " She paused, made an -effort: "I am married, papa." - -For a moment they kept perfectly still in that cab rolling on at a steady -jog-trot through a narrow city street full of bustle. Whatever she -expected she did not expect to feel his hand snatched away from her grasp -as if from a burn or a contamination. De Barral fresh from the stagnant -torment of the prison (where nothing happens) had not expected that sort -of news. It seemed to stick in his throat. In strangled low tones he -cried out, "You--married? You, Flora! When? Married! What for? Who -to? Married!" - -His eyes which were blue like hers, only faded, without depth, seemed to -start out of their orbits. He did really look as if he were choking. He -even put his hand to his collar . . . " - -* * * * * - -"You know," continued Marlow out of the shadow of the bookcase and nearly -invisible in the depths of the arm-chair, "the only time I saw him he had -given me the impression of absolute rigidity, as though he had swallowed -a poker. But it seems that he could collapse. I can hardly picture this -to myself. I understand that he did collapse to a certain extent in his -corner of the cab. The unexpected had crumpled him up. She regarded him -perplexed, pitying, a little disillusioned, and nodded at him gravely: -Yes. Married. What she did not like was to see him smile in a manner -far from encouraging to the devotion of a daughter. There was something -unintentionally savage in it. Old de Barral could not quite command his -muscles, as yet. But he had recovered command of his gentle voice. - -"You were just saying that in this wide world there we were, only you and -I, to stick to each other." - -She was dimly aware of the scathing intention lurking in these soft low -tones, in these words which appealed to her poignantly. She defended -herself. Never, never for a single moment had she ceased to think of -him. Neither did he cease to think of her, he said, with as much -sinister emphasis as he was capable of. - -"But, papa," she cried, "I haven't been shut up like you." She didn't -mind speaking of it because he was innocent. He hadn't been understood. -It was a misfortune of the most cruel kind but no more disgraceful than -an illness, a maiming accident or some other visitation of blind fate. "I -wish I had been too. But I was alone out in the world, the horrid world, -that very world which had used you so badly." - -"And you couldn't go about in it without finding somebody to fall in love -with?" he said. A jealous rage affected his brain like the fumes of -wine, rising from some secret depths of his being so long deprived of all -emotions. The hollows at the corners of his lips became more pronounced -in the puffy roundness of his cheeks. Images, visions, obsess with -particular force, men withdrawn from the sights and sounds of active -life. "And I did nothing but think of you!" he exclaimed under his -breath, contemptuously. "Think of you! You haunted me, I tell you." - -Flora said to herself that there was a being who loved her. "Then we -have been haunting each other," she declared with a pang of remorse. For -indeed he had haunted her nearly out of the world, into a final and -irremediable desertion. "Some day I shall tell you . . . No. I don't -think I can ever tell you. There was a time when I was mad. But what's -the good? It's all over now. We shall forget all this. There shall be -nothing to remind us." - -De Barral moved his shoulders. - -"I should think you were mad to tie yourself to . . . How long is it -since you are married?" - -She answered "Not long" that being the only answer she dared to make. -Everything was so different from what she imagined it would be. He -wanted to know why she had said nothing of it in any of her letters; in -her last letter. She said: - -"It was after." - -"So recently!" he wondered. "Couldn't you wait at least till I came out? -You could have told me; asked me; consulted me! Let me see--" - -She shook her head negatively. And he was appalled. He thought to -himself: Who can he be? Some miserable, silly youth without a penny. Or -perhaps some scoundrel? Without making any expressive movement he wrung -his loosely-clasped hands till the joints cracked. He looked at her. She -was pretty. Some low scoundrel who will cast her off. Some plausible -vagabond . . . "You couldn't wait--eh?" - -Again she made a slight negative sign. - -"Why not? What was the hurry?" She cast down her eyes. "It had to be. -Yes. It was sudden, but it had to be." - -He leaned towards her, his mouth open, his eyes wild with virtuous anger, -but meeting the absolute candour of her raised glance threw himself back -into his corner again. - -"So tremendously in love with each other--was that it? Couldn't let a -father have his daughter all to himself even for a day after--after such -a separation. And you know I never had anyone, I had no friends. What -did I want with those people one meets in the City. The best of them are -ready to cut your throat. Yes! Business men, gentlemen, any sort of men -and women--out of spite, or to get something. Oh yes, they can talk fair -enough if they think there's something to be got out of you . . . " His -voice was a mere breath yet every word came to Flora as distinctly as if -charged with all the moving power of passion . . . "My girl, I looked at -them making up to me and I would say to myself: What do I care for all -that! I am a business man. I am the great Mr. de Barral (yes, yes, some -of them twisted their mouths at it, but I _was_ the great Mr. de Barral) -and I have my little girl. I wanted nobody and I have never had -anybody." - -A true emotion had unsealed his lips but the words that came out of them -were no louder than the murmur of a light wind. It died away. - -"That's just it," said Flora de Barral under her breath. Without -removing his eyes from her he took off his hat. It was a tall hat. The -hat of the trial. The hat of the thumb-nail sketches in the illustrated -papers. One comes out in the same clothes, but seclusion counts! It is -well known that lurid visions haunt secluded men, monks, hermits--then -why not prisoners? De Barral the convict took off the silk hat of the -financier de Barral and deposited it on the front seat of the cab. Then -he blew out his cheeks. He was red in the face. - -"And then what happens?" he began again in his contained voice. "Here I -am, overthrown, broken by envy, malice and all uncharitableness. I come -out--and what do I find? I find that my girl Flora has gone and married -some man or other, perhaps a fool, how do I know; or perhaps--anyway not -good enough." - -"Stop, papa." - -"A silly love affair as likely as not," he continued monotonously, his -thin lips writhing between the ill-omened sunk corners. "And a very -suspicious thing it is too, on the part of a loving daughter." - -She tried to interrupt him but he went on till she actually clapped her -hand on his mouth. He rolled his eyes a bit but when she took her hand -away he remained silent. - -"Wait. I must tell you . . . And first of all, papa, understand this, -for everything's in that: he is the most generous man in the world. He -is . . . " - -De Barral very still in his corner uttered with an effort "You are in -love with him." - -"Papa! He came to me. I was thinking of you. I had no eyes for -anybody. I could no longer bear to think of you. It was then that he -came. Only then. At that time when--when I was going to give up." - -She gazed into his faded blue eyes as if yearning to be understood, to be -given encouragement, peace--a word of sympathy. He declared without -animation "I would like to break his neck." - -She had the mental exclamation of the overburdened. - -"Oh my God!" and watched him with frightened eyes. But he did not appear -insane or in any other way formidable. This comforted her. The silence -lasted for some little time. Then suddenly he asked: - -"What's your name then?" - -For a moment in the profound trouble of the task before her she did not -understand what the question meant. Then, her face faintly flushing, she -whispered: "Anthony." - -Her father, a red spot on each cheek, leaned his head back wearily in the -corner of the cab. - -"Anthony. What is he? Where did he spring from?" - -"Papa, it was in the country, on a road--" - -He groaned, "On a road," and closed his eyes. - -"It's too long to explain to you now. We shall have lots of time. There -are things I could not tell you now. But some day. Some day. For now -nothing can part us. Nothing. We are safe as long as we live--nothing -can ever come between us." - -"You are infatuated with the fellow," he remarked, without opening his -eyes. And she said: "I believe in him," in a low voice. "You and I must -believe in him." - -"Who the devil is he?" - -"He's the brother of the lady--you know Mrs. Fyne, she knew mother--who -was so kind to me. I was staying in the country, in a cottage, with Mr. -and Mrs. Fyne. It was there that we met. He came on a visit. He -noticed me. I--well--we are married now." - -She was thankful that his eyes were shut. It made it easier to talk of -the future she had arranged, which now was an unalterable thing. She did -not enter on the path of confidences. That was impossible. She felt he -would not understand her. She felt also that he suffered. Now and then -a great anxiety gripped her heart with a mysterious sense of guilt--as -though she had betrayed him into the hands of an enemy. With his eyes -shut he had an air of weary and pious meditation. She was a little -afraid of it. Next moment a great pity for him filled her heart. And in -the background there was remorse. His face twitched now and then just -perceptibly. He managed to keep his eyelids down till he heard that the -'husband' was a sailor and that he, the father, was being taken straight -on board ship ready to sail away from this abominable world of -treacheries, and scorns and envies and lies, away, away over the blue -sea, the sure, the inaccessible, the uncontaminated and spacious refuge -for wounded souls. - -Something like that. Not the very words perhaps but such was the general -sense of her overwhelming argument--the argument of refuge. - -I don't think she gave a thought to material conditions. But as part of -that argument set forth breathlessly, as if she were afraid that if she -stopped for a moment she could never go on again, she mentioned that -generosity of a stormy type, which had come to her from the sea, had -caught her up on the brink of unmentionable failure, had whirled her away -in its first ardent gust and could be trusted now, implicitly trusted, to -carry them both, side by side, into absolute safety. - -She believed it, she affirmed it. He understood thoroughly at last, and -at once the interior of that cab, of an aspect so pacific in the eyes of -the people on the pavements, became the scene of a great agitation. The -generosity of Roderick Anthony--the son of the poet--affected the -ex-financier de Barral in a manner which must have brought home to Flora -de Barral the extreme arduousness of the business of being a woman. Being -a woman is a terribly difficult trade since it consists principally of -dealings with men. This man--the man inside the cab--cast oft his stiff -placidity and behaved like an animal. I don't mean it in an offensive -sense. What he did was to give way to an instinctive panic. Like some -wild creature scared by the first touch of a net falling on its back, old -de Barral began to struggle, lank and angular, against the empty air--as -much of it as there was in the cab--with staring eyes and gasping mouth -from which his daughter shrank as far as she could in the confined space. - -"Stop the cab. Stop him I tell you. Let me get out!" were the strangled -exclamations she heard. Why? What for? To do what? He would hear -nothing. She cried to him "Papa! Papa! What do you want to do?" And -all she got from him was: "Stop. I must get out. I want to think. I -must get out to think." - -It was a mercy that he didn't attempt to open the door at once. He only -stuck his head and shoulders out of the window crying to the cabman. She -saw the consequences, the cab stopping, a crowd collecting around a -raving old gentleman . . . In this terrible business of being a woman so -full of fine shades, of delicate perplexities (and very small rewards) -you can never know what rough work you may have to do, at any moment. -Without hesitation Flora seized her father round the body and pulled -back--being astonished at the ease with which she managed to make him -drop into his seat again. She kept him there resolutely with one hand -pressed against his breast, and leaning across him, she, in her turn put -her head and shoulders out of the window. By then the cab had drawn up -to the curbstone and was stopped. "No! I've changed my mind. Go on -please where you were told first. To the docks." - -She wondered at the steadiness of her own voice. She heard a grunt from -the driver and the cab began to roll again. Only then she sank into her -place keeping a watchful eye on her companion. He was hardly anything -more by this time. Except for her childhood's impressions he was just--a -man. Almost a stranger. How was one to deal with him? And there was -the other too. Also almost a stranger. The trade of being a woman was -very difficult. Too difficult. Flora closed her eyes saying to herself: -"If I think too much about it I shall go mad." And then opening them she -asked her father if the prospect of living always with his daughter and -being taken care of by her affection away from the world, which had no -honour to give to his grey hairs, was such an awful prospect. - -"Tell me, is it so bad as that?" - -She put that question sadly, without bitterness. The famous--or -notorious--de Barral had lost his rigidity now. He was bent. Nothing -more deplorably futile than a bent poker. He said nothing. She added -gently, suppressing an uneasy remorseful sigh: - -"And it might have been worse. You might have found no one, no one in -all this town, no one in all the world, not even me! Poor papa!" - -She made a conscience-stricken movement towards him thinking: "Oh! I am -horrible, I am horrible." And old de Barral, scared, tired, bewildered -by the extraordinary shocks of his liberation, swayed over and actually -leaned his head on her shoulder, as if sorrowing over his regained -freedom. - -The movement by itself was touching. Flora supporting him lightly -imagined that he was crying; and at the thought that had she smashed in a -quarry that shoulder, together with some other of her bones, this grey -and pitiful head would have had nowhere to rest, she too gave way to -tears. They flowed quietly, easing her overstrained nerves. Suddenly he -pushed her away from him so that her head struck the side of the cab, -pushing himself away too from her as if something had stung him. - -All the warmth went out of her emotion. The very last tears turned cold -on her cheek. But their work was done. She had found courage, -resolution, as women do, in a good cry. With his hand covering the upper -part of his face whether to conceal his eyes or to shut out an unbearable -sight, he was stiffening up in his corner to his usual poker-like -consistency. She regarded him in silence. His thin obstinate lips -moved. He uttered the name of the cousin--the man, you remember, who did -not approve of the Fynes, and whom rightly or wrongly little Fyne -suspected of interested motives, in view of de Barral having possibly put -away some plunder, somewhere before the smash. - -I may just as well tell you at once that I don't know anything more of -him. But de Barral was of the opinion, speaking in his low voice from -under his hand, that this relation would have been only too glad to have -secured his guidance. - -"Of course I could not come forward in my own name, or person. But the -advice of a man of my experience is as good as a fortune to anybody -wishing to venture into finance. The same sort of thing can be done -again." - -He shuffled his feet a little, let fall his hand; and turning carefully -toward his daughter his puffy round cheeks, his round chin resting on his -collar, he bent on her the faded, resentful gaze of his pale eyes, which -were wet. - -"The start is really only a matter of judicious advertising. There's no -difficulty. And here you go and . . . " - -He turned his face away. "After all I am still de Barral, _the_ de -Barral. Didn't you remember that?" - -"Papa," said Flora; "listen. It's you who must remember that there is no -longer a de Barral . . . " He looked at her sideways anxiously. "There -is Mr. Smith, whom no harm, no trouble, no wicked lies of evil people can -ever touch." - -"Mr. Smith," he breathed out slowly. "Where does he belong to? There's -not even a Miss Smith." - -"There is your Flora." - -"My Flora! You went and . . . I can't bear to think of it. It's -horrible." - -"Yes. It was horrible enough at times," she said with feeling, because -somehow, obscurely, what this man said appealed to her as if it were her -own thought clothed in an enigmatic emotion. "I think with shame -sometimes how I . . . No not yet. I shall not tell you. At least not -now." - -The cab turned into the gateway of the dock. Flora handed the tall hat -to her father. "Here, papa. And please be good. I suppose you love me. -If you don't, then I wonder who--" - -He put the hat on, and stiffened hard in his corner, kept a sidelong -glance on his girl. "Try to be nice for my sake. Think of the years I -have been waiting for you. I do indeed want support--and peace. A -little peace." - -She clasped his arm suddenly with both hands pressing with all her might -as if to crush the resistance she felt in him. "I could not have peace -if I did not have you with me. I won't let you go. Not after all I went -through. I won't." The nervous force of her grip frightened him a -little. She laughed suddenly. "It's absurd. It's as if I were asking -you for a sacrifice. What am I afraid of? Where could you go? I mean -now, to-day, to-night? You can't tell me. Have you thought of it? Well -I have been thinking of it for the last year. Longer. I nearly went mad -trying to find out. I believe I was mad for a time or else I should -never have thought . . . " - -* * * * * - -"This was as near as she came to a confession," remarked Marlow in a -changed tone. "The confession I mean of that walk to the top of the -quarry which she reproached herself with so bitterly. And he made of it -what his fancy suggested. It could not possibly be a just notion. The -cab stopped alongside the ship and they got out in the manner described -by the sensitive Franklin. I don't know if they suspected each other's -sanity at the end of that drive. But that is possible. We all seem a -little mad to each other; an excellent arrangement for the bulk of -humanity which finds in it an easy motive of forgiveness. Flora crossed -the quarter-deck with a rapidity born of apprehension. It had grown -unbearable. She wanted this business over. She was thankful on looking -back to see he was following her. "If he bolts away," she thought, "then -I shall know that I am of no account indeed! That no one loves me, that -words and actions and protestations and everything in the world is -false--and I shall jump into the dock. _That_ at least won't lie." - -Well I don't know. If it had come to that she would have been most -likely fished out, what with her natural want of luck and the good many -people on the quay and on board. And just where the _Ferndale_ was -moored there hung on a wall (I know the berth) a coil of line, a pole, -and a life-buoy kept there on purpose to save people who tumble into the -dock. It's not so easy to get away from life's betrayals as she thought. -However it did not come to that. He followed her with his quick gliding -walk. Mr. Smith! The liberated convict de Barral passed off the solid -earth for the last time, vanished for ever, and there was Mr. Smith added -to that world of waters which harbours so many queer fishes. An old -gentleman in a silk hat, darting wary glances. He followed, because mere -existence has its claims which are obeyed mechanically. I have no doubt -he presented a respectable figure. Father-in-law. Nothing more -respectable. But he carried in his heart the confused pain of dismay and -affection, of involuntary repulsion and pity. Very much like his -daughter. Only in addition he felt a furious jealousy of the man he was -going to see. - -A residue of egoism remains in every affection--even paternal. And this -man in the seclusion of his prison had thought himself into such a sense -of ownership of that single human being he had to think about, as may -well be inconceivable to us who have not had to serve a long (and -wickedly unjust) sentence of penal servitude. She was positively the -only thing, the one point where his thoughts found a resting-place, for -years. She was the only outlet for his imagination. He had not much of -that faculty to be sure, but there was in it the force of concentration. -He felt outraged, and perhaps it was an absurdity on his part, but I -venture to suggest rather in degree than in kind. I have a notion that -no usual, normal father is pleased at parting with his daughter. No. Not -even when he rationally appreciates "Jane being taken off his hands" or -perhaps is able to exult at an excellent match. At bottom, quite deep -down, down in the dark (in some cases only by digging), there is to be -found a certain repugnance . . . With mothers of course it is different. -Women are more loyal, not to each other, but to their common femininity -which they behold triumphant with a secret and proud satisfaction. - -The circumstances of that match added to Mr. Smith's indignation. And if -he followed his daughter into that ship's cabin it was as if into a house -of disgrace and only because he was still bewildered by the suddenness of -the thing. His will, so long lying fallow, was overborne by her -determination and by a vague fear of that regained liberty. - -You will be glad to hear that Anthony, though he did shirk the welcome on -the quay, behaved admirably, with the simplicity of a man who has no -small meannesses and makes no mean reservations. His eyes did not flinch -and his tongue did not falter. He was, I have it on the best authority, -admirable in his earnestness, in his sincerity and also in his restraint. -He was perfect. Nevertheless the vital force of his unknown -individuality addressing him so familiarly was enough to fluster Mr. -Smith. Flora saw her father trembling in all his exiguous length, though -he held himself stiffer than ever if that was possible. He muttered a -little and at last managed to utter, not loud of course but very -distinctly: "I am here under protest," the corners of his mouth sunk -disparagingly, his eyes stony. "I am here under protest. I have been -locked up by a conspiracy. I--" - -He raised his hands to his forehead--his silk hat was on the table rim -upwards; he had put it there with a despairing gesture as he came in--he -raised his hands to his forehead. "It seems to me unfair. I--" He -broke off again. Anthony looked at Flora who stood by the side of her -father. - -"Well, sir, you will soon get used to me. Surely you and she must have -had enough of shore-people and their confounded half-and-half ways to -last you both for a life-time. A particularly merciful lot they are too. -You ask Flora. I am alluding to my own sister, her best friend, and not -a bad woman either as they go." - -The captain of the _Ferndale_ checked himself. "Lucky thing I was there -to step in. I want you to make yourself at home, and before long--" - -The faded stare of the Great de Barral silenced Anthony by its -inexpressive fixity. He signalled with his eyes to Flora towards the -door of the state-room fitted specially to receive Mr. Smith, the free -man. She seized the free man's hat off the table and took him -caressingly under the arm. "Yes! This is home, come and see your room, -papa!" - -Anthony himself threw open the door and Flora took care to shut it -carefully behind herself and her father. "See," she began but desisted -because it was clear that he would look at none of the contrivances for -his comfort. She herself had hardly seen them before. He was looking -only at the new carpet and she waited till he should raise his eyes. - -He didn't do that but spoke in his usual voice. "So this is your -husband, that . . . And I locked up!" - -"Papa, what's the good of harping on that," she remonstrated no louder. -"He is kind." - -"And you went and . . . married him so that he should be kind to me. Is -that it? How did you know that I wanted anybody to be kind to me?" - -"How strange you are!" she said thoughtfully. - -"It's hard for a man who has gone through what I have gone through to -feel like other people. Has that occurred to you? . . . " He looked up -at last . . . "Mrs. Anthony, I can't bear the sight of the fellow." She -met his eyes without flinching and he added, "You want to go to him now." -His mild automatic manner seemed the effect of tremendous -self-restraint--and yet she remembered him always like that. She felt -cold all over. - -"Why, of course, I must go to him," she said with a slight start. - -He gnashed his teeth at her and she went out. - -Anthony had not moved from the spot. One of his hands was resting on the -table. She went up to him, stopped, then deliberately moved still -closer. "Thank you, Roderick." - -"You needn't thank me," he murmured. "It's I who . . . " - -"No, perhaps I needn't. You do what you like. But you are doing it -well." - -He sighed then hardly above a whisper because they were near the state- -room door, "Upset, eh?" - -She made no sign, no sound of any kind. The thorough falseness of the -position weighed on them both. But he was the braver of the two. "I -dare say. At first. Did you think of telling him you were happy?" - -"He never asked me," she smiled faintly at him. She was disappointed by -his quietness. "I did not say more than I was absolutely obliged to -say--of myself." She was beginning to be irritated with this man a -little. "I told him I had been very lucky," she said suddenly -despondent, missing Anthony's masterful manner, that something arbitrary -and tender which, after the first scare, she had accustomed herself to -look forward to with pleasurable apprehension. He was contemplating her -rather blankly. She had not taken off her outdoor things, hat, gloves. -She was like a caller. And she had a movement suggesting the end of a -not very satisfactory business call. "Perhaps it would be just as well -if we went ashore. Time yet." - -He gave her a glimpse of his unconstrained self in the low vehement "You -dare!" which sprang to his lips and out of them with a most menacing -inflexion. - -"You dare . . . What's the matter now?" - -These last words were shot out not at her but at some target behind her -back. Looking over her shoulder she saw the bald head with black bunches -of hair of the congested and devoted Franklin (he had his cap in his -hand) gazing sentimentally from the saloon doorway with his lobster eyes. -He was heard from the distance in a tone of injured innocence reporting -that the berthing master was alongside and that he wanted to move the -ship into the basin before the crew came on board. - -His captain growled "Well, let him," and waved away the ulcerated and -pathetic soul behind these prominent eyes which lingered on the offensive -woman while the mate backed out slowly. Anthony turned to Flora. - -"You could not have meant it. You are as straight as they make them." - -"I am trying to be." - -"Then don't joke in that way. Think of what would become of--me." - -"Oh yes. I forgot. No, I didn't mean it. It wasn't a joke. It was -forgetfulness. You wouldn't have been wronged. I couldn't have gone. -I--I am too tired." - -He saw she was swaying where she stood and restrained himself violently -from taking her into his arms, his frame trembling with fear as though he -had been tempted to an act of unparalleled treachery. He stepped aside -and lowering his eyes pointed to the door of the stern-cabin. It was -only after she passed by him that he looked up and thus he did not see -the angry glance she gave him before she moved on. He looked after her. -She tottered slightly just before reaching the door and flung it to -behind her nervously. - -Anthony--he had felt this crash as if the door had been slammed inside -his very breast--stood for a moment without moving and then shouted for -Mrs. Brown. This was the steward's wife, his lucky inspiration to make -Flora comfortable. "Mrs. Brown! Mrs. Brown!" At last she appeared from -somewhere. "Mrs. Anthony has come on board. Just gone into the cabin. -Hadn't you better see if you can be of any assistance?" - -"Yes, sir." - -And again he was alone with the situation he had created in the hardihood -and inexperience of his heart. He thought he had better go on deck. In -fact he ought to have been there before. At any rate it would be the -usual thing for him to be on deck. But a sound of muttering and of faint -thuds somewhere near by arrested his attention. They proceeded from Mr. -Smith's room, he perceived. It was very extraordinary. "He's talking to -himself," he thought. "He seems to be thumping the bulkhead with his -fists--or his head." - -Anthony's eyes grew big with wonder while he listened to these noises. He -became so attentive that he did not notice Mrs. Brown till she actually -stopped before him for a moment to say: - -"Mrs. Anthony doesn't want any assistance, sir." - -* * * * * - -This was you understand the voyage before Mr. Powell--young Powell -then--joined the _Ferndale_; chance having arranged that he should get -his start in life in that particular ship of all the ships then in the -port of London. The most unrestful ship that ever sailed out of any port -on earth. I am not alluding to her sea-going qualities. Mr. Powell -tells me she was as steady as a church. I mean unrestful in the sense, -for instance in which this planet of ours is unrestful--a matter of an -uneasy atmosphere disturbed by passions, jealousies, loves, hates and the -troubles of transcendental good intentions, which, though ethically -valuable, I have no doubt cause often more unhappiness than the plots of -the most evil tendency. For those who refuse to believe in chance he, I -mean Mr. Powell, must have been obviously predestined to add his native -ingenuousness to the sum of all the others carried by the honest ship -_Ferndale_. He was too ingenuous. Everybody on board was, exception -being made of Mr. Smith who, however, was simple enough in his way, with -that terrible simplicity of the fixed idea, for which there is also -another name men pronounce with dread and aversion. His fixed idea was -to save his girl from the man who had possessed himself of her (I use -these words on purpose because the image they suggest was clearly in Mr. -Smith's mind), possessed himself unfairly of her while he, the father, -was locked up. - -"I won't rest till I have got you away from that man," he would murmur to -her after long periods of contemplation. We know from Powell how he used -to sit on the skylight near the long deck-chair on which Flora was -reclining, gazing into her face from above with an air of guardianship -and investigation at the same time. - -It is almost impossible to say if he ever had considered the event -rationally. The avatar of de Barral into Mr. Smith had not been effected -without a shock--that much one must recognize. It may be that it drove -all practical considerations out of his mind, making room for awful and -precise visions which nothing could dislodge afterwards. - -And it might have been the tenacity, the unintelligent tenacity, of the -man who had persisted in throwing millions of other people's thrift into -the Lone Valley Railway, the Labrador Docks, the Spotted Leopard Copper -Mine, and other grotesque speculations exposed during the famous de -Barral trial, amongst murmurs of astonishment mingled with bursts of -laughter. For it is in the Courts of Law that Comedy finds its last -refuge in our deadly serious world. As to tears and lamentations, these -were not heard in the august precincts of comedy, because they were -indulged in privately in several thousand homes, where, with a fine -dramatic effect, hunger had taken the place of Thrift. - -But there was one at least who did not laugh in court. That person was -the accused. The notorious de Barral did not laugh because he was -indignant. He was impervious to words, to facts, to inferences. It -would have been impossible to make him see his guilt or his folly--either -by evidence or argument--if anybody had tried to argue. - -Neither did his daughter Flora try to argue with him. The cruelty of her -position was so great, its complications so thorny, if I may express -myself so, that a passive attitude was yet her best refuge--as it had -been before her of so many women. - -For that sort of inertia in woman is always enigmatic and therefore -menacing. It makes one pause. A woman may be a fool, a sleepy fool, an -agitated fool, a too awfully noxious fool, and she may even be simply -stupid. But she is never dense. She's never made of wood through and -through as some men are. There is in woman always, somewhere, a spring. -Whatever men don't know about women (and it may be a lot or it may be -very little) men and even fathers do know that much. And that is why so -many men are afraid of them. - -Mr. Smith I believe was afraid of his daughter's quietness though of -course he interpreted it in his own way. - -He would, as Mr. Powell depicts, sit on the skylight and bend over the -reclining girl, wondering what there was behind the lost gaze under the -darkened eyelids in the still eyes. He would look and look and then he -would say, whisper rather, it didn't take much for his voice to drop to a -mere breath--he would declare, transferring his faded stare to the -horizon, that he would never rest till he had "got her away from that -man." - -"You don't know what you are saying, papa." - -She would try not to show her weariness, the nervous strain of these two -men's antagonism around her person which was the cause of her languid -attitudes. For as a matter of fact the sea agreed with her. - -As likely as not Anthony would be walking on the other side of the deck. -The strain was making him restless. He couldn't sit still anywhere. He -had tried shutting himself up in his cabin; but that was no good. He -would jump up to rush on deck and tramp, tramp up and down that poop till -he felt ready to drop, without being able to wear down the agitation of -his soul, generous indeed, but weighted by its envelope of blood and -muscle and bone; handicapped by the brain creating precise images and -everlastingly speculating, speculating--looking out for signs, watching -for symptoms. - -And Mr. Smith with a slight backward jerk of his small head at the -footsteps on the other side of the skylight would insist in his awful, -hopelessly gentle voice that he knew very well what he was saying. Hadn't -she given herself to that man while he was locked up. - -"Helpless, in jail, with no one to think of, nothing to look forward to, -but my daughter. And then when they let me out at last I find her -gone--for it amounts to this. Sold. Because you've sold yourself; you -know you have." - -With his round unmoved face, a lot of fine white hair waving in the wind- -eddies of the spanker, his glance levelled over the sea he seemed to be -addressing the universe across her reclining form. She would protest -sometimes. - -"I wish you would not talk like this, papa. You are only tormenting me, -and tormenting yourself." - -"Yes, I am tormented enough," he admitted meaningly. But it was not -talking about it that tormented him. It was thinking of it. And to sit -and look at it was worse for him than it possibly could have been for her -to go and give herself up, bad as that must have been. - -"For of course you suffered. Don't tell me you didn't? You must have." - -She had renounced very soon all attempts at protests. It was useless. It -might have made things worse; and she did not want to quarrel with her -father, the only human being that really cared for her, absolutely, -evidently, completely--to the end. There was in him no pity, no -generosity, nothing whatever of these fine things--it was for her, for -her very own self such as it was, that this human being cared. This -certitude would have made her put up with worse torments. For, of -course, she too was being tormented. She felt also helpless, as if the -whole enterprise had been too much for her. This is the sort of -conviction which makes for quietude. She was becoming a fatalist. - -What must have been rather appalling were the necessities of daily life, -the intercourse of current trifles. That naturally had to go on. They -wished good morning to each other, they sat down together to meals--and I -believe there would be a game of cards now and then in the evening, -especially at first. What frightened her most was the duplicity of her -father, at least what looked like duplicity, when she remembered his -persistent, insistent whispers on deck. However her father was a -taciturn person as far back as she could remember him best--on the -Parade. It was she who chattered, never troubling herself to discover -whether he was pleased or displeased. And now she couldn't fathom his -thoughts. Neither did she chatter to him. Anthony with a forced -friendly smile as if frozen to his lips seemed only too thankful at not -being made to speak. Mr. Smith sometimes forgot himself while studying -his hand so long that Flora had to recall him to himself by a murmured -"Papa--your lead." Then he apologized by a faint as if inward -ejaculation "Beg your pardon, Captain." Naturally she addressed Anthony -as Roderick and he addressed her as Flora. This was all the acting that -was necessary to judge from the wincing twitch of the old man's mouth at -every uttered "Flora." On hearing the rare "Rodericks" he had sometimes -a scornful grimace as faint and faded and colourless as his whole stiff -personality. - -He would be the first to retire. He was not infirm. With him too the -life on board ship seemed to agree; but from a sense of duty, of -affection, or to placate his hidden fury, his daughter always accompanied -him to his state-room "to make him comfortable." She lighted his lamp, -helped him into his dressing-gown or got him a book from a bookcase -fitted in there--but this last rarely, because Mr. Smith used to declare -"I am no reader" with something like pride in his low tones. Very often -after kissing her good-night on the forehead he would treat her to some -such fretful remark: "It's like being in jail--'pon my word. I suppose -that man is out there waiting for you. Head jailer! Ough!" - -She would smile vaguely; murmur a conciliatory "How absurd." But once, -out of patience, she said quite sharply "Leave off. It hurts me. One -would think you hate me." - -"It isn't you I hate," he went on monotonously breathing at her. "No, it -isn't you. But if I saw that you loved that man I think I could hate you -too." - -That word struck straight at her heart. "You wouldn't be the first -then," she muttered bitterly. But he was busy with his fixed idea and -uttered an awfully equable "But you don't! Unfortunate girl!" - -She looked at him steadily for a time then said "Good-night, papa." - -As a matter of fact Anthony very seldom waited for her alone at the table -with the scattered cards, glasses, water-jug, bottles and soon. He took -no more opportunities to be alone with her than was absolutely necessary -for the edification of Mrs. Brown. Excellent, faithful woman; the wife -of his still more excellent and faithful steward. And Flora wished all -these excellent people, devoted to Anthony, she wished them all further; -and especially the nice, pleasant-spoken Mrs. Brown with her beady, -mobile eyes and her "Yes certainly, ma'am," which seemed to her to have a -mocking sound. And so this short trip--to the Western Islands only--came -to an end. It was so short that when young Powell joined the _Ferndale_ -by a memorable stroke of chance, no more than seven months had elapsed -since the--let us say the liberation of the convict de Barral and his -avatar into Mr. Smith. - -* * * * * - -For the time the ship was loading in London Anthony took a cottage near a -little country station in Essex, to house Mr. Smith and Mr. Smith's -daughter. It was altogether his idea. How far it was necessary for Mr. -Smith to seek rural retreat I don't know. Perhaps to some extent it was -a judicious arrangement. There were some obligations incumbent on the -liberated de Barral (in connection with reporting himself to the police I -imagine) which Mr. Smith was not anxious to perform. De Barral had to -vanish; the theory was that de Barral had vanished, and it had to be -upheld. Poor Flora liked the country, even if the spot had nothing more -to recommend it than its retired character. - -Now and then Captain Anthony ran down; but as the station was a real -wayside one, with no early morning trains up, he could never stay for -more than the afternoon. It appeared that he must sleep in town so as to -be early on board his ship. The weather was magnificent and whenever the -captain of the _Ferndale_ was seen on a brilliant afternoon coming down -the road Mr. Smith would seize his stick and toddle off for a solitary -walk. But whether he would get tired or because it gave him some -satisfaction to see "that man" go away--or for some cunning reason of his -own, he was always back before the hour of Anthony's departure. On -approaching the cottage he would see generally "that man" lying on the -grass in the orchard at some distance from his daughter seated in a chair -brought out of the cottage's living room. Invariably Mr. Smith made -straight for them and as invariably had the feeling that his approach was -not disturbing a very intimate conversation. He sat with them, through a -silent hour or so, and then it would be time for Anthony to go. Mr. -Smith, perhaps from discretion, would casually vanish a minute or so -before, and then watch through the diamond panes of an upstairs room -"that man" take a lingering look outside the gate at the invisible Flora, -lift his hat, like a caller, and go off down the road. Then only Mr. -Smith would join his daughter again. - -These were the bad moments for her. Not always, of course, but -frequently. It was nothing extraordinary to hear Mr. Smith begin gently -with some observation like this: - -"That man is getting tired of you." - -He would never pronounce Anthony's name. It was always "that man." - -Generally she would remain mute with wide open eyes gazing at nothing -between the gnarled fruit trees. Once, however, she got up and walked -into the cottage. Mr. Smith followed her carrying the chair. He banged -it down resolutely and in that smooth inexpressive tone so many ears used -to bend eagerly to catch when it came from the Great de Barral he said: - -"Let's get away." - -She had the strength of mind not to spin round. On the contrary she went -on to a shabby bit of a mirror on the wall. In the greenish glass her -own face looked far off like the livid face of a drowned corpse at the -bottom of a pool. She laughed faintly. - -"I tell you that man's getting--" - -"Papa," she interrupted him. "I have no illusions as to myself. It has -happened to me before but--" - -Her voice failing her suddenly her father struck in with quite an -unwonted animation. "Let's make a rush for it, then." - -Having mastered both her fright and her bitterness, she turned round, sat -down and allowed her astonishment to be seen. Mr. Smith sat down too, -his knees together and bent at right angles, his thin legs parallel to -each other and his hands resting on the arms of the wooden arm-chair. His -hair had grown long, his head was set stiffly, there was something -fatuously venerable in his aspect. - -"You can't care for him. Don't tell me. I understand your motive. And -I have called you an unfortunate girl. You are that as much as if you -had gone on the streets. Yes. Don't interrupt me, Flora. I was -everlastingly being interrupted at the trial and I can't stand it any -more. I won't be interrupted by my own child. And when I think that it -is on the very day before they let me out that you . . . " - -He had wormed this fact out of her by that time because Flora had got -tired of evading the question. He had been very much struck and -distressed. Was that the trust she had in him? Was that a proof of -confidence and love? The very day before! Never given him even half a -chance. It was as at the trial. They never gave him a chance. They -would not give him time. And there was his own daughter acting exactly -as his bitterest enemies had done. Not giving him time! - -The monotony of that subdued voice nearly lulled her dismay to sleep. She -listened to the unavoidable things he was saying. - -"But what induced that man to marry you? Of course he's a gentleman. One -can see that. And that makes it worse. Gentlemen don't understand -anything about city affairs--finance. Why!--the people who started the -cry after me were a firm of gentlemen. The counsel, the judge--all -gentlemen--quite out of it! No notion of . . . And then he's a sailor -too. Just a skipper--" - -"My grandfather was nothing else," she interrupted. And he made an -angular gesture of impatience. - -"Yes. But what does a silly sailor know of business? Nothing. No -conception. He can have no idea of what it means to be the daughter of -Mr. de Barral--even after his enemies had smashed him. What on earth -induced him--" - -She made a movement because the level voice was getting on her nerves. -And he paused, but only to go on again in the same tone with the remark: - -"Of course you are pretty. And that's why you are lost--like many other -poor girls. Unfortunate is the word for you." - -She said: "It may be. Perhaps it is the right word; but listen, papa. I -mean to be honest." - -He began to exhale more speeches. - -"Just the sort of man to get tired and then leave you and go off with his -beastly ship. And anyway you can never be happy with him. Look at his -face. I want to save you. You see I was not perhaps a very good husband -to your poor mother. She would have done better to have left me long -before she died. I have been thinking it all over. I won't have you -unhappy." - -He ran his eyes over her with an attention which was surprisingly -noticeable. Then said, "H'm! Yes. Let's clear out before it is too -late. Quietly, you and I." - -She said as if inspired and with that calmness which despair often gives: -"There is no money to go away with, papa." - -He rose up straightening himself as though he were a hinged figure. She -said decisively: - -"And of course you wouldn't think of deserting me, papa?" - -"Of course not," sounded his subdued tone. And he left her, gliding away -with his walk which Mr. Powell described to me as being as level and wary -as his voice. He walked as if he were carrying a glass full of water on -his head. - -Flora naturally said nothing to Anthony of that edifying conversation. -His generosity might have taken alarm at it and she did not want to be -left behind to manage her father alone. And moreover she was too honest. -She would be honest at whatever cost. She would not be the first to -speak. Never. And the thought came into her head: "I am indeed an -unfortunate creature!" - -It was by the merest coincidence that Anthony coming for the afternoon -two days later had a talk with Mr. Smith in the orchard. Flora for some -reason or other had left them for a moment; and Anthony took that -opportunity to be frank with Mr. Smith. He said: "It seems to me, sir, -that you think Flora has not done very well for herself. Well, as to -that I can't say anything. All I want you to know is that I have tried -to do the right thing." And then he explained that he had willed -everything he was possessed of to her. "She didn't tell you, I suppose?" - -Mr. Smith shook his head slightly. And Anthony, trying to be friendly, -was just saying that he proposed to keep the ship away from home for at -least two years. "I think, sir, that from every point of view it would -be best," when Flora came back and the conversation, cut short in that -direction, languished and died. Later in the evening, after Anthony had -been gone for hours, on the point of separating for the night, Mr. Smith -remarked suddenly to his daughter after a long period of brooding: - -"A will is nothing. One tears it up. One makes another." Then after -reflecting for a minute he added unemotionally: - -"One tells lies about it." - -Flora, patient, steeled against every hurt and every disgust to the point -of wondering at herself, said: "You push your dislike of--of--Roderick -too far, papa. You have no regard for me. You hurt me." - -He, as ever inexpressive to the point of terrifying her sometimes by the -contrast of his placidity and his words, turned away from her a pair of -faded eyes. - -"I wonder how far your dislike goes," he began. "His very name sticks in -your throat. I've noticed it. It hurts me. What do you think of that? -You might remember that you are not the only person that's hurt by your -folly, by your hastiness, by your recklessness." He brought back his -eyes to her face. "And the very day before they were going to let me -out." His feeble voice failed him altogether, the narrow compressed lips -only trembling for a time before he added with that extraordinary -equanimity of tone, "I call it sinful." - -Flora made no answer. She judged it simpler, kinder and certainly safer -to let him talk himself out. This, Mr. Smith, being naturally taciturn, -never took very long to do. And we must not imagine that this sort of -thing went on all the time. She had a few good days in that cottage. The -absence of Anthony was a relief and his visits were pleasurable. She was -quieter. He was quieter too. She was almost sorry when the time to join -the ship arrived. It was a moment of anguish, of excitement; they -arrived at the dock in the evening and Flora after "making her father -comfortable" according to established usage lingered in the state-room -long enough to notice that he was surprised. She caught his pale eyes -observing her quite stonily. Then she went out after a cheery -good-night. - -Contrary to her hopes she found Anthony yet in the saloon. Sitting in -his arm-chair at the head of the table he was picking up some business -papers which he put hastily in his breast pocket and got up. He asked -her if her day, travelling up to town and then doing some shopping, had -tired her. She shook her head. Then he wanted to know in a half-jocular -way how she felt about going away, and for a long voyage this time. - -"Does it matter how I feel?" she asked in a tone that cast a gloom over -his face. He answered with repressed violence which she did not expect: - -"No, it does not matter, because I cannot go without you. I've told you -. . . You know it. You don't think I could." - -"I assure you I haven't the slightest wish to evade my obligations," she -said steadily. "Even if I could. Even if I dared, even if I had to die -for it!" - -He looked thunderstruck. They stood facing each other at the end of the -saloon. Anthony stuttered. "Oh no. You won't die. You don't mean it. -You have taken kindly to the sea." - -She laughed, but she felt angry. - -"No, I don't mean it. I tell you I don't mean to evade my obligations. I -shall live on . . . feeling a little crushed, nevertheless." - -"Crushed!" he repeated. "What's crushing you?" - -"Your magnanimity," she said sharply. But her voice was softened after a -time. "Yet I don't know. There is a perfection in it--do you understand -me, Roderick?--which makes it almost possible to bear." - -He sighed, looked away, and remarked that it was time to put out the lamp -in the saloon. The permission was only till ten o'clock. - -"But you needn't mind that so much in your cabin. Just see that the -curtains of the ports are drawn close and that's all. The steward might -have forgotten to do it. He lighted your reading lamp in there before he -went ashore for a last evening with his wife. I don't know if it was -wise to get rid of Mrs. Brown. You will have to look after yourself, -Flora." - -He was quite anxious; but Flora as a matter of fact congratulated herself -on the absence of Mrs. Brown. No sooner had she closed the door of her -state-room than she murmured fervently, "Yes! Thank goodness, she is -gone." There would be no gentle knock, followed by her appearance with -her equivocal stare and the intolerable: "Can I do anything for you, -ma'am?" which poor Flora had learned to fear and hate more than any voice -or any words on board that ship--her only refuge from the world which had -no use for her, for her imperfections and for her troubles. - -* * * * * - -Mrs. Brown had been very much vexed at her dismissal. The Browns were a -childless couple and the arrangement had suited them perfectly. Their -resentment was very bitter. Mrs. Brown had to remain ashore alone with -her rage, but the steward was nursing his on board. Poor Flora had no -greater enemy, the aggrieved mate had no greater sympathizer. And Mrs. -Brown, with a woman's quick power of observation and inference (the -putting of two and two together) had come to a certain conclusion which -she had imparted to her husband before leaving the ship. The morose -steward permitted himself once to make an allusion to it in Powell's -hearing. It was in the officers' mess-room at the end of a meal while he -lingered after putting a fruit pie on the table. He and the chief mate -started a dialogue about the alarming change in the captain, the sallow -steward looking down with a sinister frown, Franklin rolling upwards his -eyes, sentimental in a red face. Young Powell had heard a lot of that -sort of thing by that time. It was growing monotonous; it had always -sounded to him a little absurd. He struck in impatiently with the remark -that such lamentations over a man merely because he had taken a wife -seemed to him like lunacy. - -Franklin muttered, "Depends on what the wife is up to." The steward -leaning against the bulkhead near the door glowered at Powell, that -newcomer, that ignoramus, that stranger without right or privileges. He -snarled: - -"Wife! Call her a wife, do you?" - -"What the devil do you mean by this?" exclaimed young Powell. - -"I know what I know. My old woman has not been six months on board for -nothing. You had better ask her when we get back." - -And meeting sullenly the withering stare of Mr. Powell the steward -retreated backwards. - -Our young friend turned at once upon the mate. "And you let that -confounded bottle-washer talk like this before you, Mr. Franklin. Well, -I am astonished." - -"Oh, it isn't what you think. It isn't what you think." Mr. Franklin -looked more apoplectic than ever. "If it comes to that I could astonish -you. But it's no use. I myself can hardly . . . You couldn't -understand. I hope you won't try to make mischief. There was a time, -young fellow, when I would have dared any man--any man, you hear?--to -make mischief between me and Captain Anthony. But not now. Not now. -There's a change! Not in me though . . . " - -Young Powell rejected with indignation any suggestion of making mischief. -"Who do you take me for?" he cried. "Only you had better tell that -steward to be careful what he says before me or I'll spoil his good looks -for him for a month and will leave him to explain the why of it to the -captain the best way he can." - -This speech established Powell as a champion of Mrs. Anthony. Nothing -more bearing on the question was ever said before him. He did not care -for the steward's black looks; Franklin, never conversational even at the -best of times and avoiding now the only topic near his heart, addressed -him only on matters of duty. And for that, too, Powell cared very -little. The woes of the apoplectic mate had begun to bore him long -before. Yet he felt lonely a bit at times. Therefore the little -intercourse with Mrs. Anthony either in one dog-watch or the other was -something to be looked forward to. The captain did not mind it. That -was evident from his manner. One night he inquired (they were then alone -on the poop) what they had been talking about that evening? Powell had -to confess that it was about the ship. Mrs. Anthony had been asking him -questions. - -"Takes interest--eh?" jerked out the captain moving rapidly up and down -the weather side of the poop. - -"Yes, sir. Mrs. Anthony seems to get hold wonderfully of what one's -telling her." - -"Sailor's granddaughter. One of the old school. Old sea-dog of the best -kind, I believe," ejaculated the captain, swinging past his motionless -second officer and leaving the words behind him like a trail of sparks -succeeded by a perfect conversational darkness, because, for the next two -hours till he left the deck, he didn't open his lips again. - -On another occasion . . . we mustn't forget that the ship had crossed the -line and was adding up south latitude every day by then . . . on another -occasion, about seven in the evening, Powell on duty, heard his name -uttered softly in the companion. The captain was on the stairs, thin- -faced, his eyes sunk, on his arm a Shetland wool wrap. - -"Mr. Powell--here." - -"Yes, sir." - -"Give this to Mrs. Anthony. Evenings are getting chilly." - -And the haggard face sank out of sight. Mrs. Anthony was surprised on -seeing the shawl. - -"The captain wants you to put this on," explained young Powell, and as -she raised herself in her seat he dropped it on her shoulders. She -wrapped herself up closely. - -"Where was the captain?" she asked. - -"He was in the companion. Called me on purpose," said Powell, and then -retreated discreetly, because she looked as though she didn't want to -talk any more that evening. Mr. Smith--the old gentleman--was as usual -sitting on the skylight near her head, brooding over the long chair but -by no means inimical, as far as his unreadable face went, to those -conversations of the two youngest people on board. In fact they seemed -to give him some pleasure. Now and then he would raise his faded china -eyes to the animated face of Mr. Powell thoughtfully. When the young -sailor was by, the old man became less rigid, and when his daughter, on -rare occasions, smiled at some artless tale of Mr. Powell, the -inexpressive face of Mr. Smith reflected dimly that flash of evanescent -mirth. For Mr. Powell had come now to entertain his captain's wife with -anecdotes from the not very distant past when he was a boy, on board -various ships,--funny things do happen on board ship. Flora was quite -surprised at times to find herself amused. She was even heard to laugh -twice in the course of a month. It was not a loud sound but it was -startling enough at the after-end of the _Ferndale_ where low tones or -silence were the rule. The second time this happened the captain himself -must have been startled somewhere down below; because he emerged from the -depths of his unobtrusive existence and began his tramping on the -opposite side of the poop. - -Almost immediately he called his young second officer over to him. This -was not done in displeasure. The glance he fastened on Mr. Powell -conveyed a sort of approving wonder. He engaged him in desultory -conversation as if for the only purpose of keeping a man who could -provoke such a sound, near his person. Mr. Powell felt himself liked. He -felt it. Liked by that haggard, restless man who threw at him -disconnected phrases to which his answers were, "Yes, sir," "No, sir," -"Oh, certainly," "I suppose so, sir,"--and might have been clearly -anything else for all the other cared. - -It was then, Mr. Powell told me, that he discovered in himself an already -old-established liking for Captain Anthony. He also felt sorry for him -without being able to discover the origins of that sympathy of which he -had become so suddenly aware. - -Meantime Mr. Smith, bending forward stiffly as though he had a hinged -back, was speaking to his daughter. - -She was a child no longer. He wanted to know if she believed in--in -hell. In eternal punishment? - -His peculiar voice, as if filtered through cotton-wool was inaudible on -the other side of the deck. Poor Flora, taken very much unawares, made -an inarticulate murmur, shook her head vaguely, and glanced in the -direction of the pacing Anthony who was not looking her way. It was no -use glancing in that direction. Of young Powell, leaning against the -mizzen-mast and facing his captain she could only see the shoulder and -part of a blue serge back. - -And the unworried, unaccented voice of her father went on tormenting her. - -"You see, you must understand. When I came out of jail it was with joy. -That is, my soul was fairly torn in two--but anyway to see you happy--I -had made up my mind to that. Once I could be sure that you were happy -then of course I would have had no reason to care for life--strictly -speaking--which is all right for an old man; though naturally . . . no -reason to wish for death either. But this sort of life! What sense, -what meaning, what value has it either for you or for me? It's just -sitting down to look at the death, that's coming, coming. What else is -it? I don't know how you can put up with that. I don't think you can -stand it for long. Some day you will jump overboard." - -Captain Anthony had stopped for a moment staring ahead from the break of -the poop, and poor Flora sent at his back a look of despairing appeal -which would have moved a heart of stone. But as though she had done -nothing he did not stir in the least. She got out of the long chair and -went towards the companion. Her father followed carrying a few small -objects, a handbag, her handkerchief, a book. They went down together. - -It was only then that Captain Anthony turned, looked at the place they -had vacated and resumed his tramping, but not his desultory conversation -with his second officer. His nervous exasperation had grown so much that -now very often he used to lose control of his voice. If he did not watch -himself it would suddenly die in his throat. He had to make sure before -he ventured on the simplest saying, an order, a remark on the wind, a -simple good-morning. That's why his utterance was abrupt, his answers to -people startlingly brusque and often not forthcoming at all. - -It happens to the most resolute of men to find himself at grips not only -with unknown forces, but with a well-known force the real might of which -he had not understood. Anthony had discovered that he was not the proud -master but the chafing captive of his generosity. It rose in front of -him like a wall which his respect for himself forbade him to scale. He -said to himself: "Yes, I was a fool--but she has trusted me!" Trusted! A -terrible word to any man somewhat exceptional in a world in which success -has never been found in renunciation and good faith. And it must also be -said, in order not to make Anthony more stupidly sublime than he was, -that the behaviour of Flora kept him at a distance. The girl was afraid -to add to the exasperation of her father. It was her unhappy lot to be -made more wretched by the only affection which she could not suspect. She -could not be angry with it, however, and out of deference for that -exaggerated sentiment she hardly dared to look otherwise than by stealth -at the man whose masterful compassion had carried her off. And quite -unable to understand the extent of Anthony's delicacy, she said to -herself that "he didn't care." He probably was beginning at bottom to -detest her--like the governess, like the maiden lady, like the German -woman, like Mrs. Fyne, like Mr. Fyne--only he was extraordinary, he was -generous. At the same time she had moments of irritation. He was -violent, headstrong--perhaps stupid. Well, he had had his way. - -A man who has had his way is seldom happy, for generally he finds that -the way does not lead very far on this earth of desires which can never -be fully satisfied. Anthony had entered with extreme precipitation the -enchanted gardens of Armida saying to himself "At last!" As to Armida, -herself, he was not going to offer her any violence. But now he had -discovered that all the enchantment was in Armida herself, in Armida's -smiles. This Armida did not smile. She existed, unapproachable, behind -the blank wall of his renunciation. His force, fit for action, -experienced the impatience, the indignation, almost the despair of his -vitality arrested, bound, stilled, progressively worn down, frittered -away by Time; by that force blind and insensible, which seems inert and -yet uses one's life up by its imperceptible action, dropping minute after -minute on one's living heart like drops of water wearing down a stone. - -He upbraided himself. What else could he have expected? He had rushed -in like a ruffian; he had dragged the poor defenceless thing by the hair -of her head, as it were, on board that ship. It was really atrocious. -Nothing assured him that his person could be attractive to this or any -other woman. And his proceedings were enough in themselves to make -anyone odious. He must have been bereft of his senses. She must fatally -detest and fear him. Nothing could make up for such brutality. And yet -somehow he resented this very attitude which seemed to him completely -justifiable. Surely he was not too monstrous (morally) to be looked at -frankly sometimes. But no! She wouldn't. Well, perhaps, some day . . . -Only he was not going ever to attempt to beg for forgiveness. With the -repulsion she felt for his person she would certainly misunderstand the -most guarded words, the most careful advances. Never! Never! - -It would occur to Anthony at the end of such meditations that death was -not an unfriendly visitor after all. No wonder then that even young -Powell, his faculties having been put on the alert, began to think that -there was something unusual about the man who had given him his chance in -life. Yes, decidedly, his captain was "strange." There was something -wrong somewhere, he said to himself, never guessing that his young and -candid eyes were in the presence of a passion profound, tyrannical and -mortal, discovering its own existence, astounded at feeling itself -helpless and dismayed at finding itself incurable. - -Powell had never before felt this mysterious uneasiness so strongly as on -that evening when it had been his good fortune to make Mrs. Anthony laugh -a little by his artless prattle. Standing out of the way, he had watched -his captain walk the weather-side of the poop, he took full cognizance of -his liking for that inexplicably strange man and saw him swerve towards -the companion and go down below with sympathetic if utterly -uncomprehending eyes. - -Shortly afterwards, Mr. Smith came up alone and manifested a desire for a -little conversation. He, too, if not so mysterious as the captain, was -not very comprehensible to Mr. Powell's uninformed candour. He often -favoured thus the second officer. His talk alluded somewhat -enigmatically and often without visible connection to Mr. Powell's -friendliness towards himself and his daughter. "For I am well aware that -we have no friends on board this ship, my dear young man," he would add, -"except yourself. Flora feels that too." - -And Mr. Powell, flattered and embarrassed, could but emit a vague murmur -of protest. For the statement was true in a sense, though the fact was -in itself insignificant. The feelings of the ship's company could not -possibly matter to the captain's wife and to Mr. Smith--her father. Why -the latter should so often allude to it was what surprised our Mr. -Powell. This was by no means the first occasion. More like the -twentieth rather. And in his weak voice, with his monotonous intonation, -leaning over the rail and looking at the water the other continued this -conversation, or rather his remarks, remarks of such a monstrous nature -that Mr. Powell had no option but to accept them for gruesome jesting. - -"For instance," said Mr. Smith, "that mate, Franklin, I believe he would -just as soon see us both overboard as not." - -"It's not so bad as that," laughed Mr. Powell, feeling uncomfortable, -because his mind did not accommodate itself easily to exaggeration of -statement. "He isn't a bad chap really," he added, very conscious of Mr. -Franklin's offensive manner of which instances were not far to seek. -"He's such a fool as to be jealous. He has been with the captain for -years. It's not for me to say, perhaps, but I think the captain has -spoiled all that gang of old servants. They are like a lot of pet old -dogs. Wouldn't let anybody come near him if they could help it. I've -never seen anything like it. And the second mate, I believe, was like -that too." - -"Well, he isn't here, luckily. There would have been one more enemy," -said Mr. Smith. "There's enough of them without him. And you being here -instead of him makes it much more pleasant for my daughter and myself. -One feels there may be a friend in need. For really, for a woman all -alone on board ship amongst a lot of unfriendly men . . . " - -"But Mrs Anthony is not alone," exclaimed Powell. "There's you, and -there's the . . . " - -Mr. Smith interrupted him. - -"Nobody's immortal. And there are times when one feels ashamed to live. -Such an evening as this for instance." - -It was a lovely evening; the colours of a splendid sunset had died out -and the breath of a warm breeze seemed to have smoothed out the sea. Away -to the south the sheet lightning was like the flashing of an enormous -lantern hidden under the horizon. In order to change the conversation -Mr. Powell said: - -"Anyway no one can charge you with being a Jonah, Mr. Smith. We have had -a magnificent quick passage so far. The captain ought to be pleased. And -I suppose you are not sorry either." - -This diversion was not successful. Mr. Smith emitted a sort of bitter -chuckle and said: "Jonah! That's the fellow that was thrown overboard by -some sailors. It seems to me it's very easy at sea to get rid of a -person one does not like. The sea does not give up its dead as the earth -does." - -"You forget the whale, sir," said young Powell. - -Mr. Smith gave a start. "Eh? What whale? Oh! Jonah. I wasn't -thinking of Jonah. I was thinking of this passage which seems so quick -to you. But only think what it is to me? It isn't a life, going about -the sea like this. And, for instance, if one were to fall ill, there -isn't a doctor to find out what's the matter with one. It's worrying. It -makes me anxious at times." - -"Is Mrs. Anthony not feeling well?" asked Powell. But Mr. Smith's remark -was not meant for Mrs. Anthony. She was well. He himself was well. It -was the captain's health that did not seem quite satisfactory. Had Mr. -Powell noticed his appearance? - -Mr. Powell didn't know enough of the captain to judge. He couldn't tell. -But he observed thoughtfully that Mr. Franklin had been saying the same -thing. And Franklin had known the captain for years. The mate was quite -worried about it. - -This intelligence startled Mr. Smith considerably. "Does he think he is -in danger of dying?" he exclaimed with an animation quite extraordinary -for him, which horrified Mr. Powell. - -"Heavens! Die! No! Don't you alarm yourself, sir. I've never heard a -word about danger from Mr. Franklin." - -"Well, well," sighed Mr. Smith and left the poop for the saloon rather -abruptly. - -As a matter of fact Mr. Franklin had been on deck for some considerable -time. He had come to relieve young Powell; but seeing him engaged in -talk with the "enemy"--with one of the "enemies" at least--had kept at a -distance, which, the poop of the _Ferndale_ being aver seventy feet long, -he had no difficulty in doing. Mr. Powell saw him at the head of the -ladder leaning on his elbow, melancholy and silent. "Oh! Here you are, -sir." - -"Here I am. Here I've been ever since six o'clock. Didn't want to -interrupt the pleasant conversation. If you like to put in half of your -watch below jawing with a dear friend, that's not my affair. Funny taste -though." - -"He isn't a bad chap," said the impartial Powell. - -The mate snorted angrily, tapping the deck with his foot; then: "Isn't -he? Well, give him my love when you come together again for another nice -long yarn." - -"I say, Mr. Franklin, I wonder the captain don't take offence at your -manners." - -"The captain. I wish to goodness he would start a row with me. Then I -should know at least I am somebody on board. I'd welcome it, Mr. Powell. -I'd rejoice. And dam' me I would talk back too till I roused him. He's -a shadow of himself. He walks about his ship like a ghost. He's fading -away right before our eyes. But of course you don't see. You don't care -a hang. Why should you?" - -Mr. Powell did not wait for more. He went down on the main deck. Without -taking the mate's jeremiads seriously he put them beside the words of Mr. -Smith. He had grown already attached to Captain Anthony. There was -something not only attractive but compelling in the man. Only it is very -difficult for youth to believe in the menace of death. Not in the fact -itself, but in its proximity to a breathing, moving, talking, superior -human being, showing no sign of disease. And Mr. Powell thought that -this talk was all nonsense. But his curiosity was awakened. There was -something, and at any time some circumstance might occur . . . No, he -would never find out . . . There was nothing to find out, most likely. -Mr. Powell went to his room where he tried to read a book he had already -read a good many times. Presently a bell rang for the officers' supper. - - - -CHAPTER SIX--. . . A MOONLESS NIGHT, THICK WITH STARS ABOVE, VERY DARK ON -THE WATER - - -In the mess-room Powell found Mr. Franklin hacking at a piece of cold -salt beef with a table knife. The mate, fiery in the face and rolling -his eyes over that task, explained that the carver belonging to the mess- -room could not be found. The steward, present also, complained savagely -of the cook. The fellow got things into his galley and then lost them. -Mr. Franklin tried to pacify him with mournful firmness. - -"There, there! That will do. We who have been all these years together -in the ship have other things to think about than quarrelling among -ourselves." - -Mr. Powell thought with exasperation: "Here he goes again," for this -utterance had nothing cryptic for him. The steward having withdrawn -morosely, he was not surprised to hear the mate strike the usual note. -That morning the mizzen topsail tie had carried away (probably a -defective link) and something like forty feet of chain and wire-rope, -mixed up with a few heavy iron blocks, had crashed down from aloft on the -poop with a terrifying racket. - -"Did you notice the captain then, Mr. Powell. Did you notice?" - -Powell confessed frankly that he was too scared himself when all that lot -of gear came down on deck to notice anything. - -"The gin-block missed his head by an inch," went on the mate -impressively. "I wasn't three feet from him. And what did he do? Did -he shout, or jump, or even look aloft to see if the yard wasn't coming -down too about our ears in a dozen pieces? It's a marvel it didn't. No, -he just stopped short--no wonder; he must have felt the wind of that iron -gin-block on his face--looked down at it, there, lying close to his -foot--and went on again. I believe he didn't even blink. It isn't -natural. The man is stupefied." - -He sighed ridiculously and Mr. Powell had suppressed a grin, when the -mate added as if he couldn't contain himself: - -"He will be taking to drink next. Mark my words. That's the next -thing." - -Mr. Powell was disgusted. - -"You are so fond of the captain and yet you don't seem to care what you -say about him. I haven't been with him for seven years, but I know he -isn't the sort of man that takes to drink. And then--why the devil -should he?" - -"Why the devil, you ask. Devil--eh? Well, no man is safe from the -devil--and that's answer enough for you," wheezed Mr. Franklin not -unkindly. "There was a time, a long time ago, when I nearly took to -drink myself. What do you say to that?" - -Mr. Powell expressed a polite incredulity. The thick, congested mate -seemed on the point of bursting with despondency. "That was bad example -though. I was young and fell into dangerous company, made a fool of -myself--yes, as true as you see me sitting here. Drank to forget. -Thought it a great dodge." - -Powell looked at the grotesque Franklin with awakened interest and with -that half-amused sympathy with which we receive unprovoked confidences -from men with whom we have no sort of affinity. And at the same time he -began to look upon him more seriously. Experience has its prestige. And -the mate continued: - -"If it hadn't been for the old lady, I would have gone to the devil. I -remembered her in time. Nothing like having an old lady to look after to -steady a chap and make him face things. But as bad luck would have it, -Captain Anthony has no mother living, not a blessed soul belonging to him -as far as I know. Oh, aye, I fancy he said once something to me of a -sister. But she's married. She don't need him. Yes. In the old days -he used to talk to me as if we had been brothers," exaggerated the mate -sentimentally. "'Franklin,'--he would say--'this ship is my nearest -relation and she isn't likely to turn against me. And I suppose you are -the man I've known the longest in the world.' That's how he used to -speak to me. Can I turn my back on him? He has turned his back on his -ship; that's what it has come to. He has no one now but his old -Franklin. But what's a fellow to do to put things back as they were and -should be. Should be--I say!" - -His starting eyes had a terrible fixity. Mr. Powell's irresistible -thought, "he resembles a boiled lobster in distress," was followed by -annoyance. "Good Lord," he said, "you don't mean to hint that Captain -Anthony has fallen into bad company. What is it you want to save him -from?" - -"I do mean it," affirmed the mate, and the very absurdity of the -statement made it impressive--because it seemed so absolutely audacious. -"Well, you have a cheek," said young Powell, feeling mentally helpless. -"I have a notion the captain would half kill you if he were to know how -you carry on." - -"And welcome," uttered the fervently devoted Franklin. "I am willing, if -he would only clear the ship afterwards of that . . . You are but a -youngster and you may go and tell him what you like. Let him knock the -stuffing out of his old Franklin first and think it over afterwards. -Anything to pull him together. But of course you wouldn't. You are all -right. Only you don't know that things are sometimes different from what -they look. There are friendships that are no friendships, and marriages -that are no marriages. Phoo! Likely to be right--wasn't it? Never a -hint to me. I go off on leave and when I come back, there it is--all -over, settled! Not a word beforehand. No warning. If only: 'What do -you think of it, Franklin?'--or anything of the sort. And that's a man -who hardly ever did anything without asking my advice. Why! He couldn't -take over a new coat from the tailor without . . . first thing, directly -the fellow came on board with some new clothes, whether in London or in -China, it would be: 'Pass the word along there for Mr. Franklin. Mr. -Franklin wanted in the cabin.' In I would go. 'Just look at my back, -Franklin. Fits all right, doesn't it?' And I would say: 'First rate, -sir,' or whatever was the truth of it. That or anything else. Always -the truth of it. Always. And well he knew it; and that's why he dared -not speak right out. Talking about workmen, alterations, cabins . . . -Phoo! . . . instead of a straightforward--'Wish me joy, Mr. Franklin!' -Yes, that was the way to let me know. God only knows what they -are--perhaps she isn't his daughter any more than she is . . . She -doesn't resemble that old fellow. Not a bit. Not a bit. It's very -awful. You may well open your mouth, young man. But for goodness' sake, -you who are mixed up with that lot, keep your eyes and ears open too in -case--in case of . . . I don't know what. Anything. One wonders what -can happen here at sea! Nothing. Yet when a man is called a jailer -behind his back." - -Mr. Franklin hid his face in his hands for a moment and Powell shut his -mouth, which indeed had been open. He slipped out of the mess-room -noiselessly. "The mate's crazy," he thought. It was his firm -conviction. Nevertheless, that evening, he felt his inner tranquillity -disturbed at last by the force and obstinacy of this craze. He couldn't -dismiss it with the contempt it deserved. Had the word "jailer" really -been pronounced? A strange word for the mate to even _imagine_ he had -heard. A senseless, unlikely word. But this word being the only clear -and definite statement in these grotesque and dismal ravings was -comparatively restful to his mind. Powell's mind rested on it still when -he came up at eight o'clock to take charge of the deck. It was a -moonless night, thick with stars above, very dark on the water. A steady -air from the west kept the sails asleep. Franklin mustered both watches -in low tones as if for a funeral, then approaching Powell: - -"The course is east-south-east," said the chief mate distinctly. - -"East-south-east, sir." - -"Everything's set, Mr. Powell." - -"All right, sir." - -The other lingered, his sentimental eyes gleamed silvery in the shadowy -face. "A quiet night before us. I don't know that there are any special -orders. A settled, quiet night. I dare say you won't see the captain. -Once upon a time this was the watch he used to come up and start a chat -with either of us then on deck. But now he sits in that infernal stern- -cabin and mopes. Jailer--eh?" - -Mr. Powell walked away from the mate and when at some distance said, -"Damn!" quite heartily. It was a confounded nuisance. It had ceased to -be funny; that hostile word "jailer" had given the situation an air of -reality. - -* * * * * - -Franklin's grotesque mortal envelope had disappeared from the poop to -seek its needful repose, if only the worried soul would let it rest a -while. Mr. Powell, half sorry for the thick little man, wondered whether -it would let him. For himself, he recognized that the charm of a quiet -watch on deck when one may let one's thoughts roam in space and time had -been spoiled without remedy. What shocked him most was the implied -aspersion of complicity on Mrs. Anthony. It angered him. In his own -words to me, he felt very "enthusiastic" about Mrs. Anthony. -"Enthusiastic" is good; especially as he couldn't exactly explain to me -what he meant by it. But he felt enthusiastic, he says. That silly -Franklin must have been dreaming. That was it. He had dreamed it all. -Ass. Yet the injurious word stuck in Powell's mind with its associated -ideas of prisoner, of escape. He became very uncomfortable. And just -then (it might have been half an hour or more since he had relieved -Franklin) just then Mr. Smith came up on the poop alone, like a gliding -shadow and leaned over the rail by his side. Young Powell was affected -disagreeably by his presence. He made a movement to go away but the -other began to talk--and Powell remained where he was as if retained by a -mysterious compulsion. The conversation started by Mr. Smith had nothing -peculiar. He began to talk of mail-boats in general and in the end -seemed anxious to discover what were the services from Port Elizabeth to -London. Mr. Powell did not know for certain but imagined that there must -be communication with England at least twice a month. "Are you thinking -of leaving us, sir; of going home by steam? Perhaps with Mrs. Anthony," -he asked anxiously. - -"No! No! How can I?" Mr. Smith got quite agitated, for him, which did -not amount to much. He was just asking for the sake of something to talk -about. No idea at all of going home. One could not always do what one -wanted and that's why there were moments when one felt ashamed to live. -This did not mean that one did not want to live. Oh no! - -He spoke with careless slowness, pausing frequently and in such a low -voice that Powell had to strain his hearing to catch the phrases dropped -overboard as it were. And indeed they seemed not worth the effort. It -was like the aimless talk of a man pursuing a secret train of thought far -removed from the idle words we so often utter only to keep in touch with -our fellow beings. An hour passed. It seemed as though Mr. Smith could -not make up his mind to go below. He repeated himself. Again he spoke -of lives which one was ashamed of. It was necessary to put up with such -lives as long as there was no way out, no possible issue. He even -alluded once more to mail-boat services on the East coast of Africa and -young Powell had to tell him once more that he knew nothing about them. - -"Every fortnight, I thought you said," insisted Mr. Smith. He stirred, -seemed to detach himself from the rail with difficulty. His long, -slender figure straightened into stiffness, as if hostile to the -enveloping soft peace of air and sea and sky, emitted into the night a -weak murmur which Mr. Powell fancied was the word, "Abominable" repeated -three times, but which passed into the faintly louder declaration: "The -moment has come--to go to bed," followed by a just audible sigh. - -"I sleep very well," added Mr. Smith in his restrained tone. "But it is -the moment one opens one's eyes that is horrible at sea. These days! Oh, -these days! I wonder how anybody can . . . " - -"I like the life," observed Mr. Powell. - -"Oh, you. You have only yourself to think of. You have made your bed. -Well, it's very pleasant to feel that you are friendly to us. My -daughter has taken quite a liking to you, Mr. Powell." - -He murmured, "Good-night" and glided away rigidly. Young Powell asked -himself with some distaste what was the meaning of these utterances. His -mind had been worried at last into that questioning attitude by no other -person than the grotesque Franklin. Suspicion was not natural to him. -And he took good care to carefully separate in his thoughts Mrs. Anthony -from this man of enigmatic words--her father. Presently he observed that -the sheen of the two deck dead-lights of Mr. Smith's room had gone out. -The old gentleman had been surprisingly quick in getting into bed. -Shortly afterwards the lamp in the foremost skylight of the saloon was -turned out; and this was the sign that the steward had taken in the tray -and had retired for the night. - -Young Powell had settled down to the regular officer-of-the-watch tramp -in the dense shadow of the world decorated with stars high above his -head, and on earth only a few gleams of light about the ship. The lamp -in the after skylight was kept burning through the night. There were -also the dead-lights of the stern-cabins glimmering dully in the deck far -aft, catching his eye when he turned to walk that way. The brasses of -the wheel glittered too, with the dimly lit figure of the man detached, -as if phosphorescent, against the black and spangled background of the -horizon. - -Young Powell, in the silence of the ship, reinforced by the great silent -stillness of the world, said to himself that there was something -mysterious in such beings as the absurd Franklin, and even in such beings -as himself. It was a strange and almost improper thought to occur to the -officer of the watch of a ship on the high seas on no matter how quiet a -night. Why on earth was he bothering his head? Why couldn't he dismiss -all these people from his mind? It was as if the mate had infected him -with his own diseased devotion. He would not have believed it possible -that he should be so foolish. But he was--clearly. He was foolish in a -way totally unforeseen by himself. Pushing this self-analysis further, -he reflected that the springs of his conduct were just as obscure. - -"I may be catching myself any time doing things of which I have no -conception," he thought. And as he was passing near the mizzen-mast he -perceived a coil of rope left lying on the deck by the oversight of the -sweepers. By an impulse which had nothing mysterious in it, he stooped -as he went by with the intention of picking it up and hanging it up on -its proper pin. This movement brought his head down to the level of the -glazed end of the after skylight--the lighted skylight of the most -private part of the saloon, consecrated to the exclusiveness of Captain -Anthony's married life; the part, let me remind you, cut off from the -rest of that forbidden space by a pair of heavy curtains. I mention -these curtains because at this point Mr. Powell himself recalled the -existence of that unusual arrangement to my mind. - -He recalled them with simple-minded compunction at that distance of time. -He said: "You understand that directly I stooped to pick up that coil of -running gear--the spanker foot-outhaul, it was--I perceived that I could -see right into that part of the saloon the curtains were meant to make -particularly private. Do you understand me?" he insisted. - -I told him that I understood; and he proceeded to call my attention to -the wonderful linking up of small facts, with something of awe left yet, -after all these years, at the precise workmanship of chance, fate, -providence, call it what you will! "For, observe, Marlow," he said, -making at me very round eyes which contrasted funnily with the austere -touch of grey on his temples, "observe, my dear fellow, that everything -depended on the men who cleared up the poop in the evening leaving that -coil of rope on the deck, and on the topsail-tie carrying away in a most -incomprehensible and surprising manner earlier in the day, and the end of -the chain whipping round the coaming and shivering to bits the coloured -glass-pane at the end of the skylight. It had the arms of the city of -Liverpool on it; I don't know why unless because the _Ferndale_ was -registered in Liverpool. It was very thick plate glass. Anyhow, the -upper part got smashed, and directly we had attended to things aloft Mr. -Franklin had set the carpenter to patch up the damage with some pieces of -plain glass. I don't know where they got them; I think the people who -fitted up new bookcases in the captain's room had left some spare panes. -Chips was there the whole afternoon on his knees, messing with putty and -red-lead. It wasn't a neat job when it was done, not by any means, but -it would serve to keep the weather out and let the light in. Clear -glass. And of course I was not thinking of it. I just stooped to pick -up that rope and found my head within three inches of that clear glass, -and--dash it all! I found myself out. Not half an hour before I was -saying to myself that it was impossible to tell what was in people's -heads or at the back of their talk, or what they were likely to be up to. -And here I found myself up to as low a trick as you can well think of. -For, after I had stooped, there I remained prying, spying, anyway -looking, where I had no business to look. Not consciously at first, may -be. He who has eyes, you know, nothing can stop him from seeing things -as long as there are things to see in front of him. What I saw at first -was the end of the table and the tray clamped on to it, a patent tray for -sea use, fitted with holders for a couple of decanters, water-jug and -glasses. The glitter of these things caught my eye first; but what I saw -next was the captain down there, alone as far as I could see; and I could -see pretty well the whole of that part up to the cottage piano, dark -against the satin-wood panelling of the bulkhead. And I remained -looking. I did. And I don't know that I was ashamed of myself either, -then. It was the fault of that Franklin, always talking of the man, -making free with him to that extent that really he seemed to have become -our property, his and mine, in a way. It's funny, but one had that -feeling about Captain Anthony. To watch him was not so much worse than -listening to Franklin talking him over. Well, it's no use making excuses -for what's inexcusable. I watched; but I dare say you know that there -could have been nothing inimical in this low behaviour of mine. On the -contrary. I'll tell you now what he was doing. He was helping himself -out of a decanter. I saw every movement, and I said to myself mockingly -as though jeering at Franklin in my thoughts, 'Hallo! Here's the captain -taking to drink at last.' He poured a little brandy or whatever it was -into a long glass, filled it with water, drank about a fourth of it and -stood the glass back into the holder. Every sign of a bad drinking bout, -I was saying to myself, feeling quite amused at the notions of that -Franklin. He seemed to me an enormous ass, with his jealousy and his -fears. At that rate a month would not have been enough for anybody to -get drunk. The captain sat down in one of the swivel arm-chairs fixed -around the table; I had him right under me and as he turned the chair -slightly, I was looking, I may say, down his back. He took another -little sip and then reached for a book which was lying on the table. I -had not noticed it before. Altogether the proceedings of a desperate -drunkard--weren't they? He opened the book and held it before his face. -If this was the way he took to drink, then I needn't worry. He was in no -danger from that, and as to any other, I assure you no human being could -have looked safer than he did down there. I felt the greatest contempt -for Franklin just then, while I looked at Captain Anthony sitting there -with a glass of weak brandy-and-water at his elbow and reading in the -cabin of his ship, on a quiet night--the quietest, perhaps the finest, of -a prosperous passage. And if you wonder why I didn't leave off my ugly -spying I will tell you how it was. Captain Anthony was a great reader -just about that time; and I, too, I have a great liking for books. To -this day I can't come near a book but I must know what it is about. It -was a thickish volume he had there, small close print, double columns--I -can see it now. What I wanted to make out was the title at the top of -the page. I have very good eyes but he wasn't holding it conveniently--I -mean for me up there. Well, it was a history of some kind, that much I -read and then suddenly he bangs the book face down on the table, jumps up -as if something had bitten him and walks away aft. - -"Funny thing shame is. I had been behaving badly and aware of it in a -way, but I didn't feel really ashamed till the fright of being found out -in my honourable occupation drove me from it. I slunk away to the -forward end of the poop and lounged about there, my face and ears burning -and glad it was a dark night, expecting every moment to hear the -captain's footsteps behind me. For I made sure he was coming on deck. -Presently I thought I had rather meet him face to face and I walked -slowly aft prepared to see him emerge from the companion before I got -that far. I even thought of his having detected me by some means. But -it was impossible, unless he had eyes in the top of his head. I had -never had a view of his face down there. It was impossible; I was safe; -and I felt very mean, yet, explain it as you may, I seemed not to care. -And the captain not appearing on deck, I had the impulse to go on being -mean. I wanted another peep. I really don't know what was the beastly -influence except that Mr. Franklin's talk was enough to demoralize any -man by raising a sort of unhealthy curiosity which did away in my case -with all the restraints of common decency. - -"I did not mean to run the risk of being caught squatting in a suspicious -attitude by the captain. There was also the helmsman to consider. So -what I did--I am surprised at my low cunning--was to sit down naturally -on the skylight-seat and then by bending forward I found that, as I -expected, I could look down through the upper part of the end-pane. The -worst that could happen to me then, if I remained too long in that -position, was to be suspected by the seaman aft at the wheel of having -gone to sleep there. For the rest my ears would give me sufficient -warning of any movements in the companion. - -"But in that way my angle of view was changed. The field too was -smaller. The end of the table, the tray and the swivel-chair I had right -under my eyes. The captain had not come back yet. The piano I could not -see now; but on the other hand I had a very oblique downward view of the -curtains drawn across the cabin and cutting off the forward part of it -just about the level of the skylight-end and only an inch or so from the -end of the table. They were heavy stuff, travelling on a thick brass rod -with some contrivance to keep the rings from sliding to and fro when the -ship rolled. But just then the ship was as still almost as a model shut -up in a glass case while the curtains, joined closely, and, perhaps on -purpose, made a little too long moved no more than a solid wall." - -* * * * * - -Marlow got up to get another cigar. The night was getting on to what I -may call its deepest hour, the hour most favourable to evil purposes of -men's hate, despair or greed--to whatever can whisper into their ears the -unlawful counsels of protest against things that are; the hour of ill- -omened silence and chill and stagnation, the hour when the criminal plies -his trade and the victim of sleeplessness reaches the lowest depth of -dreadful discouragement; the hour before the first sight of dawn. I know -it, because while Marlow was crossing the room I looked at the clock on -the mantelpiece. He however never looked that way though it is possible -that he, too, was aware of the passage of time. He sat down heavily. - -"Our friend Powell," he began again, "was very anxious that I should -understand the topography of that cabin. I was interested more by its -moral atmosphere, that tension of falsehood, of desperate acting, which -tainted the pure sea-atmosphere into which the magnanimous Anthony had -carried off his conquest and--well--his self-conquest too, trying to act -at the same time like a beast of prey, a pure spirit and the "most -generous of men." Too big an order clearly because he was nothing of a -monster but just a common mortal, a little more self-willed and -self-confident than most, may be, both in his roughness and in his -delicacy. - -As to the delicacy of Mr. Powell's proceedings I'll say nothing. He -found a sort of depraved excitement in watching an unconscious man--and -such an attractive and mysterious man as Captain Anthony at that. He -wanted another peep at him. He surmised that the captain must come back -soon because of the glass two-thirds full and also of the book put down -so brusquely. God knows what sudden pang had made Anthony jump up so. I -am convinced he used reading as an opiate against the pain of his -magnanimity which like all abnormal growths was gnawing at his healthy -substance with cruel persistence. Perhaps he had rushed into his cabin -simply to groan freely in absolute and delicate secrecy. At any rate he -tarried there. And young Powell would have grown weary and compunctious -at last if it had not become manifest to him that he had not been alone -in the highly incorrect occupation of watching the movements of Captain -Anthony. - -Powell explained to me that no sound did or perhaps could reach him from -the saloon. The first sign--and we must remember that he was using his -eyes for all they were worth--was an unaccountable movement of the -curtain. It was wavy and very slight; just perceptible in fact to the -sharpened faculties of a secret watcher; for it can't be denied that our -wits are much more alert when engaged in wrong-doing (in which one -mustn't be found out) than in a righteous occupation. - -He became suspicious, with no one and nothing definite in his mind. He -was suspicious of the curtain itself and observed it. It looked very -innocent. Then just as he was ready to put it down to a trick of -imagination he saw trembling movements where the two curtains joined. -Yes! Somebody else besides himself had been watching Captain Anthony. He -owns artlessly that this roused his indignation. It was really too much -of a good thing. In this state of intense antagonism he was startled to -observe tips of fingers fumbling with the dark stuff. Then they grasped -the edge of the further curtain and hung on there, just fingers and -knuckles and nothing else. It made an abominable sight. He was looking -at it with unaccountable repulsion when a hand came into view; a short, -puffy, old, freckled hand projecting into the lamplight, followed by a -white wrist, an arm in a grey coat-sleeve, up to the elbow, beyond the -elbow, extended tremblingly towards the tray. Its appearance was weird -and nauseous, fantastic and silly. But instead of grabbing the bottle as -Powell expected, this hand, tremulous with senile eagerness, swerved to -the glass, rested on its edge for a moment (or so it looked from above) -and went back with a jerk. The gripping fingers of the other hand -vanished at the same time, and young Powell staring at the motionless -curtains could indulge for a moment the notion that he had been dreaming. - -But that notion did not last long. Powell, after repressing his first -impulse to spring for the companion and hammer at the captain's door, -took steps to have himself relieved by the boatswain. He was in a state -of distraction as to his feelings and yet lucid as to his mind. He -remained on the skylight so as to keep his eye on the tray. - -Still the captain did not appear in the saloon. "If he had," said Mr. -Powell, "I knew what to do. I would have put my elbow through the pane -instantly--crash." - -I asked him why? - -"It was the quickest dodge for getting him away from that tray," he -explained. "My throat was so dry that I didn't know if I could shout -loud enough. And this was not a case for shouting, either." - -The boatswain, sleepy and disgusted, arriving on the poop, found the -second officer doubled up over the end of the skylight in a pose which -might have been that of severe pain. And his voice was so changed that -the man, though naturally vexed at being turned out, made no comment on -the plea of sudden indisposition which young Powell put forward. - -The rapidity with which the sick man got off the poop must have -astonished the boatswain. But Powell, at the moment he opened the door -leading into the saloon from the quarter-deck, had managed to control his -agitation. He entered swiftly but without noise and found himself in the -dark part of the saloon, the strong sheen of the lamp on the other side -of the curtains visible only above the rod on which they ran. The door -of Mr. Smith's cabin was in that dark part. He passed by it assuring -himself by a quick side glance that it was imperfectly closed. "Yes," he -said to me. "The old man must have been watching through the crack. Of -that I am certain; but it was not for me that he was watching and -listening. Horrible! Surely he must have been startled to hear and see -somebody he did not expect. He could not possibly guess why I was coming -in, but I suppose he must have been concerned." Concerned indeed! He -must have been thunderstruck, appalled. - -Powell's only distinct aim was to remove the suspected tumbler. He had -no other plan, no other intention, no other thought. Do away with it in -some manner. Snatch it up and run out with it. - -You know that complete mastery of one fixed idea, not a reasonable but an -emotional mastery, a sort of concentrated exaltation. Under its empire -men rush blindly through fire and water and opposing violence, and -nothing can stop them--unless, sometimes, a grain of sand. For his blind -purpose (and clearly the thought of Mrs. Anthony was at the bottom of it) -Mr. Powell had plenty of time. What checked him at the crucial moment -was the familiar, harmless aspect of common things, the steady light, the -open book on the table, the solitude, the peace, the home-like effect of -the place. He held the glass in his hand; all he had to do was to vanish -back beyond the curtains, flee with it noiselessly into the night on -deck, fling it unseen overboard. A minute or less. And then all that -would have happened would have been the wonder at the utter disappearance -of a glass tumbler, a ridiculous riddle in pantry-affairs beyond the wit -of anyone on board to solve. The grain of sand against which Powell -stumbled in his headlong career was a moment of incredulity as to the -truth of his own conviction because it had failed to affect the safe -aspect of familiar things. He doubted his eyes too. He must have dreamt -it all! "I am dreaming now," he said to himself. And very likely for a -few seconds he must have looked like a man in a trance or profoundly -asleep on his feet, and with a glass of brandy-and-water in his hand. - -What woke him up and, at the same time, fixed his feet immovably to the -spot, was a voice asking him what he was doing there in tones of thunder. -Or so it sounded to his ears. Anthony, opening the door of his stern- -cabin had naturally exclaimed. What else could you expect? And the -exclamation must have been fairly loud if you consider the nature of the -sight which met his eye. There, before him, stood his second officer, a -seemingly decent, well-bred young man, who, being on duty, had left the -deck and had sneaked into the saloon, apparently for the inexpressibly -mean purpose of drinking up what was left of his captain's brandy-and- -water. There he was, caught absolutely with the glass in his hand. - -But the very monstrosity of appearances silenced Anthony after the first -exclamation; and young Powell felt himself pierced through and through by -the overshadowed glance of his captain. Anthony advanced quietly. The -first impulse of Mr. Powell, when discovered, had been to dash the glass -on the deck. He was in a sort of panic. But deep down within him his -wits were working, and the idea that if he did that he could prove -nothing and that the story he had to tell was completely incredible, -restrained him. The captain came forward slowly. With his eyes now -close to his, Powell, spell-bound, numb all over, managed to lift one -finger to the deck above mumbling the explanatory words, "Boatswain on -the poop." - -The captain moved his head slightly as much as to say, "That's all -right"--and this was all. Powell had no voice, no strength. The air was -unbreathable, thick, sticky, odious, like hot jelly in which all -movements became difficult. He raised the glass a little with immense -difficulty and moved his trammelled lips sufficiently to form the words: - -"Doctored." - -Anthony glanced at it for an instant, only for an instant, and again -fastened his eyes on the face of his second mate. Powell added a fervent -"I believe" and put the glass down on the tray. The captain's glance -followed the movement and returned sternly to his face. The young man -pointed a finger once more upwards and squeezed out of his iron-bound -throat six consecutive words of further explanation. "Through the -skylight. The white pane." - -The captain raised his eyebrows very much at this, while young Powell, -ashamed but desperate, nodded insistently several times. He meant to say -that: Yes. Yes. He had done that thing. He had been spying . . . The -captain's gaze became thoughtful. And, now the confession was over, the -iron-bound feeling of Powell's throat passed away giving place to a -general anxiety which from his breast seemed to extend to all the limbs -and organs of his body. His legs trembled a little, his vision was -confused, his mind became blankly expectant. But he was alert enough. At -a movement of Anthony he screamed in a strangled whisper. - -"Don't, sir! Don't touch it." - -The captain pushed aside Powell's extended arm, took up the glass and -raised it slowly against the lamplight. The liquid, of very pale amber -colour, was clear, and by a glance the captain seemed to call Powell's -attention to the fact. Powell tried to pronounce the word, "dissolved" -but he only thought of it with great energy which however failed to move -his lips. Only when Anthony had put down the glass and turned to him he -recovered such a complete command of his voice that he could keep it down -to a hurried, forcible whisper--a whisper that shook him. - -"Doctored! I swear it! I have seen. Doctored! I have seen." - -Not a feature of the captain's face moved. His was a calm to take one's -breath away. It did so to young Powell. Then for the first time Anthony -made himself heard to the point. - -"You did! . . . Who was it?" - -And Powell gasped freely at last. "A hand," he whispered fearfully, "a -hand and the arm--only the arm--like that." - -He advanced his own, slow, stealthy, tremulous in faithful reproduction, -the tips of two fingers and the thumb pressed together and hovering above -the glass for an instant--then the swift jerk back, after the deed. - -"Like that," he repeated growing excited. "From behind this." He -grasped the curtain and glaring at the silent Anthony flung it back -disclosing the forepart of the saloon. There was on one to be seen. - -Powell had not expected to see anybody. "But," he said to me, "I knew -very well there was an ear listening and an eye glued to the crack of a -cabin door. Awful thought. And that door was in that part of the saloon -remaining in the shadow of the other half of the curtain. I pointed at -it and I suppose that old man inside saw me pointing. The captain had a -wonderful self-command. You couldn't have guessed anything from his -face. Well, it was perhaps more thoughtful than usual. And indeed this -was something to think about. But I couldn't think steadily. My brain -would give a sort of jerk and then go dead again. I had lost all notion -of time, and I might have been looking at the captain for days and months -for all I knew before I heard him whisper to me fiercely: "Not a word!" -This jerked me out of that trance I was in and I said "No! No! I didn't -mean even you." - -"I wanted to explain my conduct, my intentions, but I read in his eyes -that he understood me and I was only too glad to leave off. And there we -were looking at each other, dumb, brought up short by the question "What -next?" - -"I thought Captain Anthony was a man of iron till I saw him suddenly -fling his head to the right and to the left fiercely, like a wild animal -at bay not knowing which way to break out . . . " - -* * * * * - -"Truly," commented Marlow, "brought to bay was not a bad comparison; a -better one than Mr. Powell was aware of. At that moment the appearance -of Flora could not but bring the tension to the breaking point. She came -out in all innocence but not without vague dread. Anthony's exclamation -on first seeing Powell had reached her in her cabin, where, it seems, she -was brushing her hair. She had heard the very words. "What are you -doing here?" And the unwonted loudness of the voice--his voice--breaking -the habitual stillness of that hour would have startled a person having -much less reason to be constantly apprehensive, than the captive of -Anthony's masterful generosity. She had no means to guess to whom the -question was addressed and it echoed in her heart, as Anthony's voice -always did. Followed complete silence. She waited, anxious, expectant, -till she could stand the strain no longer, and with the weary mental -appeal of the overburdened. "My God! What is it now?" she opened the -door of her room and looked into the saloon. Her first glance fell on -Powell. For a moment, seeing only the second officer with Anthony, she -felt relieved and made as if to draw back; but her sharpened perception -detected something suspicious in their attitudes, and she came forward -slowly. - -"I was the first to see Mrs. Anthony," related Powell, "because I was -facing aft. The captain, noticing my eyes, looked quickly over his -shoulder and at once put his finger to his lips to caution me. As if I -were likely to let out anything before her! Mrs. Anthony had on a -dressing-gown of some grey stuff with red facings and a thick red cord -round her waist. Her hair was down. She looked a child; a pale-faced -child with big blue eyes and a red mouth a little open showing a glimmer -of white teeth. The light fell strongly on her as she came up to the end -of the table. A strange child though; she hardly affected one like a -child, I remember. Do you know," exclaimed Mr. Powell, who clearly must -have been, like many seamen, an industrious reader, "do you know what she -looked like to me with those big eyes and something appealing in her -whole expression. She looked like a forsaken elf. Captain Anthony had -moved towards her to keep her away from my end of the table, where the -tray was. I had never seen them so near to each other before, and it -made a great contrast. It was wonderful, for, with his beard cut to a -point, his swarthy, sunburnt complexion, thin nose and his lean head -there was something African, something Moorish in Captain Anthony. His -neck was bare; he had taken off his coat and collar and had drawn on his -sleeping jacket in the time that he had been absent from the saloon. I -seem to see him now. Mrs. Anthony too. She looked from him to me--I -suppose I looked guilty or frightened--and from me to him, trying to -guess what there was between us two. Then she burst out with a "What has -happened?" which seemed addressed to me. I mumbled "Nothing! Nothing, -ma'am," which she very likely did not hear. - -"You must not think that all this had lasted a long time. She had taken -fright at our behaviour and turned to the captain pitifully. "What is it -you are concealing from me?" A straight question--eh? I don't know what -answer the captain would have made. Before he could even raise his eyes -to her she cried out "Ah! Here's papa" in a sharp tone of relief, but -directly afterwards she looked to me as if she were holding her breath -with apprehension. I was so interested in her that, how shall I say it, -her exclamation made no connection in my brain at first. I also noticed -that she had sidled up a little nearer to Captain Anthony, before it -occurred to me to turn my head. I can tell you my neck stiffened in the -twisted position from the shock of actually seeing that old man! He had -dared! I suppose you think I ought to have looked upon him as mad. But -I couldn't. It would have been certainly easier. But I could _not_. You -should have seen him. First of all he was completely dressed with his -very cap still on his head just as when he left me on deck two hours -before, saying in his soft voice: "The moment has come to go to -bed"--while he meant to go and do that thing and hide in his dark cabin, -and watch the stuff do its work. A cold shudder ran down my back. He -had his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his arms were pressed close -to his thin, upright body, and he shuffled across the cabin with his -short steps. There was a red patch on each of his old soft cheeks as if -somebody had been pinching them. He drooped his head a little, and -looked with a sort of underhand expectation at the captain and Mrs. -Anthony standing close together at the other end of the saloon. The -calculating horrible impudence of it! His daughter was there; and I am -certain he had seen the captain putting his finger on his lips to warn -me. And then he had coolly come out! He passed my imagination, I assure -you. After that one shiver his presence killed every faculty in -me--wonder, horror, indignation. I felt nothing in particular just as if -he were still the old gentleman who used to talk to me familiarly every -day on deck. Would you believe it?" - -"Mr. Powell challenged my powers of wonder at this internal phenomenon," -went on Marlow after a slight pause. "But even if they had not been -fully engaged, together with all my powers of attention in following the -facts of the case, I would not have been astonished by his statements -about himself. Taking into consideration his youth they were by no means -incredible; or, at any rate, they were the least incredible part of the -whole. They were also the least interesting part. The interest was -elsewhere, and there of course all he could do was to look at the -surface. The inwardness of what was passing before his eyes was hidden -from him, who had looked on, more impenetrably than from me who at a -distance of years was listening to his words. What presently happened at -this crisis in Flora de Barral's fate was beyond his power of comment, -seemed in a sense natural. And his own presence on the scene was so -strangely motived that it was left for me to marvel alone at this young -man, a completely chance-comer, having brought it about on that night. - -Each situation created either by folly or wisdom has its psychological -moment. The behaviour of young Powell with its mixture of boyish -impulses combined with instinctive prudence, had not created it--I can't -say that--but had discovered it to the very people involved. What would -have happened if he had made a noise about his discovery? But he didn't. -His head was full of Mrs. Anthony and he behaved with a discretion beyond -his years. Some nice children often do; and surely it is not from -reflection. They have their own inspirations. Young Powell's -inspiration consisted in being "enthusiastic" about Mrs. Anthony. -'Enthusiastic' is really good. And he was amongst them like a child, -sensitive, impressionable, plastic--but unable to find for himself any -sort of comment. - -I don't know how much mine may be worth; but I believe that just then the -tension of the false situation was at its highest. Of all the forms -offered to us by life it is the one demanding a couple to realize it -fully, which is the most imperative. Pairing off is the fate of mankind. -And if two beings thrown together, mutually attracted, resist the -necessity, fail in understanding and voluntarily stop short of the--the -embrace, in the noblest meaning of the word, then they are committing a -sin against life, the call of which is simple. Perhaps sacred. And the -punishment of it is an invasion of complexity, a tormenting, forcibly -tortuous involution of feelings, the deepest form of suffering from which -indeed something significant may come at last, which may be criminal or -heroic, may be madness or wisdom--or even a straight if despairing -decision. - -Powell on taking his eyes off the old gentleman noticed Captain Anthony, -swarthy as an African, by the side of Flora whiter than the lilies, take -his handkerchief out and wipe off his forehead the sweat of anguish--like -a man who is overcome. "And no wonder," commented Mr. Powell here. Then -the captain said, "Hadn't you better go back to your room." This was to -Mrs. Anthony. He tried to smile at her. "Why do you look startled? This -night is like any other night." - -"Which," Powell again commented to me earnestly, "was a lie . . . No -wonder he sweated." You see from this the value of Powell's comments. -Mrs. Anthony then said: "Why are you sending me away?" - -"Why! That you should go to sleep. That you should rest." And Captain -Anthony frowned. Then sharply, "You stay here, Mr. Powell. I shall want -you presently." - -As a matter of fact Powell had not moved. Flora did not mind his -presence. He himself had the feeling of being of no account to those -three people. He was looking at Mrs. Anthony as unabashed as the -proverbial cat looking at a king. Mrs. Anthony glanced at him. She did -not move, gripped by an inexplicable premonition. She had arrived at the -very limit of her endurance as the object of Anthony's magnanimity; she -was the prey of an intuitive dread of she did not know what mysterious -influence; she felt herself being pushed back into that solitude, that -moral loneliness, which had made all her life intolerable. And then, in -that close communion established again with Anthony, she felt--as on that -night in the garden--the force of his personal fascination. The passive -quietness with which she looked at him gave her the appearance of a -person bewitched--or, say, mesmerically put to sleep--beyond any notion -of her surroundings. - -After telling Mr. Powell not to go away the captain remained silent. -Suddenly Mrs. Anthony pushed back her loose hair with a decisive gesture -of her arms and moved still nearer to him. "Here's papa up yet," she -said, but she did not look towards Mr. Smith. "Why is it? And you? I -can't go on like this, Roderick--between you two. Don't." - -Anthony interrupted her as if something had untied his tongue. - -"Oh yes. Here's your father. And . . . Why not. Perhaps it is just as -well you came out. Between us two? Is that it? I won't pretend I don't -understand. I am not blind. But I can't fight any longer for what I -haven't got. I don't know what you imagine has happened. Something has -though. Only you needn't be afraid. No shadow can touch you--because I -give up. I can't say we had much talk about it, your father and I, but, -the long and the short of it is, that I must learn to live without -you--which I have told you was impossible. I was speaking the truth. But -I have done fighting, or waiting, or hoping. Yes. You shall go." - -At this point Mr. Powell who (he confessed to me) was listening with -uncomprehending awe, heard behind his back a triumphant chuckling sound. -It gave him the shudders, he said, to mention it now; but at the time, -except for another chill down the spine, it had not the power to destroy -his absorption in the scene before his eyes, and before his ears too, -because just then Captain Anthony raised his voice grimly. Perhaps he -too had heard the chuckle of the old man. - -"Your father has found an argument which makes me pause, if it does not -convince me. No! I can't answer it. I--I don't want to answer it. I -simply surrender. He shall have his way with you--and with me. Only," -he added in a gloomy lowered tone which struck Mr. Powell as if a pedal -had been put down, "only it shall take a little time. I have never lied -to you. Never. I renounce not only my chance but my life. In a few -days, directly we get into port, the very moment we do, I, who have said -I could never let you go, I shall let you go." - -To the innocent beholder Anthony seemed at this point to become -physically exhausted. My view is that the utter falseness of his, I may -say, aspirations, the vanity of grasping the empty air, had come to him -with an overwhelming force, leaving him disarmed before the other's mad -and sinister sincerity. As he had said himself he could not fight for -what he did not possess; he could not face such a thing as this for the -sake of his mere magnanimity. The normal alone can overcome the -abnormal. He could not even reproach that man over there. "I own myself -beaten," he said in a firmer tone. "You are free. I let you off since I -must." - -Powell, the onlooker, affirms that at these incomprehensible words Mrs. -Anthony stiffened into the very image of astonishment, with a frightened -stare and frozen lips. But next minute a cry came out from her heart, -not very loud but of a quality which made not only Captain Anthony (he -was not looking at her), not only him but also the more distant (and -equally unprepared) young man, catch their breath: "But I don't want to -be let off," she cried. - -She was so still that one asked oneself whether the cry had come from -her. The restless shuffle behind Powell's back stopped short, the -intermittent shadowy chuckling ceased too. Young Powell, glancing round, -saw Mr. Smith raise his head with his faded eyes very still, puckered at -the corners, like a man perceiving something coming at him from a great -distance. And Mrs. Anthony's voice reached Powell's ears, entreating and -indignant. - -"You can't cast me off like this, Roderick. I won't go away from you. I -won't--" - -Powell turned about and discovered then that what Mr. Smith was puckering -his eyes at, was the sight of his daughter clinging round Captain -Anthony's neck--a sight not in itself improper, but which had the power -to move young Powell with a bashfully profound emotion. It was different -from his emotion while spying at the revelations of the skylight, but in -this case too he felt the discomfort, if not the guilt, of an unseen -beholder. Experience was being piled up on his young shoulders. Mrs. -Anthony's hair hung back in a dark mass like the hair of a drowned woman. -She looked as if she would let go and sink to the floor if the captain -were to withhold his sustaining arm. But the captain obviously had no -such intention. Standing firm and still he gazed with sombre eyes at Mr. -Smith. For a time the low convulsive sobbing of Mr. Smith's daughter was -the only sound to trouble the silence. The strength of Anthony's clasp -pressing Flora to his breast could not be doubted even at that distance, -and suddenly, awakening to his opportunity, he began to partly support -her, partly carry her in the direction of her cabin. His head was bent -over her solicitously, then recollecting himself, with a glance full of -unwonted fire, his voice ringing in a note unknown to Mr. Powell, he -cried to him, "Don't you go on deck yet. I want you to stay down here -till I come back. There are some instructions I want to give you." - -And before the young man could answer, Anthony had disappeared in the -stern-cabin, burdened and exulting. - -"Instructions," commented Mr. Powell. "That was all right. Very likely; -but they would be such instructions as, I thought to myself, no ship's -officer perhaps had ever been given before. It made me feel a little -sick to think what they would be dealing with, probably. But there! -Everything that happens on board ship on the high seas has got to be -dealt with somehow. There are no special people to fly to for -assistance. And there I was with that old man left in my charge. When -he noticed me looking at him he started to shuffle again athwart the -saloon. He kept his hands rammed in his pockets, he was as stiff-backed -as ever, only his head hung down. After a bit he says in his gentle soft -tone: "Did you see it?" - -There were in Powell's head no special words to fit the horror of his -feelings. So he said--he had to say something, "Good God! What were you -thinking of, Mr. Smith, to try to . . . " And then he left off. He -dared not utter the awful word poison. Mr. Smith stopped his prowl. - -"Think! What do you know of thinking. I don't think. There is -something in my head that thinks. The thoughts in men, it's like being -drunk with liquor or--You can't stop them. A man who thinks will think -anything. No! But have you seen it. Have you?" - -"I tell you I have! I am certain!" said Powell forcibly. "I was looking -at you all the time. You've done something to the drink in that glass." - -Then Powell lost his breath somehow. Mr. Smith looked at him curiously, -with mistrust. - -"My good young man, I don't know what you are talking about. I ask -you--have you seen? Who would have believed it? with her arms round his -neck. When! Oh! Ha! Ha! You did see! Didn't you? It wasn't a -delusion--was it? Her arms round . . . But I have never wholly trusted -her." - -"Then I flew out at him, said Mr. Powell. I told him he was jolly lucky -to have fallen upon Captain Anthony. A man in a million. He started -again shuffling to and fro. "You too," he said mournfully, keeping his -eyes down. "Eh? Wonderful man? But have you a notion who I am? Listen! -I have been the Great Mr. de Barral. So they printed it in the papers -while they were getting up a conspiracy. And I have been doing time. And -now I am brought low." His voice died down to a mere breath. "Brought -low." - -He took his hands out of his pocket, dragged the cap down on his head and -stuck them back into his pockets, exactly as if preparing himself to go -out into a great wind. "But not so low as to put up with this disgrace, -to see her, fast in this fellow's clutches, without doing something. She -wouldn't listen to me. Frightened? Silly? I had to think of some way -to get her out of this. Did you think she cared for him? No! Would -anybody have thought so? No! She pretended it was for my sake. She -couldn't understand that if I hadn't been an old man I would have flown -at his throat months ago. As it was I was tempted every time he looked -at her. My girl. Ough! Any man but this. And all the time the wicked -little fool was lying to me. It was their plot, their conspiracy! These -conspiracies are the devil. She has been leading me on, till she has -fairly put my head under the heel of that jailer, of that scoundrel, of -her husband . . . Treachery! Bringing me low. Lower than herself. In -the dirt. That's what it means. Doesn't it? Under his heel!" - -He paused in his restless shuffle and again, seizing his cap with both -hands, dragged it furiously right down on his ears. Powell had lost -himself in listening to these broken ravings, in looking at that old -feverish face when, suddenly, quick as lightning, Mr. Smith spun round, -snatched up the captain's glass and with a stifled, hurried exclamation, -"Here's luck," tossed the liquor down his throat. - -"I know now the meaning of the word 'Consternation,'" went on Mr. Powell. -"That was exactly my state of mind. I thought to myself directly: -There's nothing in that drink. I have been dreaming, I have made the -awfulest mistake! . . ." - -Mr. Smith put the glass down. He stood before Powell unharmed, quieted -down, in a listening attitude, his head inclined on one side, chewing his -thin lips. Suddenly he blinked queerly, grabbed Powell's shoulder and -collapsed, subsiding all at once as though he had gone soft all over, as -a piece of silk stuff collapses. Powell seized his arm instinctively and -checked his fall; but as soon as Mr. Smith was fairly on the floor he -jerked himself free and backed away. Almost as quick he rushed forward -again and tried to lift up the body. But directly he raised his -shoulders he knew that the man was dead! Dead! - -He lowered him down gently. He stood over him without fear or any other -feeling, almost indifferent, far away, as it were. And then he made -another start and, if he had not kept Mrs. Anthony always in his mind, he -would have let out a yell for help. He staggered to her cabin-door, and, -as it was, his call for "Captain Anthony" burst out of him much too loud; -but he made a great effort of self-control. "I am waiting for my orders, -sir," he said outside that door distinctly, in a steady tone. - -It was very still in there; still as death. Then he heard a shuffle of -feet and the captain's voice "All right. Coming." He leaned his back -against the bulkhead as you see a drunken man sometimes propped up -against a wall, half doubled up. In that attitude the captain found him, -when he came out, pulling the door to after him quickly. At once Anthony -let his eyes run all over the cabin. Powell, without a word, clutched -his forearm, led him round the end of the table and began to justify -himself. "I couldn't stop him," he whispered shakily. "He was too quick -for me. He drank it up and fell down." But the captain was not -listening. He was looking down at Mr. Smith, thinking perhaps that it -was a mere chance his own body was not lying there. They did not want to -speak. They made signs to each other with their eyes. The captain -grasped Powell's shoulder as if in a vice and glanced at Mrs. Anthony's -cabin door, and it was enough. He knew that the young man understood -him. Rather! Silence! Silence for ever about this. Their very glances -became stealthy. Powell looked from the body to the door of the dead -man's state-room. The captain nodded and let him go; and then Powell -crept over, hooked the door open and crept back with fearful glances -towards Mrs. Anthony's cabin. They stooped over the corpse. Captain -Anthony lifted up the shoulders. - -Mr. Powell shuddered. "I'll never forget that interminable journey -across the saloon, step by step, holding our breath. For part of the way -the drawn half of the curtain concealed us from view had Mrs. Anthony -opened her door; but I didn't draw a free breath till after we laid the -body down on the swinging cot. The reflection of the saloon light left -most of the cabin in the shadow. Mr. Smith's rigid, extended body looked -shadowy too, shadowy and alive. You know he always carried himself as -stiff as a poker. We stood by the cot as though waiting for him to make -us a sign that he wanted to be left alone. The captain threw his arm -over my shoulder and said in my very ear: "The steward'll find him in the -morning." - -"I made no answer. It was for him to say. It was perhaps the best way. -It's no use talking about my thoughts. They were not concerned with -myself, nor yet with that old man who terrified me more now than when he -was alive. Him whom I pitied was the captain. He whispered. "I am -certain of you, Mr. Powell. You had better go on deck now. As to me -. . . " and I saw him raise his hands to his head as if distracted. But his -last words before we stole out that cabin stick to my mind with the very -tone of his mutter--to himself, not to me: - -"No! No! I am not going to stumble now over that corpse." - -* * * - -"This is what our Mr. Powell had to tell me," said Marlow, changing his -tone. I was glad to learn that Flora de Barral had been saved from -_that_ sinister shadow at least falling upon her path. - -We sat silent then, my mind running on the end of de Barral, on the -irresistible pressure of imaginary griefs, crushing conscience, scruples, -prudence, under their ever-expanding volume; on the sombre and venomous -irony in the obsession which had mastered that old man. - -"Well," I said. - -"The steward found him," Mr. Powell roused himself. "He went in there -with a cup of tea at five and of course dropped it. I was on watch -again. He reeled up to me on deck pale as death. I had been expecting -it; and yet I could hardly speak. "Go and tell the captain quietly," I -managed to say. He ran off muttering "My God! My God!" and I'm hanged -if he didn't get hysterical while trying to tell the captain, and start -screaming in the saloon, "Fully dressed! Dead! Fully dressed!" Mrs. -Anthony ran out of course but she didn't get hysterical. Franklin, who -was there too, told me that she hid her face on the captain's breast and -then he went out and left them there. It was days before Mrs. Anthony -was seen on deck. The first time I spoke to her she gave me her hand and -said, "My poor father was quite fond of you, Mr. Powell." She started -wiping her eyes and I fled to the other side of the deck. One would like -to forget all this had ever come near her." - -But clearly he could not, because after lighting his pipe he began musing -aloud: "Very strong stuff it must have been. I wonder where he got it. -It could hardly be at a common chemist. Well, he had it from somewhere--a -mere pinch it must have been, no more." - -"I have my theory," observed Marlow, "which to a certain extent does away -with the added horror of a coldly premeditated crime. Chance had stepped -in there too. It was not Mr. Smith who obtained the poison. It was the -Great de Barral. And it was not meant for the obscure, magnanimous -conqueror of Flora de Barral; it was meant for the notorious financier -whose enterprises had nothing to do with magnanimity. He had his -physician in his days of greatness. I even seem to remember that the man -was called at the trial on some small point or other. I can imagine that -de Barral went to him when he saw, as he could hardly help seeing, the -possibility of a "triumph of envious rivals"--a heavy sentence. - -I doubt if for love or even for money, but I think possibly, from pity -that man provided him with what Mr. Powell called "strong stuff." From -what Powell saw of the very act I am fairly certain it must have been -contained in a capsule and that he had it about him on the last day of -his trial, perhaps secured by a stitch in his waistcoat pocket. He -didn't use it. Why? Did he think of his child at the last moment? Was -it want of courage? We can't tell. But he found it in his clothes when -he came out of jail. It had escaped investigation if there was any. -Chance had armed him. And chance alone, the chance of Mr. Powell's life, -forced him to turn the abominable weapon against himself. - -I imparted my theory to Mr. Powell who accepted it at once as, in a -sense, favourable to the father of Mrs. Anthony. Then he waved his hand. -"Don't let us think of it." - -I acquiesced and very soon he observed dreamily: - -"I was with Captain and Mrs. Anthony sailing all over the world for near -on six years. Almost as long as Franklin." - -"Oh yes! What about Franklin?" I asked. - -Powell smiled. "He left the _Ferndale_ a year or so afterwards, and I -took his place. Captain Anthony recommended him for a command. You -don't think Captain Anthony would chuck a man aside like an old glove. -But of course Mrs. Anthony did not like him very much. I don't think she -ever let out a whisper against him but Captain Anthony could read her -thoughts. - -And again Powell seemed to lose himself in the past. I asked, for -suddenly the vision of the Fynes passed through my mind. - -"Any children?" - -Powell gave a start. "No! No! Never had any children," and again -subsided, puffing at his short briar pipe. - -"Where are they now?" I inquired next as if anxious to ascertain that all -Fyne's fears had been misplaced and vain as our fears often are; that -there were no undesirable cousins for his dear girls, no danger of -intrusion on their spotless home. Powell looked round at me slowly, his -pipe smouldering in his hand. - -"Don't you know?" he uttered in a deep voice. - -"Know what?" - -"That the _Ferndale_ was lost this four years or more. Sunk. Collision. -And Captain Anthony went down with her." - -"You don't say so!" I cried quite affected as if I had known Captain -Anthony personally. "Was--was Mrs. Anthony lost too?" - -"You might as well ask if I was lost," Mr. Powell rejoined so testily as -to surprise me. "You see me here,--don't you." - -He was quite huffy, but noticing my wondering stare he smoothed his -ruffled plumes. And in a musing tone. - -"Yes. Good men go out as if there was no use for them in the world. It -seems as if there were things that, as the Turks say, are written. Or -else fate has a try and sometimes misses its mark. You remember that -close shave we had of being run down at night, I told you of, my first -voyage with them. This go it was just at dawn. A flat calm and a fog -thick enough to slice with a knife. Only there were no explosives on -board. I was on deck and I remember the cursed, murderous thing looming -up alongside and Captain Anthony (we were both on deck) calling out, -"Good God! What's this! Shout for all hands, Powell, to save -themselves. There's no dynamite on board now. I am going to get the -wife! . . " I yelled, all the watch on deck yelled. Crash!" - -Mr. Powell gasped at the recollection. "It was a Belgian Green Star -liner, the _Westland_," he went on, "commanded by one of those stop-for- -nothing skippers. Flaherty was his name and I hope he will die without -absolution. She cut half through the old _Ferndale_ and after the blow -there was a silence like death. Next I heard the captain back on deck -shouting, "Set your engines slow ahead," and a howl of "Yes, yes," -answering him from her forecastle; and then a whole crowd of people up -there began making a row in the fog. They were throwing ropes down to us -in dozens, I must say. I and the captain fastened one of them under Mrs. -Anthony's arms: I remember she had a sort of dim smile on her face." - -"Haul up carefully," I shouted to the people on the steamer's deck. -"You've got a woman on that line." - -The captain saw her landed up there safe. And then we made a rush round -our decks to see no one was left behind. As we got back the captain -says: "Here she's gone at last, Powell; the dear old thing! Run down at -sea." - -"Indeed she is gone," I said. "But it might have been worse. Shin up -this rope, sir, for God's sake. I will steady it for you." - -"What are you thinking about," he says angrily. "It isn't my turn. Up -with you." - -These were the last words he ever spoke on earth I suppose. I knew he -meant to be the last to leave his ship, so I swarmed up as quick as I -could, and those damned lunatics up there grab at me from above, lug me -in, drag me along aft through the row and the riot of the silliest -excitement I ever did see. Somebody hails from the bridge, "Have you got -them all on board?" and a dozen silly asses start yelling all together, -"All saved! All saved," and then that accursed Irishman on the bridge, -with me roaring No! No! till I thought my head would burst, rings his -engines astern. He rings the engines astern--I fighting like mad to make -myself heard! And of course . . . " - -I saw tears, a shower of them fall down Mr. Powell's face. His voice -broke. - -"The _Ferndale_ went down like a stone and Captain Anthony went down with -her, the finest man's soul that ever left a sailor's body. I raved like -a maniac, like a devil, with a lot of fools crowding round me and asking, -"Aren't you the captain?" - -"I wasn't fit to tie the shoe-strings of the man you have drowned," I -screamed at them . . . Well! Well! I could see for myself that it was -no good lowering a boat. You couldn't have seen her alongside. No use. -And only think, Marlow, it was I who had to go and tell Mrs. Anthony. -They had taken her down below somewhere, first-class saloon. I had to go -and tell her! That Flaherty, God forgive him, comes to me as white as a -sheet, "I think you are the proper person." God forgive him. I wished -to die a hundred times. A lot of kind ladies, passengers, were -chattering excitedly around Mrs. Anthony--a real parrot house. The -ship's doctor went before me. He whispers right and left and then there -falls a sudden hush. Yes, I wished myself dead. But Mrs. Anthony was a -brick. - -Here Mr. Powell fairly burst into tears. "No one could help loving -Captain Anthony. I leave you to imagine what he was to her. Yet before -the week was out it was she who was helping me to pull myself together." - -"Is Mrs. Anthony in England now?" I asked after a while. - -He wiped his eyes without any false shame. "Oh yes." He began to look -for matches, and while diving for the box under the table added: "And not -very far from here either. That little village up there--you know." - -"No! Really! Oh I see!" - -Mr. Powell smoked austerely, very detached. But I could not let him off -like this. The sly beggar. So this was the secret of his passion for -sailing about the river, the reason of his fondness for that creek. - -"And I suppose," I said, "that you are still as 'enthusiastic' as ever. -Eh? If I were you I would just mention my enthusiasm to Mrs. Anthony. -Why not?" - -He caught his falling pipe neatly. But if what the French call -_effarement_ was ever expressed on a human countenance it was on this -occasion, testifying to his modesty, his sensibility and his innocence. -He looked afraid of somebody overhearing my audacious--almost -sacrilegious hint--as if there had not been a mile and a half of lonely -marshland and dykes between us and the nearest human habitation. And -then perhaps he remembered the soothing fact for he allowed a gleam to -light up his eyes, like the reflection of some inward fire tended in the -sanctuary of his heart by a devotion as pure as that of any vestal. - -It flashed and went out. He smiled a bashful smile, sighed: - -"Pah! Foolishness. You ought to know better," he said, more sad than -annoyed. "But I forgot that you never knew Captain Anthony," he added -indulgently. - -I reminded him that I knew Mrs. Anthony; even before he--an old friend -now--had ever set eyes on her. And as he told me that Mrs. Anthony had -heard of our meetings I wondered whether she would care to see me. Mr. -Powell volunteered no opinion then; but next time we lay in the creek he -said, "She will be very pleased. You had better go to-day." - -The afternoon was well advanced before I approached the cottage. The -amenity of a fine day in its decline surrounded me with a beneficent, a -calming influence; I felt it in the silence of the shady lane, in the -pure air, in the blue sky. It is difficult to retain the memory of the -conflicts, miseries, temptations and crimes of men's self-seeking -existence when one is alone with the charming serenity of the unconscious -nature. Breathing the dreamless peace around the picturesque cottage I -was approaching, it seemed to me that it must reign everywhere, over all -the globe of water and land and in the hearts of all the dwellers on this -earth. - -Flora came down to the garden gate to meet me, no longer the perversely -tempting, sorrowful, wisp of white mist drifting in the complicated bad -dream of existence. Neither did she look like a forsaken elf. I -stammered out stupidly, "Again in the country, Miss . . . Mrs . . . " She -was very good, returned the pressure of my hand, but we were slightly -embarrassed. Then we laughed a little. Then we became grave. - -I am no lover of day-breaks. You know how thin, equivocal, is the light -of the dawn. But she was now her true self, she was like a fine tranquil -afternoon--and not so very far advanced either. A woman not much over -thirty, with a dazzling complexion and a little colour, a lot of hair, a -smooth brow, a fine chin, and only the eyes of the Flora of the old days, -absolutely unchanged. - -In the room into which she led me we found a Miss Somebody--I didn't -catch the name,--an unobtrusive, even an indistinct, middle-aged person -in black. A companion. All very proper. She came and went and even sat -down at times in the room, but a little apart, with some sewing. By the -time she had brought in a lighted lamp I had heard all the details which -really matter in this story. Between me and her who was once Flora de -Barral the conversation was not likely to keep strictly to the weather. - -The lamp had a rosy shade; and its glow wreathed her in perpetual -blushes, made her appear wonderfully young as she sat before me in a -deep, high-backed arm-chair. I asked: - -"Tell me what is it you said in that famous letter which so upset Mrs. -Fyne, and caused little Fyne to interfere in this offensive manner?" - -"It was simply crude," she said earnestly. "I was feeling reckless and I -wrote recklessly. I knew she would disapprove and I wrote foolishly. It -was the echo of her own stupid talk. I said that I did not love her -brother but that I had no scruples whatever in marrying him." - -She paused, hesitating, then with a shy half-laugh: - -"I really believed I was selling myself, Mr. Marlow. And I was proud of -it. What I suffered afterwards I couldn't tell you; because I only -discovered my love for my poor Roderick through agonies of rage and -humiliation. I came to suspect him of despising me; but I could not put -it to the test because of my father. Oh! I would not have been too -proud. But I had to spare poor papa's feelings. Roderick was perfect, -but I felt as though I were on the rack and not allowed even to cry out. -Papa's prejudice against Roderick was my greatest grief. It was -distracting. It frightened me. Oh! I have been miserable! That night -when my poor father died suddenly I am certain they had some sort of -discussion, about me. But I did not want to hold out any longer against -my own heart! I could not." - -She stopped short, then impulsively: - -"Truth will out, Mr. Marlow." - -"Yes," I said. - -She went on musingly. - -"Sorrow and happiness were mingled at first like darkness and light. For -months I lived in a dusk of feelings. But it was quiet. It was warm -. . . " - -Again she paused, then going back in her thoughts. "No! There was no -harm in that letter. It was simply foolish. What did I know of life -then? Nothing. But Mrs. Fyne ought to have known better. She wrote a -letter to her brother, a little later. Years afterwards Roderick allowed -me to glance at it. I found in it this sentence: 'For years I tried to -make a friend of that girl; but I warn you once more that she has the -nature of a heartless adventuress . . . ' Adventuress!" repeated Flora -slowly. "So be it. I have had a fine adventure." - -"It was fine, then," I said interested. - -"The finest in the world! Only think! I loved and I was loved, -untroubled, at peace, without remorse, without fear. All the world, all -life were transformed for me. And how much I have seen! How good people -were to me! Roderick was so much liked everywhere. Yes, I have known -kindness and safety. The most familiar things appeared lighted up with a -new light, clothed with a loveliness I had never suspected. The sea -itself! . . . You are a sailor. You have lived your life on it. But do -you know how beautiful it is, how strong, how charming, how friendly, how -mighty . . . " - -I listened amazed and touched. She was silent only a little while. - -"It was too good to last. But nothing can rob me of it now . . . Don't -think that I repine. I am not even sad now. Yes, I have been happy. But -I remember also the time when I was unhappy beyond endurance, beyond -desperation. Yes. You remember that. And later on, too. There was a -time on board the _Ferndale_ when the only moments of relief I knew were -when I made Mr. Powell talk to me a little on the poop. You like -him?--Don't you?" - -"Excellent fellow," I said warmly. "You see him often?" - -"Of course. I hardly know another soul in the world. I am alone. And -he has plenty of time on his hands. His aunt died a few years ago. He's -doing nothing, I believe." - -"He is fond of the sea," I remarked. "He loves it." - -"He seems to have given it up," she murmured. - -"I wonder why?" - -She remained silent. "Perhaps it is because he loves something else -better," I went on. "Come, Mrs. Anthony, don't let me carry away from -here the idea that you are a selfish person, hugging the memory of your -past happiness, like a rich man his treasure, forgetting the poor at the -gate." - -I rose to go, for it was getting late. She got up in some agitation and -went out with me into the fragrant darkness of the garden. She detained -my hand for a moment and then in the very voice of the Flora of old days, -with the exact intonation, showing the old mistrust, the old doubt of -herself, the old scar of the blow received in childhood, pathetic and -funny, she murmured, "Do you think it possible that he should care for -me?" - -"Just ask him yourself. You are brave." - -"Oh, I am brave enough," she said with a sigh. - -"Then do. For if you don't you will be wronging that patient man -cruelly." - -I departed leaving her dumb. Next day, seeing Powell making preparations -to go ashore, I asked him to give my regards to Mrs. Anthony. He -promised he would. - -"Listen, Powell," I said. "We got to know each other by chance?" - -"Oh, quite!" he admitted, adjusting his hat. - -"And the science of life consists in seizing every chance that presents -itself," I pursued. "Do you believe that?" - -"Gospel truth," he declared innocently. - -"Well, don't forget it." - -"Oh, I! I don't expect now anything to present itself," he said, jumping -ashore. - -He didn't turn up at high water. I set my sail and just as I had cast -off from the bank, round the black barn, in the dusk, two figures -appeared and stood silent, indistinct. - -"Is that you, Powell?" I hailed. - -"And Mrs. Anthony," his voice came impressively through the silence of -the great marsh. "I am not sailing to-night. I have to see Mrs. Anthony -home." - -"Then I must even go alone," I cried. - -Flora's voice wished me "_bon voyage_" in a most friendly but tremulous -tone. - -"You shall hear from me before long," shouted Powell, suddenly, just as -my boat had cleared the mouth of the creek. - -"This was yesterday," added Marlow, lolling in the arm-chair lazily. "I -haven't heard yet; but I expect to hear any moment . . . What on earth -are you grinning at in this sarcastic manner? I am not afraid of going -to church with a friend. Hang it all, for all my belief in Chance I am -not exactly a pagan . . . " - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1476 *** diff --git a/old/old-2025-02-27/1476-h/1476-h.htm b/old/old-2025-02-27/1476-h/1476-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 157972a..0000000 --- a/old/old-2025-02-27/1476-h/1476-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16610 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" -"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<head> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> -<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chance, by Joseph Conrad</title> -<style type="text/css"> - -body { margin-left: 20%; - margin-right: 20%; - text-align: justify; } - -h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: -normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} - -h1 {font-size: 300%; - margin-top: 0.6em; - margin-bottom: 0.6em; - letter-spacing: 0.12em; - word-spacing: 0.2em; - text-indent: 0em;} -h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} -h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} -h4 {font-size: 120%;} -h5 {font-size: 110%;} - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} - -hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} - -p {text-indent: 1em; - margin-top: 0.25em; - margin-bottom: 0.25em; } - -p.letter {text-indent: 0%; - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; - margin-top: 1em; - margin-bottom: 1em; } - -p.right {text-align: right; - margin-right: 10%; - margin-top: 1em; - margin-bottom: 1em; } - -a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} -a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} -a:hover {color:red} - -</style> -</head> -<body> -<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1476 ***</div> - -<h1>CHANCE</h1> - -<h3>A TALE IN TWO PARTS</h3> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="letter"> -Those that hold that all things are governed by Fortune had not erred, had they -not persisted there -</p> - -<p class="right"> -SIR THOMAS BROWNE -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="letter"> -TO SIR HUGH CLIFFORD, K.C.M.G. WHOSE STEADFAST FRIENDSHIP IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE -EXISTENCE OF THESE PAGES -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>PART I—THE DAMSEL</h2> - -<h3>CHAPTER ONE—YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE</h3> - -<p> -I believe he had seen us out of the window coming off to dine in the dinghy of -a fourteen-ton yawl belonging to Marlow my host and skipper. We helped the boy -we had with us to haul the boat up on the landing-stage before we went up to -the riverside inn, where we found our new acquaintance eating his dinner in -dignified loneliness at the head of a long table, white and inhospitable like a -snow bank. -</p> - -<p> -The red tint of his clear-cut face with trim short black whiskers under a cap -of curly iron-grey hair was the only warm spot in the dinginess of that room -cooled by the cheerless tablecloth. We knew him already by sight as the owner -of a little five-ton cutter, which he sailed alone apparently, a fellow -yachtsman in the unpretending band of fanatics who cruise at the mouth of the -Thames. But the first time he addressed the waiter sharply as ‘steward’ we knew -him at once for a sailor as well as a yachtsman. -</p> - -<p> -Presently he had occasion to reprove that same waiter for the slovenly manner -in which the dinner was served. He did it with considerable energy and then -turned to us. -</p> - -<p> -“If we at sea,” he declared, “went about our work as people ashore high and low -go about theirs we should never make a living. No one would employ us. And -moreover no ship navigated and sailed in the happy-go-lucky manner people -conduct their business on shore would ever arrive into port.” -</p> - -<p> -Since he had retired from the sea he had been astonished to discover that the -educated people were not much better than the others. No one seemed to take any -proper pride in his work: from plumbers who were simply thieves to, say, -newspaper men (he seemed to think them a specially intellectual class) who -never by any chance gave a correct version of the simplest affair. This -universal inefficiency of what he called “the shore gang” he ascribed in -general to the want of responsibility and to a sense of security. -</p> - -<p> -“They see,” he went on, “that no matter what they do this tight little island -won’t turn turtle with them or spring a leak and go to the bottom with their -wives and children.” -</p> - -<p> -From this point the conversation took a special turn relating exclusively to -sea-life. On that subject he got quickly in touch with Marlow who in his time -had followed the sea. They kept up a lively exchange of reminiscences while I -listened. They agreed that the happiest time in their lives was as youngsters -in good ships, with no care in the world but not to lose a watch below when at -sea and not a moment’s time in going ashore after work hours when in harbour. -They agreed also as to the proudest moment they had known in that calling which -is never embraced on rational and practical grounds, because of the glamour of -its romantic associations. It was the moment when they had passed successfully -their first examination and left the seamanship Examiner with the little -precious slip of blue paper in their hands. -</p> - -<p> -“That day I wouldn’t have called the Queen my cousin,” declared our new -acquaintance enthusiastically. -</p> - -<p> -At that time the Marine Board examinations took place at the St. Katherine’s -Dock House on Tower Hill, and he informed us that he had a special affection -for the view of that historic locality, with the Gardens to the left, the front -of the Mint to the right, the miserable tumble-down little houses farther away, -a cabstand, boot-blacks squatting on the edge of the pavement and a pair of big -policemen gazing with an air of superiority at the doors of the Black Horse -public-house across the road. This was the part of the world, he said, his eyes -first took notice of, on the finest day of his life. He had emerged from the -main entrance of St. Katherine’s Dock House a full-fledged second mate after -the hottest time of his life with Captain R-, the most dreaded of the three -seamanship Examiners who at the time were responsible for the merchant service -officers qualifying in the Port of London. -</p> - -<p> -“We all who were preparing to pass,” he said, “used to shake in our shoes at -the idea of going before him. He kept me for an hour and a half in the torture -chamber and behaved as though he hated me. He kept his eyes shaded with one of -his hands. Suddenly he let it drop saying, “You will do!” Before I realised -what he meant he was pushing the blue slip across the table. I jumped up as if -my chair had caught fire. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, sir,” says I, grabbing the paper. -</p> - -<p> -“Good morning, good luck to you,” he growls at me. -</p> - -<p> -“The old doorkeeper fussed out of the cloak-room with my hat. They always do. -But he looked very hard at me before he ventured to ask in a sort of timid -whisper: “Got through all right, sir?” For all answer I dropped a half-crown -into his soft broad palm. “Well,” says he with a sudden grin from ear to ear, -“I never knew him keep any of you gentlemen so long. He failed two second mates -this morning before your turn came. Less than twenty minutes each: that’s about -his usual time.” -</p> - -<p> -“I found myself downstairs without being aware of the steps as if I had floated -down the staircase. The finest day in my life. The day you get your first -command is nothing to it. For one thing a man is not so young then and for -another with us, you know, there is nothing much more to expect. Yes, the -finest day of one’s life, no doubt, but then it is just a day and no more. What -comes after is about the most unpleasant time for a youngster, the trying to -get an officer’s berth with nothing much to show but a brand-new certificate. -It is surprising how useless you find that piece of ass’s skin that you have -been putting yourself in such a state about. It didn’t strike me at the time -that a Board of Trade certificate does not make an officer, not by a long long -way. But the slippers of the ships I was haunting with demands for a job knew -that very well. I don’t wonder at them now, and I don’t blame them either. But -this ‘trying to get a ship’ is pretty hard on a youngster all the same . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -He went on then to tell us how tired he was and how discouraged by this lesson -of disillusion following swiftly upon the finest day of his life. He told us -how he went the round of all the ship-owners’ offices in the City where some -junior clerk would furnish him with printed forms of application which he took -home to fill up in the evening. He used to run out just before midnight to post -them in the nearest pillar-box. And that was all that ever came of it. In his -own words: he might just as well have dropped them all properly addressed and -stamped into the sewer grating. -</p> - -<p> -Then one day, as he was wending his weary way to the docks, he met a friend and -former shipmate a little older than himself outside the Fenchurch Street -Railway Station. -</p> - -<p> -He craved for sympathy but his friend had just “got a ship” that very morning -and was hurrying home in a state of outward joy and inward uneasiness usual to -a sailor who after many days of waiting suddenly gets a berth. This friend had -the time to condole with him but briefly. He must be moving. Then as he was -running off, over his shoulder as it were, he suggested: “Why don’t you go and -speak to Mr. Powell in the Shipping Office.” Our friend objected that he did -not know Mr. Powell from Adam. And the other already pretty near round the -corner shouted back advice: “Go to the private door of the Shipping Office and -walk right up to him. His desk is by the window. Go up boldly and say I sent -you.” -</p> - -<p> -Our new acquaintance looking from one to the other of us declared: “Upon my -word, I had grown so desperate that I’d have gone boldly up to the devil -himself on the mere hint that he had a second mate’s job to give away.” -</p> - -<p> -It was at this point that interrupting his flow of talk to light his pipe but -holding us with his eye he inquired whether we had known Powell. Marlow with a -slight reminiscent smile murmured that he “remembered him very well.” -</p> - -<p> -Then there was a pause. Our new acquaintance had become involved in a vexatious -difficulty with his pipe which had suddenly betrayed his trust and disappointed -his anticipation of self-indulgence. To keep the ball rolling I asked Marlow if -this Powell was remarkable in any way. -</p> - -<p> -“He was not exactly remarkable,” Marlow answered with his usual nonchalance. -“In a general way it’s very difficult for one to become remarkable. People -won’t take sufficient notice of one, don’t you know. I remember Powell so well -simply because as one of the Shipping Masters in the Port of London he -dispatched me to sea on several long stages of my sailor’s pilgrimage. He -resembled Socrates. I mean he resembled him genuinely: that is in the face. A -philosophical mind is but an accident. He reproduced exactly the familiar bust -of the immortal sage, if you will imagine the bust with a high top hat riding -far on the back of the head, and a black coat over the shoulders. As I never -saw him except from the other side of the long official counter bearing the -five writing desks of the five Shipping Masters, Mr. Powell has remained a bust -to me.” -</p> - -<p> -Our new acquaintance advanced now from the mantelpiece with his pipe in good -working order. -</p> - -<p> -“What was the most remarkable about Powell,” he enunciated dogmatically with -his head in a cloud of smoke, “is that he should have had just that name. You -see, my name happens to be Powell too.” -</p> - -<p> -It was clear that this intelligence was not imparted to us for social purposes. -It required no acknowledgment. We continued to gaze at him with expectant eyes. -</p> - -<p> -He gave himself up to the vigorous enjoyment of his pipe for a silent minute or -two. Then picking up the thread of his story he told us how he had started hot -foot for Tower Hill. He had not been that way since the day of his -examination—the finest day of his life—the day of his overweening pride. It was -very different now. He would not have called the Queen his cousin, still, but -this time it was from a sense of profound abasement. He didn’t think himself -good enough for anybody’s kinship. He envied the purple-nosed old cab-drivers -on the stand, the boot-black boys at the edge of the pavement, the two large -bobbies pacing slowly along the Tower Gardens railings in the consciousness of -their infallible might, and the bright scarlet sentries walking smartly to and -fro before the Mint. He envied them their places in the scheme of world’s -labour. And he envied also the miserable sallow, thin-faced loafers blinking -their obscene eyes and rubbing their greasy shoulders against the door-jambs of -the Black Horse pub, because they were too far gone to feel their degradation. -</p> - -<p> -I must render the man the justice that he conveyed very well to us the sense of -his youthful hopelessness surprised at not finding its place in the sun and no -recognition of its right to live. -</p> - -<p> -He went up the outer steps of St. Katherine’s Dock House, the very steps from -which he had some six weeks before surveyed the cabstand, the buildings, the -policemen, the boot-blacks, the paint, gilt, and plateglass of the Black Horse, -with the eye of a Conqueror. At the time he had been at the bottom of his heart -surprised that all this had not greeted him with songs and incense, but now (he -made no secret of it) he made his entry in a slinking fashion past the -doorkeeper’s glass box. “I hadn’t any half-crowns to spare for tips,” he -remarked grimly. The man, however, ran out after him asking: “What do you -require?” but with a grateful glance up at the first floor in remembrance of -Captain R-’s examination room (how easy and delightful all that had been) he -bolted down a flight leading to the basement and found himself in a place of -dusk and mystery and many doors. He had been afraid of being stopped by some -rule of no-admittance. However he was not pursued. -</p> - -<p> -The basement of St. Katherine’s Dock House is vast in extent and confusing in -its plan. Pale shafts of light slant from above into the gloom of its chilly -passages. Powell wandered up and down there like an early Christian refugee in -the catacombs; but what little faith he had in the success of his enterprise -was oozing out at his finger-tips. At a dark turn under a gas bracket whose -flame was half turned down his self-confidence abandoned him altogether. -</p> - -<p> -“I stood there to think a little,” he said. “A foolish thing to do because of -course I got scared. What could you expect? It takes some nerve to tackle a -stranger with a request for a favour. I wished my namesake Powell had been the -devil himself. I felt somehow it would have been an easier job. You see, I -never believed in the devil enough to be scared of him; but a man can make -himself very unpleasant. I looked at a lot of doors, all shut tight, with a -growing conviction that I would never have the pluck to open one of them. -Thinking’s no good for one’s nerve. I concluded I would give up the whole -business. But I didn’t give up in the end, and I’ll tell you what stopped me. -It was the recollection of that confounded doorkeeper who had called after me. -I felt sure the fellow would be on the look-out at the head of the stairs. If -he asked me what I had been after, as he had the right to do, I wouldn’t know -what to answer that wouldn’t make me look silly if no worse. I got very hot. -There was no chance of slinking out of this business. -</p> - -<p> -“I had lost my bearings somehow down there. Of the many doors of various sizes, -right and left, a good few had glazed lights above; some however must have led -merely into lumber rooms or such like, because when I brought myself to try one -or two I was disconcerted to find that they were locked. I stood there -irresolute and uneasy like a baffled thief. The confounded basement was as -still as a grave and I became aware of my heart beats. Very uncomfortable -sensation. Never happened to me before or since. A bigger door to the left of -me, with a large brass handle looked as if it might lead into the Shipping -Office. I tried it, setting my teeth. “Here goes!” -</p> - -<p> -“It came open quite easily. And lo! the place it opened into was hardly any -bigger than a cupboard. Anyhow it wasn’t more than ten feet by twelve; and as I -in a way expected to see the big shadowy cellar-like extent of the Shipping -Office where I had been once or twice before, I was extremely startled. A gas -bracket hung from the middle of the ceiling over a dark, shabby writing-desk -covered with a litter of yellowish dusty documents. Under the flame of the -single burner which made the place ablaze with light, a plump, little man was -writing hard, his nose very near the desk. His head was perfectly bald and -about the same drab tint as the papers. He appeared pretty dusty too. -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t notice whether there were any cobwebs on him, but I shouldn’t wonder -if there were because he looked as though he had been imprisoned for years in -that little hole. The way he dropped his pen and sat blinking my way upset me -very much. And his dungeon was hot and musty; it smelt of gas and mushrooms, -and seemed to be somewhere 120 feet below the ground. Solid, heavy stacks of -paper filled all the corners half-way up to the ceiling. And when the thought -flashed upon me that these were the premises of the Marine Board and that this -fellow must be connected in some way with ships and sailors and the sea, my -astonishment took my breath away. One couldn’t imagine why the Marine Board -should keep that bald, fat creature slaving down there. For some reason or -other I felt sorry and ashamed to have found him out in his wretched captivity. -I asked gently and sorrowfully: “The Shipping Office, please.” -</p> - -<p> -He piped up in a contemptuous squeaky voice which made me start: “Not here. Try -the passage on the other side. Street side. This is the Dock side. You’ve lost -your way . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -He spoke in such a spiteful tone that I thought he was going to round off with -the words: “You fool” . . . and perhaps he meant to. But what he finished -sharply with was: “Shut the door quietly after you.” -</p> - -<p> -And I did shut it quietly—you bet. Quick and quiet. The indomitable spirit of -that chap impressed me. I wonder sometimes whether he has succeeded in writing -himself into liberty and a pension at last, or had to go out of his gas-lighted -grave straight into that other dark one where nobody would want to intrude. My -humanity was pleased to discover he had so much kick left in him, but I was not -comforted in the least. It occurred to me that if Mr. Powell had the same sort -of temper . . . However, I didn’t give myself time to think and scuttled across -the space at the foot of the stairs into the passage where I’d been told to -try. And I tried the first door I came to, right away, without any hanging -back, because coming loudly from the hall above an amazed and scandalized voice -wanted to know what sort of game I was up to down there. “Don’t you know -there’s no admittance that way?” it roared. But if there was anything more I -shut it out of my hearing by means of a door marked <i>Private</i> on the -outside. It let me into a six-feet wide strip between a long counter and the -wall, taken off a spacious, vaulted room with a grated window and a glazed door -giving daylight to the further end. The first thing I saw right in front of me -were three middle-aged men having a sort of romp together round about another -fellow with a thin, long neck and sloping shoulders who stood up at a desk -writing on a large sheet of paper and taking no notice except that he grinned -quietly to himself. They turned very sour at once when they saw me. I heard one -of them mutter ‘Hullo! What have we here?’ -</p> - -<p> -“‘I want to see Mr. Powell, please,’ I said, very civil but firm; I would let -nothing scare me away now. This was the Shipping Office right enough. It was -after 3 o’clock and the business seemed over for the day with them. The -long-necked fellow went on with his writing steadily. I observed that he was no -longer grinning. The three others tossed their heads all together towards the -far end of the room where a fifth man had been looking on at their antics from -a high stool. I walked up to him as boldly as if he had been the devil himself. -With one foot raised up and resting on the cross-bar of his seat he never -stopped swinging the other which was well clear of the stone floor. He had -unbuttoned the top of his waistcoat and he wore his tall hat very far at the -back of his head. He had a full unwrinkled face and such clear-shining eyes -that his grey beard looked quite false on him, stuck on for a disguise. You -said just now he resembled Socrates—didn’t you? I don’t know about that. This -Socrates was a wise man, I believe?” -</p> - -<p> -“He was,” assented Marlow. “And a true friend of youth. He lectured them in a -peculiarly exasperating manner. It was a way he had.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then give me Powell every time,” declared our new acquaintance sturdily. “He -didn’t lecture me in any way. Not he. He said: ‘How do you do?’ quite kindly to -my mumble. Then says he looking very hard at me: ‘I don’t think I know you—do -I?’ -</p> - -<p> -“No, sir,” I said and down went my heart sliding into my boots, just as the -time had come to summon up all my cheek. There’s nothing meaner in the world -than a piece of impudence that isn’t carried off well. For fear of appearing -shamefaced I started about it so free and easy as almost to frighten myself. He -listened for a while looking at my face with surprise and curiosity and then -held up his hand. I was glad enough to shut up, I can tell you. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you are a cool hand,” says he. “And that friend of yours too. He -pestered me coming here every day for a fortnight till a captain I’m acquainted -with was good enough to give him a berth. And no sooner he’s provided for than -he turns you on. You youngsters don’t seem to mind whom you get into trouble.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was my turn now to stare with surprise and curiosity. He hadn’t been -talking loud but he lowered his voice still more. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you know it’s illegal?” -</p> - -<p> -“I wondered what he was driving at till I remembered that procuring a berth for -a sailor is a penal offence under the Act. That clause was directed of course -against the swindling practices of the boarding-house crimps. It had never -struck me it would apply to everybody alike no matter what the motive, because -I believed then that people on shore did their work with care and foresight. -</p> - -<p> -“I was confounded at the idea, but Mr. Powell made me soon see that an Act of -Parliament hasn’t any sense of its own. It has only the sense that’s put into -it; and that’s precious little sometimes. He didn’t mind helping a young man to -a ship now and then, he said, but if we kept on coming constantly it would soon -get about that he was doing it for money. -</p> - -<p> -“A pretty thing that would be: the Senior Shipping-Master of the Port of London -hauled up in a police court and fined fifty pounds,” says he. “I’ve another -four years to serve to get my pension. It could be made to look very black -against me and don’t you make any mistake about it,” he says. -</p> - -<p> -“And all the time with one knee well up he went on swinging his other leg like -a boy on a gate and looking at me very straight with his shining eyes. I was -confounded I tell you. It made me sick to hear him imply that somebody would -make a report against him. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” I asked shocked, “who would think of such a scurvy trick, sir?” I was -half disgusted with him for having the mere notion of it. -</p> - -<p> -“Who?” says he, speaking very low. “Anybody. One of the office messengers -maybe. I’ve risen to be the Senior of this office and we are all very good -friends here, but don’t you think that my colleague that sits next to me -wouldn’t like to go up to this desk by the window four years in advance of the -regulation time? Or even one year for that matter. It’s human nature.” -</p> - -<p> -“I could not help turning my head. The three fellows who had been skylarking -when I came in were now talking together very soberly, and the long-necked chap -was going on with his writing still. He seemed to me the most dangerous of the -lot. I saw him sideface and his lips were set very tight. I had never looked at -mankind in that light before. When one’s young human nature shocks one. But -what startled me most was to see the door I had come through open slowly and -give passage to a head in a uniform cap with a Board of Trade badge. It was -that blamed old doorkeeper from the hall. He had run me to earth and meant to -dig me out too. He walked up the office smirking craftily, cap in hand. -</p> - -<p> -“What is it, Symons?” asked Mr. Powell. -</p> - -<p> -“I was only wondering where this ’ere gentleman ’ad gone to, sir. He slipped -past me upstairs, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -I felt mighty uncomfortable. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s all right, Symons. I know the gentleman,” says Mr. Powell as serious as -a judge. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, sir. Of course, sir. I saw the gentleman running races all by -’isself down ’ere, so I . . .” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s all right I tell you,” Mr. Powell cut him short with a wave of his hand; -and, as the old fraud walked off at last, he raised his eyes to me. I did not -know what to do: stay there, or clear out, or say that I was sorry. -</p> - -<p> -“Let’s see,” says he, “what did you tell me your name was?” -</p> - -<p> -“Now, observe, I hadn’t given him my name at all and his question embarrassed -me a bit. Somehow or other it didn’t seem proper for me to fling his own name -at him as it were. So I merely pulled out my new certificate from my pocket and -put it into his hand unfolded, so that he could read <i>Charles Powell</i> -written very plain on the parchment. -</p> - -<p> -“He dropped his eyes on to it and after a while laid it quietly on the desk by -his side. I didn’t know whether he meant to make any remark on this -coincidence. Before he had time to say anything the glass door came open with a -bang and a tall, active man rushed in with great strides. His face looked very -red below his high silk hat. You could see at once he was the skipper of a big -ship. -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Powell after telling me in an undertone to wait a little addressed him in -a friendly way. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve been expecting you in every moment to fetch away your Articles, Captain. -Here they are all ready for you.” And turning to a pile of agreements lying at -his elbow he took up the topmost of them. From where I stood I could read the -words: “Ship <i>Ferndale</i>” written in a large round hand on the first page. -</p> - -<p> -“No, Mr. Powell, they aren’t ready, worse luck,” says that skipper. “I’ve got -to ask you to strike out my second officer.” He seemed excited and bothered. He -explained that his second mate had been working on board all the morning. At -one o’clock he went out to get a bit of dinner and didn’t turn up at two as he -ought to have done. Instead there came a messenger from the hospital with a -note signed by a doctor. Collar bone and one arm broken. Let himself be knocked -down by a pair horse van while crossing the road outside the dock gate, as if -he had neither eyes nor ears. And the ship ready to leave the dock at six -o’clock to-morrow morning! -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Powell dipped his pen and began to turn the leaves of the agreement over. -“We must then take his name off,” he says in a kind of unconcerned sing-song. -</p> - -<p> -“What am I to do?” burst out the skipper. “This office closes at four o’clock. -I can’t find a man in half an hour.” -</p> - -<p> -“This office closes at four,” repeats Mr. Powell glancing up and down the pages -and touching up a letter here and there with perfect indifference. -</p> - -<p> -“Even if I managed to lay hold some time to-day of a man ready to go at such -short notice I couldn’t ship him regularly here—could I?” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Powell was busy drawing his pen through the entries relating to that -unlucky second mate and making a note in the margin. -</p> - -<p> -“You could sign him on yourself on board,” says he without looking up. “But I -don’t think you’ll find easily an officer for such a pier-head jump.” -</p> - -<p> -“Upon this the fine-looking skipper gave signs of distress. The ship mustn’t -miss the next morning’s tide. He had to take on board forty tons of dynamite -and a hundred and twenty tons of gunpowder at a place down the river before -proceeding to sea. It was all arranged for next day. There would be no end of -fuss and complications if the ship didn’t turn up in time . . . I couldn’t help -hearing all this, while wishing him to take himself off, because I wanted to -know why Mr. Powell had told me to wait. After what he had been saying there -didn’t seem any object in my hanging about. If I had had my certificate in my -pocket I should have tried to slip away quietly; but Mr. Powell had turned -about into the same position I found him in at first and was again swinging his -leg. My certificate open on the desk was under his left elbow and I couldn’t -very well go up and jerk it away. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know,” says he carelessly, addressing the helpless captain but looking -fixedly at me with an expression as if I hadn’t been there. “I don’t know -whether I ought to tell you that I know of a disengaged second mate at hand.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you mean you’ve got him here?” shouts the other looking all over the empty -public part of the office as if he were ready to fling himself bodily upon -anything resembling a second mate. He had been so full of his difficulty that I -verify believe he had never noticed me. Or perhaps seeing me inside he may have -thought I was some understrapper belonging to the place. But when Mr. Powell -nodded in my direction he became very quiet and gave me a long stare. Then he -stooped to Mr. Powell’s ear—I suppose he imagined he was whispering, but I -heard him well enough. -</p> - -<p> -“Looks very respectable.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly,” says the shipping-master quite calm and staring all the time at -me. “His name’s Powell.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I see!” says the skipper as if struck all of a heap. “But is he ready to -join at once?” -</p> - -<p> -“I had a sort of vision of my lodgings—in the North of London, too, beyond -Dalston, away to the devil—and all my gear scattered about, and my empty -sea-chest somewhere in an outhouse the good people I was staying with had at -the end of their sooty strip of garden. I heard the Shipping Master say in the -coolest sort of way: -</p> - -<p> -“He’ll sleep on board to-night.” -</p> - -<p> -“He had better,” says the Captain of the <i>Ferndale</i> very businesslike, as -if the whole thing were settled. I can’t say I was dumb for joy as you may -suppose. It wasn’t exactly that. I was more by way of being out of breath with -the quickness of it. It didn’t seem possible that this was happening to me. But -the skipper, after he had talked for a while with Mr. Powell, too low for me to -hear became visibly perplexed. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose he had heard I was freshly passed and without experience as an -officer, because he turned about and looked me over as if I had been exposed -for sale. -</p> - -<p> -“He’s young,” he mutters. “Looks smart, though . . . You’re smart and willing -(this to me very sudden and loud) and all that, aren’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“I just managed to open and shut my mouth, no more, being taken unawares. But -it was enough for him. He made as if I had deafened him with protestations of -my smartness and willingness. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course, of course. All right.” And then turning to the Shipping Master who -sat there swinging his leg, he said that he certainly couldn’t go to sea -without a second officer. I stood by as if all these things were happening to -some other chap whom I was seeing through with it. Mr. Powell stared at me with -those shining eyes of his. But that bothered skipper turns upon me again as -though he wanted to snap my head off. -</p> - -<p> -“You aren’t too big to be told how to do things—are you? You’ve a lot to learn -yet though you mayn’t think so.” -</p> - -<p> -“I had half a mind to save my dignity by telling him that if it was my -seamanship he was alluding to I wanted him to understand that a fellow who had -survived being turned inside out for an hour and a half by Captain R- was equal -to any demand his old ship was likely to make on his competence. However he -didn’t give me a chance to make that sort of fool of myself because before I -could open my mouth he had gone round on another tack and was addressing -himself affably to Mr. Powell who swinging his leg never took his eyes off me. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll take your young friend willingly, Mr. Powell. If you let him sign on as -second-mate at once I’ll take the Articles away with me now.” -</p> - -<p> -“It suddenly dawned upon me that the innocent skipper of the <i>Ferndale</i> -had taken it for granted that I was a relative of the Shipping Master! I was -quite astonished at this discovery, though indeed the mistake was natural -enough under the circumstances. What I ought to have admired was the reticence -with which this misunderstanding had been established and acted upon. But I was -too stupid then to admire anything. All my anxiety was that this should be -cleared up. I was ass enough to wonder exceedingly at Mr. Powell failing to -notice the misapprehension. I saw a slight twitch come and go on his face; but -instead of setting right that mistake the Shipping Master swung round on his -stool and addressed me as ‘Charles.’ He did. And I detected him taking a hasty -squint at my certificate just before, because clearly till he did so he was not -sure of my christian name. “Now then come round in front of the desk, Charles,” -says he in a loud voice. -</p> - -<p> -“Charles! At first, I declare to you, it didn’t seem possible that he was -addressing himself to me. I even looked round for that Charles but there was -nobody behind me except the thin-necked chap still hard at his writing, and the -other three Shipping Masters who were changing their coats and reaching for -their hats, making ready to go home. It was the industrious thin-necked man who -without laying down his pen lifted with his left hand a flap near his desk and -said kindly: -</p> - -<p> -“Pass this way.” -</p> - -<p> -I walked through in a trance, faced Mr. Powell, from whom I learned that we -were bound to Port Elizabeth first, and signed my name on the Articles of the -ship <i>Ferndale</i> as second mate—the voyage not to exceed two years. -</p> - -<p> -“You won’t fail to join—eh?” says the captain anxiously. “It would cause no end -of trouble and expense if you did. You’ve got a good six hours to get your gear -together, and then you’ll have time to snatch a sleep on board before the crew -joins in the morning.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was easy enough for him to talk of getting ready in six hours for a voyage -that was not to exceed two years. He hadn’t to do that trick himself, and with -his sea-chest locked up in an outhouse the key of which had been mislaid for a -week as I remembered. But neither was I much concerned. The idea that I was -absolutely going to sea at six o’clock next morning hadn’t got quite into my -head yet. It had been too sudden. -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Powell, slipping the Articles into a long envelope, spoke up with a sort -of cold half-laugh without looking at either of us. -</p> - -<p> -“Mind you don’t disgrace the name, Charles.” -</p> - -<p> -“And the skipper chimes in very kindly: -</p> - -<p> -“He’ll do well enough I dare say. I’ll look after him a bit.” -</p> - -<p> -“Upon this he grabs the Articles, says something about trying to run in for a -minute to see that poor devil in the hospital, and off he goes with his heavy -swinging step after telling me sternly: “Don’t you go like that poor fellow and -get yourself run over by a cart as if you hadn’t either eyes or ears.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Powell,” says I timidly (there was by then only the thin-necked man left -in the office with us and he was already by the door, standing on one leg to -turn the bottom of his trousers up before going away). “Mr. Powell,” says I, “I -believe the Captain of the <i>Ferndale</i> was thinking all the time that I was -a relation of yours.” -</p> - -<p> -“I was rather concerned about the propriety of it, you know, but Mr. Powell -didn’t seem to be in the least. -</p> - -<p> -“Did he?” says he. “That’s funny, because it seems to me too that I’ve been a -sort of good uncle to several of you young fellows lately. Don’t you think so -yourself? However, if you don’t like it you may put him right—when you get out -to sea.” At this I felt a bit queer. Mr. Powell had rendered me a very good -service:- because it’s a fact that with us merchant sailors the first voyage as -officer is the real start in life. He had given me no less than that. I told -him warmly that he had done for me more that day than all my relations put -together ever did. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, no, no,” says he. “I guess it’s that shipment of explosives waiting down -the river which has done most for you. Forty tons of dynamite have been your -best friend to-day, young man.” -</p> - -<p> -“That was true too, perhaps. Anyway I saw clearly enough that I had nothing to -thank myself for. But as I tried to thank him, he checked my stammering. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t be in a hurry to thank me,” says he. “The voyage isn’t finished yet.” -</p> - -<p> -Our new acquaintance paused, then added meditatively: “Queer man. As if it made -any difference. Queer man.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s certainly unwise to admit any sort of responsibility for our actions, -whose consequences we are never able to foresee,” remarked Marlow by way of -assent. -</p> - -<p> -“The consequence of his action was that I got a ship,” said the other. “That -could not do much harm,” he added with a laugh which argued a probably -unconscious contempt of general ideas. -</p> - -<p> -But Marlow was not put off. He was patient and reflective. He had been at sea -many years and I verily believe he liked sea-life because upon the whole it is -favourable to reflection. I am speaking of the now nearly vanished sea-life -under sail. To those who may be surprised at the statement I will point out -that this life secured for the mind of him who embraced it the inestimable -advantages of solitude and silence. Marlow had the habit of pursuing general -ideas in a peculiar manner, between jest and earnest. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I wouldn’t suggest,” he said, “that your namesake Mr. Powell, the Shipping -Master, had done you much harm. Such was hardly his intention. And even if it -had been he would not have had the power. He was but a man, and the incapacity -to achieve anything distinctly good or evil is inherent in our earthly -condition. Mediocrity is our mark. And perhaps it’s just as well, since, for -the most part, we cannot be certain of the effect of our actions.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know about the effect,” the other stood up to Marlow manfully. “What -effect did you expect anyhow? I tell you he did something uncommonly kind.” -</p> - -<p> -“He did what he could,” Marlow retorted gently, “and on his own showing that -was not a very great deal. I cannot help thinking that there was some malice in -the way he seized the opportunity to serve you. He managed to make you -uncomfortable. You wanted to go to sea, but he jumped at the chance of -accommodating your desire with a vengeance. I am inclined to think your cheek -alarmed him. And this was an excellent occasion to suppress you altogether. For -if you accepted he was relieved of you with every appearance of humanity, and -if you made objections (after requesting his assistance, mind you) it was open -to him to drop you as a sort of impostor. You might have had to decline that -berth for some very valid reason. From sheer necessity perhaps. The notice was -too uncommonly short. But under the circumstances you’d have covered yourself -with ignominy.” -</p> - -<p> -Our new friend knocked the ashes out of his pipe. -</p> - -<p> -“Quite a mistake,” he said. “I am not of the declining sort, though I’ll admit -it was something like telling a man that you would like a bath and in -consequence being instantly knocked overboard to sink or swim with your clothes -on. However, I didn’t feel as if I were in deep water at first. I left the -shipping office quietly and for a time strolled along the street as easy as if -I had a week before me to fit myself out. But by and by I reflected that the -notice was even shorter than it looked. The afternoon was well advanced; I had -some things to get, a lot of small matters to attend to, one or two persons to -see. One of them was an aunt of mine, my only relation, who quarrelled with -poor father as long as he lived about some silly matter that had neither right -nor wrong to it. She left her money to me when she died. I used always to go -and see her for decency’s sake. I had so much to do before night that I didn’t -know where to begin. I felt inclined to sit down on the kerb and hold my head -in my hands. It was as if an engine had been started going under my skull. -Finally I sat down in the first cab that came along and it was a hard matter to -keep on sitting there I can tell you, while we rolled up and down the streets, -pulling up here and there, the parcels accumulating round me and the engine in -my head gathering more way every minute. The composure of the people on the -pavements was provoking to a degree, and as to the people in shops, they were -benumbed, more than half frozen—imbecile. Funny how it affects you to be in a -peculiar state of mind: everybody that does not act up to your excitement seems -so confoundedly unfriendly. And my state of mind what with the hurry, the worry -and a growing exultation was peculiar enough. That engine in my head went round -at its top speed hour after hour till eleven at about at night it let up on me -suddenly at the entrance to the Dock before large iron gates in a dead wall.” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -These gates were closed and locked. The cabby, after shooting his things off -the roof of his machine into young Powell’s arms, drove away leaving him alone -with his sea-chest, a sail cloth bag and a few parcels on the pavement about -his feet. It was a dark, narrow thoroughfare he told us. A mean row of houses -on the other side looked empty: there wasn’t the smallest gleam of light in -them. The white-hot glare of a gin palace a good way off made the intervening -piece of the street pitch black. Some human shapes appearing mysteriously, as -if they had sprung up from the dark ground, shunned the edge of the faint light -thrown down by the gateway lamps. These figures were wary in their movements -and perfectly silent of foot, like beasts of prey slinking about a camp fire. -Powell gathered up his belongings and hovered over them like a hen over her -brood. A gruffly insinuating voice said: -</p> - -<p> -“Let’s carry your things in, Capt’in! I’ve got my pal ’ere.” -</p> - -<p> -He was a tall, bony, grey-haired ruffian with a bulldog jaw, in a torn cotton -shirt and moleskin trousers. The shadow of his hobnailed boots was enormous and -coffinlike. His pal, who didn’t come up much higher than his elbow, stepping -forward exhibited a pale face with a long drooping nose and no chin to speak -of. He seemed to have just scrambled out of a dust-bin in a tam-o’shanter cap -and a tattered soldier’s coat much too long for him. Being so deadly white he -looked like a horrible dirty invalid in a ragged dressing gown. The coat -flapped open in front and the rest of his apparel consisted of one brace which -crossed his naked, bony chest, and a pair of trousers. He blinked rapidly as if -dazed by the faint light, while his patron, the old bandit, glowered at young -Powell from under his beetling brow. -</p> - -<p> -“Say the word, Capt’in. The bobby’ll let us in all right. ’E knows both of us.” -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t answer him,” continued Mr. Powell. “I was listening to footsteps on -the other side of the gate, echoing between the walls of the warehouses as if -in an uninhabited town of very high buildings dark from basement to roof. You -could never have guessed that within a stone’s throw there was an open sheet of -water and big ships lying afloat. The few gas lamps showing up a bit of brick -work here and there, appeared in the blackness like penny dips in a range of -cellars—and the solitary footsteps came on, tramp, tramp. A dock policeman -strode into the light on the other side of the gate, very broad-chested and -stern. -</p> - -<p> -“Hallo! What’s up here?” -</p> - -<p> -“He was really surprised, but after some palaver he let me in together with the -two loafers carrying my luggage. He grumbled at them however and slammed the -gate violently with a loud clang. I was startled to discover how many night -prowlers had collected in the darkness of the street in such a short time and -without my being aware of it. Directly we were through they came surging -against the bars, silent, like a mob of ugly spectres. But suddenly, up the -street somewhere, perhaps near that public-house, a row started as if Bedlam -had broken loose: shouts, yells, an awful shrill shriek—and at that noise all -these heads vanished from behind the bars. -</p> - -<p> -“Look at this,” marvelled the constable. “It’s a wonder to me they didn’t make -off with your things while you were waiting.” -</p> - -<p> -“I would have taken good care of that,” I said defiantly. But the constable -wasn’t impressed. -</p> - -<p> -“Much you would have done. The bag going off round one dark corner; the chest -round another. Would you have run two ways at once? And anyhow you’d have been -tripped up and jumped upon before you had run three yards. I tell you you’ve -had a most extraordinary chance that there wasn’t one of them regular boys -about to-night, in the High Street, to twig your loaded cab go by. Ted here is -honest . . . You are on the honest lay, Ted, ain’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Always was, orficer,” said the big ruffian with feeling. The other frail -creature seemed dumb and only hopped about with the edge of its soldier coat -touching the ground. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes, I dare say,” said the constable. “Now then, forward, march . . . He’s -that because he ain’t game for the other thing,” he confided to me. “He hasn’t -got the nerve for it. However, I ain’t going to lose sight of them two till -they go out through the gate. That little chap’s a devil. He’s got the nerve -for anything, only he hasn’t got the muscle. Well! Well! You’ve had a chance to -get in with a whole skin and with all your things.” -</p> - -<p> -“I was incredulous a little. It seemed impossible that after getting ready with -so much hurry and inconvenience I should have lost my chance of a start in life -from such a cause. I asked: -</p> - -<p> -“Does that sort of thing happen often so near the dock gates?” -</p> - -<p> -“Often! No! Of course not often. But it ain’t often either that a man comes -along with a cabload of things to join a ship at this time of night. I’ve been -in the dock police thirteen years and haven’t seen it done once.” -</p> - -<p> -“Meantime we followed my sea-chest which was being carried down a sort of deep -narrow lane, separating two high warehouses, between honest Ted and his little -devil of a pal who had to keep up a trot to the other’s stride. The skirt of -his soldier’s coat floating behind him nearly swept the ground so that he -seemed to be running on castors. At the corner of the gloomy passage a rigged -jib boom with a dolphin-striker ending in an arrow-head stuck out of the night -close to a cast iron lamp-post. It was the quay side. They set down their load -in the light and honest Ted asked hoarsely: -</p> - -<p> -“Where’s your ship, guv’nor?” -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t know. The constable was interested at my ignorance. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t know where your ship is?” he asked with curiosity. “And you the second -officer! Haven’t you been working on board of her?” -</p> - -<p> -“I couldn’t explain that the only work connected with my appointment was the -work of chance. I told him briefly that I didn’t know her at all. At this he -remarked: -</p> - -<p> -“So I see. Here she is, right before you. That’s her.” -</p> - -<p> -“At once the head-gear in the gas light inspired me with interest and respect; -the spars were big, the chains and ropes stout and the whole thing looked -powerful and trustworthy. Barely touched by the light her bows rose faintly -alongside the narrow strip of the quay; the rest of her was a black smudge in -the darkness. Here I was face to face with my start in life. We walked in a -body a few steps on a greasy pavement between her side and the towering wall of -a warehouse and I hit my shins cruelly against the end of the gangway. The -constable hailed her quietly in a bass undertone ‘<i>Ferndale</i> there!’ A -feeble and dismal sound, something in the nature of a buzzing groan, answered -from behind the bulwarks. -</p> - -<p> -“I distinguished vaguely an irregular round knob, of wood, perhaps, resting on -the rail. It did not move in the least; but as another broken-down buzz like a -still fainter echo of the first dismal sound proceeded from it I concluded it -must be the head of the ship-keeper. The stalwart constable jeered in a -mock-official manner. -</p> - -<p> -“Second officer coming to join. Move yourself a bit.” -</p> - -<p> -“The truth of the statement touched me in the pit of the stomach (you know -that’s the spot where emotion gets home on a man) for it was borne upon me that -really and truly I was nothing but a second officer of a ship just like any -other second officer, to that constable. I was moved by this solid evidence of -my new dignity. Only his tone offended me. Nevertheless I gave him the tip he -was looking for. Thereupon he lost all interest in me, humorous or otherwise, -and walked away driving sternly before him the honest Ted, who went off -grumbling to himself like a hungry ogre, and his horrible dumb little pal in -the soldier’s coat, who, from first to last, never emitted the slightest sound. -</p> - -<p> -“It was very dark on the quarter deck of the <i>Ferndale</i> between the deep -bulwarks overshadowed by the break of the poop and frowned upon by the front of -the warehouse. I plumped down on to my chest near the after hatch as if my legs -had been jerked from under me. I felt suddenly very tired and languid. The -ship-keeper, whom I could hardly make out hung over the capstan in a fit of -weak pitiful coughing. He gasped out very low ‘Oh! dear! Oh! dear!’ and -struggled for breath so long that I got up alarmed and irresolute. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve been took like this since last Christmas twelvemonth. It ain’t nothing.” -</p> - -<p> -“He seemed a hundred years old at least. I never saw him properly because he -was gone ashore and out of sight when I came on deck in the morning; but he -gave me the notion of the feeblest creature that ever breathed. His voice was -thin like the buzzing of a mosquito. As it would have been cruel to demand -assistance from such a shadowy wreck I went to work myself, dragging my chest -along a pitch-black passage under the poop deck, while he sighed and moaned -around me as if my exertions were more than his weakness could stand. At last -as I banged pretty heavily against the bulkheads he warned me in his faint -breathless wheeze to be more careful. -</p> - -<p> -“What’s the matter?” I asked rather roughly, not relishing to be admonished by -this forlorn broken-down ghost. -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing! Nothing, sir,” he protested so hastily that he lost his poor breath -again and I felt sorry for him. “Only the captain and his missus are sleeping -on board. She’s a lady that mustn’t be disturbed. They came about half-past -eight, and we had a permit to have lights in the cabin till ten to-night.” -</p> - -<p> -“This struck me as a considerable piece of news. I had never been in a ship -where the captain had his wife with him. I’d heard fellows say that captains’ -wives could work a lot of mischief on board ship if they happened to take a -dislike to anyone; especially the new wives if young and pretty. The old and -experienced wives on the other hand fancied they knew more about the ship than -the skipper himself and had an eye like a hawk’s for what went on. They were -like an extra chief mate of a particularly sharp and unfeeling sort who made -his report in the evening. The best of them were a nuisance. In the general -opinion a skipper with his wife on board was more difficult to please; but -whether to show off his authority before an admiring female or from loving -anxiety for her safety or simply from irritation at her presence—nobody I ever -heard on the subject could tell for certain. -</p> - -<p> -“After I had bundled in my things somehow I struck a match and had a dazzling -glimpse of my berth; then I pitched the roll of my bedding into the bunk but -took no trouble to spread it out. I wasn’t sleepy now, neither was I tired. And -the thought that I was done with the earth for many many months to come made me -feel very quiet and self-contained as it were. Sailors will understand what I -mean.” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow nodded. “It is a strictly professional feeling,” he commented. “But -other professions or trades know nothing of it. It is only this calling whose -primary appeal lies in the suggestion of restless adventure which holds out -that deep sensation to those who embrace it. It is difficult to define, I -admit.” -</p> - -<p> -“I should call it the peace of the sea,” said Mr. Charles Powell in an earnest -tone but looking at us as though he expected to be met by a laugh of derision -and were half prepared to salve his reputation for common sense by joining in -it. But neither of us laughed at Mr. Charles Powell in whose start in life we -had been called to take a part. He was lucky in his audience. -</p> - -<p> -“A very good name,” said Marlow looking at him approvingly. “A sailor finds a -deep feeling of security in the exercise of his calling. The exacting life of -the sea has this advantage over the life of the earth that its claims are -simple and cannot be evaded.” -</p> - -<p> -“Gospel truth,” assented Mr. Powell. “No! they cannot be evaded.” -</p> - -<p> -That an excellent understanding should have established itself between my old -friend and our new acquaintance was remarkable enough. For they were exactly -dissimilar—one individuality projecting itself in length and the other in -breadth, which is already a sufficient ground for irreconcilable difference. -Marlow who was lanky, loose, quietly composed in varied shades of brown robbed -of every vestige of gloss, had a narrow, veiled glance, the neutral bearing and -the secret irritability which go together with a predisposition to congestion -of the liver. The other, compact, broad and sturdy of limb, seemed extremely -full of sound organs functioning vigorously all the time in order to keep up -the brilliance of his colouring, the light curl of his coal-black hair and the -lustre of his eyes, which asserted themselves roundly in an open, manly face. -Between two such organisms one would not have expected to find the slightest -temperamental accord. But I have observed that profane men living in ships like -the holy men gathered together in monasteries develop traits of profound -resemblance. This must be because the service of the sea and the service of a -temple are both detached from the vanities and errors of a world which follows -no severe rule. The men of the sea understand each other very well in their -view of earthly things, for simplicity is a good counsellor and isolation not a -bad educator. A turn of mind composed of innocence and scepticism is common to -them all, with the addition of an unexpected insight into motives, as of -disinterested lookers-on at a game. Mr. Powell took me aside to say, -</p> - -<p> -“I like the things he says.” -</p> - -<p> -“You understand each other pretty well,” I observed. -</p> - -<p> -“I know his sort,” said Powell, going to the window to look at his cutter still -riding to the flood. “He’s the sort that’s always chasing some notion or other -round and round his head just for the fun of the thing.” -</p> - -<p> -“Keeps them in good condition,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -“Lively enough I dare say,” he admitted. -</p> - -<p> -“Would you like better a man who let his notions lie curled up?” -</p> - -<p> -“That I wouldn’t,” answered our new acquaintance. Clearly he was not difficult -to get on with. “I like him, very well,” he continued, “though it isn’t easy to -make him out. He seems to be up to a thing or two. What’s he doing?” -</p> - -<p> -I informed him that our friend Marlow had retired from the sea in a sort of -half-hearted fashion some years ago. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell’s comment was: “Fancied had enough of it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Fancied’s the very word to use in this connection,” I observed, remembering -the subtly provisional character of Marlow’s long sojourn amongst us. From year -to year he dwelt on land as a bird rests on the branch of a tree, so tense with -the power of brusque flight into its true element that it is incomprehensible -why it should sit still minute after minute. The sea is the sailor’s true -element, and Marlow, lingering on shore, was to me an object of incredulous -commiseration like a bird, which, secretly, should have lost its faith in the -high virtue of flying. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER TWO—THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND</h3> - -<p> -We were on our feet in the room by then, and Marlow, brown and deliberate, -approached the window where Mr. Powell and I had retired. “What was the name of -your chance again?” he asked. Mr. Powell stared for a moment. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! The <i>Ferndale</i>. A Liverpool ship. Composite built.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Ferndale</i>,” repeated Marlow thoughtfully. “<i>Ferndale</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“Know her?” -</p> - -<p> -“Our friend,” I said, “knows something of every ship. He seems to have gone -about the seas prying into things considerably.” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow smiled. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve seen her, at least once.” -</p> - -<p> -“The finest sea-boat ever launched,” declared Mr. Powell sturdily. “Without -exception.” -</p> - -<p> -“She looked a stout, comfortable ship,” assented Marlow. “Uncommonly -comfortable. Not very fast tho’.” -</p> - -<p> -“She was fast enough for any reasonable man—when I was in her,” growled Mr. -Powell with his back to us. -</p> - -<p> -“Any ship is that—for a reasonable man,” generalized Marlow in a conciliatory -tone. “A sailor isn’t a globe-trotter.” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” muttered Mr. Powell. -</p> - -<p> -“Time’s nothing to him,” advanced Marlow. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t suppose it’s much,” said Mr. Powell. “All the same a quick passage is -a feather in a man’s cap.” -</p> - -<p> -“True. But that ornament is for the use of the master only. And by the by what -was his name?” -</p> - -<p> -“The master of the <i>Ferndale</i>? Anthony. Captain Anthony.” -</p> - -<p> -“Just so. Quite right,” approved Marlow thoughtfully. Our new acquaintance -looked over his shoulder. -</p> - -<p> -“What do you mean? Why is it more right than if it had been Brown?” -</p> - -<p> -“He has known him probably,” I explained. “Marlow here appears to know -something of every soul that ever went afloat in a sailor’s body.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell seemed wonderfully amenable to verbal suggestions for looking again -out of the window, he muttered: -</p> - -<p> -“He was a good soul.” -</p> - -<p> -This clearly referred to Captain Anthony of the <i>Ferndale</i>. Marlow -addressed his protest to me. -</p> - -<p> -“I did not know him. I really didn’t. He was a good soul. That’s nothing very -much out of the way—is it? And I didn’t even know that much of him. All I knew -of him was an accident called Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -At this Mr. Powell who evidently could be rebellious too turned his back -squarely on the window. -</p> - -<p> -“What on earth do you mean?” he asked. “An—accident—called Fyne,” he repeated -separating the words with emphasis. -</p> - -<p> -Marlow was not disconcerted. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t mean accident in the sense of a mishap. Not in the least. Fyne was a -good little man in the Civil Service. By accident I mean that which happens -blindly and without intelligent design. That’s generally the way a -brother-in-law happens into a man’s life.” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow’s tone being apologetic and our new acquaintance having again turned to -the window I took it upon myself to say: -</p> - -<p> -“You are justified. There is very little intelligent design in the majority of -marriages; but they are none the worse for that. Intelligence leads people -astray as far as passion sometimes. I know you are not a cynic.” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow smiled his retrospective smile which was kind as though he bore no -grudge against people he used to know. -</p> - -<p> -“Little Fyne’s marriage was quite successful. There was no design at all in it. -Fyne, you must know, was an enthusiastic pedestrian. He spent his holidays -tramping all over our native land. His tastes were simple. He put infinite -conviction and perseverance into his holidays. At the proper season you would -meet in the fields, Fyne, a serious-faced, broad-chested, little man, with a -shabby knap-sack on his back, making for some church steeple. He had a horror -of roads. He wrote once a little book called the ‘Tramp’s Itinerary,’ and was -recognised as an authority on the footpaths of England. So one year, in his -favourite over-the-fields, back-way fashion he entered a pretty Surrey village -where he met Miss Anthony. Pure accident, you see. They came to an -understanding, across some stile, most likely. Little Fyne held very solemn -views as to the destiny of women on this earth, the nature of our sublunary -love, the obligations of this transient life and so on. He probably disclosed -them to his future wife. Miss Anthony’s views of life were very decided too but -in a different way. I don’t know the story of their wooing. I imagine it was -carried on clandestinely and, I am certain, with portentous gravity, at the -back of copses, behind hedges . . . -</p> - -<p> -“Why was it carried on clandestinely?” I inquired. -</p> - -<p> -“Because of the lady’s father. He was a savage sentimentalist who had his own -decided views of his paternal prerogatives. He was a terror; but the only -evidence of imaginative faculty about Fyne was his pride in his wife’s -parentage. It stimulated his ingenuity too. Difficult—is it not?—to introduce -one’s wife’s maiden name into general conversation. But my simple Fyne made use -of Captain Anthony for that purpose, or else I would never even have heard of -the man. “My wife’s sailor-brother” was the phrase. He trotted out the -sailor-brother in a pretty wide range of subjects: Indian and colonial affairs, -matters of trade, talk of travels, of seaside holidays and so on. Once I -remember “My wife’s sailor-brother Captain Anthony” being produced in -connection with nothing less recondite than a sunset. And little Fyne never -failed to add “The son of Carleon Anthony, the poet—you know.” He used to lower -his voice for that statement, and people were impressed or pretended to be.” -</p> - -<p> -The late Carleon Anthony, the poet, sang in his time of the domestic and social -amenities of our age with a most felicitous versification, his object being, in -his own words, “to glorify the result of six thousand years’ evolution towards -the refinement of thought, manners and feelings.” Why he fixed the term at six -thousand years I don’t know. His poems read like sentimental novels told in -verse of a really superior quality. You felt as if you were being taken out for -a delightful country drive by a charming lady in a pony carriage. But in his -domestic life that same Carleon Anthony showed traces of the primitive -cave-dweller’s temperament. He was a massive, implacable man with a handsome -face, arbitrary and exacting with his dependants, but marvellously suave in his -manner to admiring strangers. These contrasted displays must have been -particularly exasperating to his long-suffering family. After his second wife’s -death his boy, whom he persisted by a mere whim in educating at home, ran away -in conventional style and, as if disgusted with the amenities of civilization, -threw himself, figuratively speaking, into the sea. The daughter (the elder of -the two children) either from compassion or because women are naturally more -enduring, remained in bondage to the poet for several years, till she too -seized a chance of escape by throwing herself into the arms, the muscular arms, -of the pedestrian Fyne. This was either great luck or great sagacity. A civil -servant is, I should imagine, the last human being in the world to preserve -those traits of the cave-dweller from which she was fleeing. Her father would -never consent to see her after the marriage. Such unforgiving selfishness is -difficult to understand unless as a perverse sort of refinement. There were -also doubts as to Carleon Anthony’s complete sanity for some considerable time -before he died. -</p> - -<p> -Most of the above I elicited from Marlow, for all I knew of Carleon Anthony was -his unexciting but fascinating verse. Marlow assured me that the Fyne marriage -was perfectly successful and even happy, in an earnest, unplayful fashion, -being blessed besides by three healthy, active, self-reliant children, all -girls. They were all pedestrians too. Even the youngest would wander away for -miles if not restrained. Mrs. Fyne had a ruddy out-of-doors complexion and wore -blouses with a starched front like a man’s shirt, a stand-up collar and a long -necktie. Marlow had made their acquaintance one summer in the country, where -they were accustomed to take a cottage for the holidays . . . -</p> - -<p> -At this point we were interrupted by Mr. Powell who declared that he must leave -us. The tide was on the turn, he announced coming away from the window -abruptly. He wanted to be on board his cutter before she swung and of course he -would sleep on board. Never slept away from the cutter while on a cruise. He -was gone in a moment, unceremoniously, but giving us no offence and leaving -behind an impression as though we had known him for a long time. The ingenuous -way he had told us of his start in life had something to do with putting him on -that footing with us. I gave no thought to seeing him again. -</p> - -<p> -Marlow expressed a confident hope of coming across him before long. -</p> - -<p> -“He cruises about the mouth of the river all the summer. He will be easy to -find any week-end,” he remarked ringing the bell so that we might settle up -with the waiter. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Later on I asked Marlow why he wished to cultivate this chance acquaintance. He -confessed apologetically that it was the commonest sort of curiosity. I flatter -myself that I understand all sorts of curiosity. Curiosity about daily facts, -about daily things, about daily men. It is the most respectable faculty of the -human mind—in fact I cannot conceive the uses of an incurious mind. It would be -like a chamber perpetually locked up. But in this particular case Mr. Powell -seemed to have given us already a complete insight into his personality such as -it was; a personality capable of perception and with a feeling for the vagaries -of fate, but essentially simple in itself. -</p> - -<p> -Marlow agreed with me so far. He explained however that his curiosity was not -excited by Mr. Powell exclusively. It originated a good way further back in the -fact of his accidental acquaintance with the Fynes, in the country. This chance -meeting with a man who had sailed with Captain Anthony had revived it. It had -revived it to some purpose, to such purpose that to me too was given the -knowledge of its origin and of its nature. It was given to me in several -stages, at intervals which are not indicated here. On this first occasion I -remarked to Marlow with some surprise: -</p> - -<p> -“But, if I remember rightly you said you didn’t know Captain Anthony.” -</p> - -<p> -“No. I never saw the man. It’s years ago now, but I seem to hear solemn little -Fyne’s deep voice announcing the approaching visit of his wife’s brother “the -son of the poet, you know.” He had just arrived in London from a long voyage, -and, directly his occupations permitted, was coming down to stay with his -relatives for a few weeks. No doubt we two should find many things to talk -about by ourselves in reference to our common calling, added little Fyne -portentously in his grave undertones, as if the Mercantile Marine were a secret -society. -</p> - -<p> -You must understand that I cultivated the Fynes only in the country, in their -holiday time. This was the third year. Of their existence in town I knew no -more than may be inferred from analogy. I played chess with Fyne in the late -afternoon, and sometimes came over to the cottage early enough to have tea with -the whole family at a big round table. They sat about it, an unsmiling, -sunburnt company of very few words indeed. Even the children were silent and as -if contemptuous of each other and of their elders. Fyne muttered sometimes deep -down in his chest some insignificant remark. Mrs. Fyne smiled mechanically (she -had splendid teeth) while distributing tea and bread and butter. A something -which was not coldness, nor yet indifference, but a sort of peculiar -self-possession gave her the appearance of a very trustworthy, very capable and -excellent governess; as if Fyne were a widower and the children not her own but -only entrusted to her calm, efficient, unemotional care. One expected her to -address Fyne as Mr. When she called him John it surprised one like a shocking -familiarity. The atmosphere of that holiday was—if I may put it so—brightly -dull. Healthy faces, fair complexions, clear eyes, and never a frank smile in -the whole lot, unless perhaps from a girl-friend. -</p> - -<p> -The girl-friend problem exercised me greatly. How and where the Fynes got all -these pretty creatures to come and stay with them I can’t imagine. I had at -first the wild suspicion that they were obtained to amuse Fyne. But I soon -discovered that he could hardly tell one from the other, though obviously their -presence met with his solemn approval. These girls in fact came for Mrs. Fyne. -They treated her with admiring deference. She answered to some need of theirs. -They sat at her feet. They were like disciples. It was very curious. Of Fyne -they took but scanty notice. As to myself I was made to feel that I did not -exist. -</p> - -<p> -After tea we would sit down to chess and then Fyne’s everlasting gravity became -faintly tinged by an attenuated gleam of something inward which resembled sly -satisfaction. Of the divine frivolity of laughter he was only capable over a -chess-board. Certain positions of the game struck him as humorous, which -nothing else on earth could do . . . -</p> - -<p> -“He used to beat you,” I asserted with confidence. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. He used to beat me,” Marlow owned up hastily. -</p> - -<p> -So he and Fyne played two games after tea. The children romped together -outside, gravely, unplayfully, as one would expect from Fyne’s children, and -Mrs. Fyne would be gone to the bottom of the garden with the girl-friend of the -week. She always walked off directly after tea with her arm round the -girl-friend’s waist. Marlow said that there was only one girl-friend with whom -he had conversed at all. It had happened quite unexpectedly, long after he had -given up all hope of getting into touch with these reserved girl-friends. -</p> - -<p> -One day he saw a woman walking about on the edge of a high quarry, which rose a -sheer hundred feet, at least, from the road winding up the hill out of which it -had been excavated. He shouted warningly to her from below where he happened to -be passing. She was really in considerable danger. At the sound of his voice -she started back and retreated out of his sight amongst some young Scotch firs -growing near the very brink of the precipice. -</p> - -<p> -“I sat down on a bank of grass,” Marlow went on. “She had given me a turn. The -hem of her skirt seemed to float over that awful sheer drop, she was so close -to the edge. An absurd thing to do. A perfectly mad trick—for no conceivable -object! I was reflecting on the foolhardiness of the average girl and -remembering some other instances of the kind, when she came into view walking -down the steep curve of the road. She had Mrs. Fyne’s walking-stick and was -escorted by the Fyne dog. Her dead white face struck me with astonishment, so -that I forgot to raise my hat. I just sat and stared. The dog, a vivacious and -amiable animal which for some inscrutable reason had bestowed his friendship on -my unworthy self, rushed up the bank demonstratively and insinuated himself -under my arm. -</p> - -<p> -The girl-friend (it was one of them) went past some way as though she had not -seen me, then stopped and called the dog to her several times; but he only -nestled closer to my side, and when I tried to push him away developed that -remarkable power of internal resistance by which a dog makes himself -practically immovable by anything short of a kick. She looked over her shoulder -and her arched eyebrows frowned above her blanched face. It was almost a scowl. -Then the expression changed. She looked unhappy. “Come here!” she cried once -more in an angry and distressed tone. I took off my hat at last, but the dog -hanging out his tongue with that cheerfully imbecile expression some dogs know -so well how to put on when it suits their purpose, pretended to be deaf. -</p> - -<p> -She cried from the distance desperately. -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps you will take him to the cottage then. I can’t wait.” -</p> - -<p> -“I won’t be responsible for that dog,” I protested getting down the bank and -advancing towards her. She looked very hurt, apparently by the desertion of the -dog. “But if you let me walk with you he will follow us all right,” I -suggested. -</p> - -<p> -She moved on without answering me. The dog launched himself suddenly full speed -down the road receding from us in a small cloud of dust. It vanished in the -distance, and presently we came up with him lying on the grass. He panted in -the shade of the hedge with shining eyes but pretended not to see us. We had -not exchanged a word so far. The girl by my side gave him a scornful glance in -passing. -</p> - -<p> -“He offered to come with me,” she remarked bitterly. -</p> - -<p> -“And then abandoned you!” I sympathized. “It looks very unchivalrous. But -that’s merely his want of tact. I believe he meant to protest against your -reckless proceedings. What made you come so near the edge of that quarry? The -earth might have given way. Haven’t you noticed a smashed fir tree at the -bottom? Tumbled over only the other morning after a night’s rain.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t see why I shouldn’t be as reckless as I please.” -</p> - -<p> -I was nettled by her brusque manner of asserting her folly, and I told her that -neither did I as far as that went, in a tone which almost suggested that she -was welcome to break her neck for all I cared. This was considerably more than -I meant, but I don’t like rude girls. I had been introduced to her only the day -before—at the round tea-table—and she had barely acknowledged the introduction. -I had not caught her name but I had noticed her fine, arched eyebrows which, so -the physiognomists say, are a sign of courage. -</p> - -<p> -I examined her appearance quietly. Her hair was nearly black, her eyes blue, -deeply shaded by long dark eyelashes. She had a little colour now. She looked -straight before her; the corner of her lip on my side drooped a little; her -chin was fine, somewhat pointed. I went on to say that some regard for others -should stand in the way of one’s playing with danger. I urged playfully the -distress of the poor Fynes in case of accident, if nothing else. I told her -that she did not know the bucolic mind. Had she given occasion for a coroner’s -inquest the verdict would have been suicide, with the implication of unhappy -love. They would never be able to understand that she had taken the trouble to -climb over two post-and-rail fences only for the fun of being reckless. Indeed -even as I talked chaffingly I was greatly struck myself by the fact. -</p> - -<p> -She retorted that once one was dead what horrid people thought of one did not -matter. It was said with infinite contempt; but something like a suppressed -quaver in the voice made me look at her again. I perceived then that her thick -eyelashes were wet. This surprising discovery silenced me as you may guess. She -looked unhappy. And—I don’t know how to say it—well—it suited her. The clouded -brow, the pained mouth, the vague fixed glance! A victim. And this -characteristic aspect made her attractive; an individual touch—you know. -</p> - -<p> -The dog had run on ahead and now gazed at us by the side of the Fyne’s -garden-gate in a tense attitude and wagging his stumpy tail very, very slowly, -with an air of concentrated attention. The girl-friend of the Fynes bolted -violently through the aforesaid gate and into the cottage leaving me on the -road—astounded. -</p> - -<p> -A couple of hours afterwards I returned to the cottage for chess as usual. I -saw neither the girl nor Mrs. Fyne then. We had our two games and on parting I -warned Fyne that I was called to town on business and might be away for some -time. He regretted it very much. His brother-in-law was expected next day but -he didn’t know whether he was a chess-player. Captain Anthony (“the son of the -poet—you know”) was of a retiring disposition, shy with strangers, unused to -society and very much devoted to his calling, Fyne explained. All the time they -had been married he could be induced only once before to come and stay with -them for a few days. He had had a rather unhappy boyhood; and it made him a -silent man. But no doubt, concluded Fyne, as if dealing portentously with a -mystery, we two sailors should find much to say to one another. -</p> - -<p> -This point was never settled. I was detained in town from week to week till it -seemed hardly worth while to go back. But as I had kept on my rooms in the -farmhouse I concluded to go down again for a few days. -</p> - -<p> -It was late, deep dusk, when I got out at our little country station. My eyes -fell on the unmistakable broad back and the muscular legs in cycling stockings -of little Fyne. He passed along the carriages rapidly towards the rear of the -train, which presently pulled out and left him solitary at the end of the -rustic platform. When he came back to where I waited I perceived that he was -much perturbed, so perturbed as to forget the convention of the usual -greetings. He only exclaimed Oh! on recognizing me, and stopped irresolute. -When I asked him if he had been expecting somebody by that train he didn’t seem -to know. He stammered disconnectedly. I looked hard at him. To all appearances -he was perfectly sober; moreover to suspect Fyne of a lapse from the -proprieties high or low, great or small, was absurd. He was also a too serious -and deliberate person to go mad suddenly. But as he seemed to have forgotten -that he had a tongue in his head I concluded I would leave him to his mystery. -To my surprise he followed me out of the station and kept by my side, though I -did not encourage him. I did not however repulse his attempts at conversation. -He was no longer expecting me, he said. He had given me up. The weather had -been uniformly fine—and so on. I gathered also that the son of the poet had -curtailed his stay somewhat and gone back to his ship the day before. -</p> - -<p> -That information touched me but little. Believing in heredity in moderation I -knew well how sea-life fashions a man outwardly and stamps his soul with the -mark of a certain prosaic fitness—because a sailor is not an adventurer. I -expressed no regret at missing Captain Anthony and we proceeded in silence -till, on approaching the holiday cottage, Fyne suddenly and unexpectedly broke -it by the hurried declaration that he would go on with me a little farther. -</p> - -<p> -“Go with you to your door,” he mumbled and started forward to the little gate -where the shadowy figure of Mrs. Fyne hovered, clearly on the lookout for him. -She was alone. The children must have been already in bed and I saw no -attending girl-friend shadow near her vague but unmistakable form, half-lost in -the obscurity of the little garden. -</p> - -<p> -I heard Fyne exclaim “Nothing” and then Mrs. Fyne’s well-trained, responsible -voice uttered the words, “It’s what I have said,” with incisive equanimity. By -that time I had passed on, raising my hat. Almost at once Fyne caught me up and -slowed down to my strolling gait which must have been infinitely irksome to his -high pedestrian faculties. I am sure that all his muscular person must have -suffered from awful physical boredom; but he did not attempt to charm it away -by conversation. He preserved a portentous and dreary silence. And I was bored -too. Suddenly I perceived the menace of even worse boredom. Yes! He was so -silent because he had something to tell me. -</p> - -<p> -I became extremely frightened. But man, reckless animal, is so made that in him -curiosity, the paltriest curiosity, will overcome all terrors, every disgust, -and even despair itself. To my laconic invitation to come in for a drink he -answered by a deep, gravely accented: “Thanks, I will” as though it were a -response in church. His face as seen in the lamplight gave me no clue to the -character of the impending communication; as indeed from the nature of things -it couldn’t do, its normal expression being already that of the utmost possible -seriousness. It was perfect and immovable; and for a certainty if he had -something excruciatingly funny to tell me it would be all the same. -</p> - -<p> -He gazed at me earnestly and delivered himself of some weighty remarks on Mrs. -Fyne’s desire to befriend, counsel, and guide young girls of all sorts on the -path of life. It was a voluntary mission. He approved his wife’s action and -also her views and principles in general. -</p> - -<p> -All this with a solemn countenance and in deep measured tones. Yet somehow I -got an irresistible conviction that he was exasperated by something in -particular. In the unworthy hope of being amused by the misfortunes of a -fellow-creature I asked him point-blank what was wrong now. -</p> - -<p> -What was wrong was that a girl-friend was missing. She had been missing -precisely since six o’clock that morning. The woman who did the work of the -cottage saw her going out at that hour, for a walk. The pedestrian Fyne’s ideas -of a walk were extensive, but the girl did not turn up for lunch, nor yet for -tea, nor yet for dinner. She had not turned up by footpath, road or rail. He -had been reluctant to make inquiries. It would have set all the village -talking. The Fynes had expected her to reappear every moment, till the shades -of the night and the silence of slumber had stolen gradually over the wide and -peaceful rural landscape commanded by the cottage. -</p> - -<p> -After telling me that much Fyne sat helpless in unconclusive agony. Going to -bed was out of the question—neither could any steps be taken just then. What to -do with himself he did not know! -</p> - -<p> -I asked him if this was the same young lady I saw a day or two before I went to -town? He really could not remember. Was she a girl with dark hair and blue -eyes? I asked further. He really couldn’t tell what colour her eyes were. He -was very unobservant except as to the peculiarities of footpaths, on which he -was an authority. -</p> - -<p> -I thought with amazement and some admiration that Mrs. Fyne’s young disciples -were to her husband’s gravity no more than evanescent shadows. However, with -but little hesitation Fyne ventured to affirm that—yes, her hair was of some -dark shade. -</p> - -<p> -“We had a good deal to do with that girl first and last,” he explained -solemnly; then getting up as if moved by a spring he snatched his cap off the -table. “She may be back in the cottage,” he cried in his bass voice. I followed -him out on the road. -</p> - -<p> -It was one of those dewy, clear, starry nights, oppressing our spirit, crushing -our pride, by the brilliant evidence of the awful loneliness, of the hopeless -obscure insignificance of our globe lost in the splendid revelation of a -glittering, soulless universe. I hate such skies. Daylight is friendly to man -toiling under a sun which warms his heart; and cloudy soft nights are more -kindly to our littleness. I nearly ran back again to my lighted parlour; Fyne -fussing in a knicker-bocker suit before the hosts of heaven, on a shadowy -earth, about a transient, phantom-like girl, seemed too ridiculous to associate -with. On the other hand there was something fascinating in the very absurdity. -He cut along in his best pedestrian style and I found myself let in for a spell -of severe exercise at eleven o’clock at night. -</p> - -<p> -In the distance over the fields and trees smudging and blotching the vast -obscurity, one lighted window of the cottage with the blind up was like a -bright beacon kept alight to guide the lost wanderer. Inside, at the table -bearing the lamp, we saw Mrs. Fyne sitting with folded arms and not a hair of -her head out of place. She looked exactly like a governess who had put the -children to bed; and her manner to me was just the neutral manner of a -governess. To her husband, too, for that matter. -</p> - -<p> -Fyne told her that I was fully informed. Not a muscle of her ruddy smooth -handsome face moved. She had schooled herself into that sort of thing. Having -seen two successive wives of the delicate poet chivied and worried into their -graves, she had adopted that cool, detached manner to meet her gifted father’s -outbreaks of selfish temper. It had now become a second nature. I suppose she -was always like that; even in the very hour of elopement with Fyne. That -transaction when one remembered it in her presence acquired a quaintly -marvellous aspect to one’s imagination. But somehow her self-possession matched -very well little Fyne’s invariable solemnity. -</p> - -<p> -I was rather sorry for him. Wasn’t he worried! The agony of solemnity. At the -same time I was amused. I didn’t take a gloomy view of that “vanishing girl” -trick. Somehow I couldn’t. But I said nothing. None of us said anything. We sat -about that big round table as if assembled for a conference and looked at each -other in a sort of fatuous consternation. I would have ended by laughing -outright if I had not been saved from that impropriety by poor Fyne becoming -preposterous. -</p> - -<p> -He began with grave anguish to talk of going to the police in the morning, of -printing descriptive bills, of setting people to drag the ponds for miles -around. It was extremely gruesome. I murmured something about communicating -with the young lady’s relatives. It seemed to me a very natural suggestion; but -Fyne and his wife exchanged such a significant glance that I felt as though I -had made a tactless remark. -</p> - -<p> -But I really wanted to help poor Fyne; and as I could see that, manlike, he -suffered from the present inability to act, the passive waiting, I said: -“Nothing of this can be done till to-morrow. But as you have given me an -insight into the nature of your thoughts I can tell you what may be done at -once. We may go and look at the bottom of the old quarry which is on the level -of the road, about a mile from here.” -</p> - -<p> -The couple made big eyes at this, and then I told them of my meeting with the -girl. You may be surprised but I assure you I had not perceived this aspect of -it till that very moment. It was like a startling revelation; the past throwing -a sinister light on the future. Fyne opened his mouth gravely and as gravely -shut it. Nothing more. Mrs. Fyne said, “You had better go,” with an air as if -her self-possession had been pricked with a pin in some secret place. -</p> - -<p> -And I—you know how stupid I can be at times—I perceived with dismay for the -first time that by pandering to Fyne’s morbid fancies I had let myself in for -some more severe exercise. And wasn’t I sorry I spoke! You know how I hate -walking—at least on solid, rural earth; for I can walk a ship’s deck a whole -foggy night through, if necessary, and think little of it. There is some -satisfaction too in playing the vagabond in the streets of a big town till the -sky pales above the ridges of the roofs. I have done that repeatedly for -pleasure—of a sort. But to tramp the slumbering country-side in the dark is for -me a wearisome nightmare of exertion. -</p> - -<p> -With perfect detachment Mrs. Fyne watched me go out after her husband. That -woman was flint. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -The fresh night had a smell of soil, of turned-up sods like a grave—an -association particularly odious to a sailor by its idea of confinement and -narrowness; yes, even when he has given up the hope of being buried at sea; -about the last hope a sailor gives up consciously after he has been, as it does -happen, decoyed by some chance into the toils of the land. A strong grave-like -sniff. The ditch by the side of the road must have been freshly dug in front of -the cottage. -</p> - -<p> -Once clear of the garden Fyne gathered way like a racing cutter. What was a -mile to him—or twenty miles? You think he might have gone shrinkingly on such -an errand. But not a bit of it. The force of pedestrian genius I suppose. I -raced by his side in a mood of profound self-derision, and infinitely vexed -with that minx. Because dead or alive I thought of her as a minx . . .” -</p> - -<p> -I smiled incredulously at Marlow’s ferocity; but Marlow pausing with a -whimsically retrospective air, never flinched. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yes. Even dead. And now you are shocked. You see, you are such a -chivalrous masculine beggar. But there is enough of the woman in my nature to -free my judgment of women from glamorous reticency. And then, why should I -upset myself? A woman is not necessarily either a doll or an angel to me. She -is a human being, very much like myself. And I have come across too many dead -souls lying so to speak at the foot of high unscaleable places for a merely -possible dead body at the bottom of a quarry to strike my sincerity dumb. -</p> - -<p> -The cliff-like face of the quarry looked forbiddingly impressive. I will admit -that Fyne and I hung back for a moment before we made a plunge off the road -into the bushes growing in a broad space at the foot of the towering limestone -wall. These bushes were heavy with dew. There were also concealed mudholes in -there. We crept and tumbled and felt about with our hands along the ground. We -got wet, scratched, and plastered with mire all over our nether garments. Fyne -fell suddenly into a strange cavity—probably a disused lime-kiln. His voice -uplifted in grave distress sounded more than usually rich, solemn and profound. -This was the comic relief of an absurdly dramatic situation. While hauling him -out I permitted myself to laugh aloud at last. Fyne, of course, didn’t. -</p> - -<p> -I need not tell you that we found nothing after a most conscientious search. -Fyne even pushed his way into a decaying shed half-buried in dew-soaked -vegetation. He struck matches, several of them too, as if to make absolutely -sure that the vanished girl-friend of his wife was not hiding there. The short -flares illuminated his grave, immovable countenance while I let myself go -completely and laughed in peals. -</p> - -<p> -I asked him if he really and truly supposed that any sane girl would go and -hide in that shed; and if so why? -</p> - -<p> -Disdainful of my mirth he merely muttered his basso-profundo thankfulness that -we had not found her anywhere about there. Having grown extremely sensitive (an -effect of irritation) to the tonalities, I may say, of this affair, I felt that -it was only an imperfect, reserved, thankfulness, with one eye still on the -possibilities of the several ponds in the neighbourhood. And I remember I -snorted, I positively snorted, at that poor Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -What really jarred upon me was the rate of his walking. Differences in -politics, in ethics and even in aesthetics need not arouse angry antagonism. -One’s opinion may change; one’s tastes may alter—in fact they do. One’s very -conception of virtue is at the mercy of some felicitous temptation which may be -sprung on one any day. All these things are perpetually on the swing. But a -temperamental difference, temperament being immutable, is the parent of hate. -That’s why religious quarrels are the fiercest of all. My temperament, in -matters pertaining to solid land, is the temperament of leisurely movement, of -deliberate gait. And there was that little Fyne pounding along the road in a -most offensive manner; a man wedded to thick-soled, laced boots; whereas my -temperament demands thin shoes of the lightest kind. Of course there could -never have been question of friendship between us; but under the provocation of -having to keep up with his pace I began to dislike him actively. I begged -sarcastically to know whether he could tell me if we were engaged in a farce or -in a tragedy. I wanted to regulate my feelings which, I told him, were in an -unbecoming state of confusion. -</p> - -<p> -But Fyne was as impervious to sarcasm as a turtle. He tramped on, and all he -did was to ejaculate twice out of his deep chest, vaguely, doubtfully. -</p> - -<p> -“I am afraid . . . I am afraid! . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -This was tragic. The thump of his boots was the only sound in a shadowy world. -I kept by his side with a comparatively ghostly, silent tread. By a strange -illusion the road appeared to run up against a lot of low stars at no very -great distance, but as we advanced new stretches of whitey-brown ribbon seemed -to come up from under the black ground. I observed, as we went by, the lamp in -my parlour in the farmhouse still burning. But I did not leave Fyne to run in -and put it out. The impetus of his pedestrian excellence carried me past in his -wake before I could make up my mind. -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me, Fyne,” I cried, “you don’t think the girl was mad—do you?” -</p> - -<p> -He answered nothing. Soon the lighted beacon-like window of the cottage came -into view. Then Fyne uttered a solemn: “Certainly not,” with profound -assurance. But immediately after he added a “Very highly strung young person -indeed,” which unsettled me again. Was it a tragedy? -</p> - -<p> -“Nobody ever got up at six o’clock in the morning to commit suicide,” I -declared crustily. “It’s unheard of! This is a farce.” -</p> - -<p> -As a matter of fact it was neither farce nor tragedy. -</p> - -<p> -Coming up to the cottage we had a view of Mrs. Fyne inside still sitting in the -strong light at the round table with folded arms. It looked as though she had -not moved her very head by as much as an inch since we went away. She was -amazing in a sort of unsubtle way; crudely amazing—I thought. Why crudely? I -don’t know. Perhaps because I saw her then in a crude light. I mean this -materially—in the light of an unshaded lamp. Our mental conclusions depend so -much on momentary physical sensations—don’t they? If the lamp had been shaded I -should perhaps have gone home after expressing politely my concern at the -Fynes’ unpleasant predicament. -</p> - -<p> -Losing a girl-friend in that manner is unpleasant. It is also mysterious. So -mysterious that a certain mystery attaches to the people to whom such a thing -does happen. Moreover I had never really understood the Fynes; he with his -solemnity which extended to the very eating of bread and butter; she with that -air of detachment and resolution in breasting the common-place current of their -unexciting life, in which the cutting of bread and butter appeared to me, by a -long way, the most dangerous episode. Sometimes I amused myself by supposing -that to their minds this world of ours must be wearing a perfectly overwhelming -aspect, and that their heads contained respectively awfully serious and -extremely desperate thoughts—and trying to imagine what an exciting time they -must be having of it in the inscrutable depths of their being. This last was -difficult to a volatile person (I am sure that to the Fynes I was a volatile -person) and the amusement in itself was not very great; but still—in the -country—away from all mental stimulants! . . . My efforts had invested them -with a sort of amusing profundity. -</p> - -<p> -But when Fyne and I got back into the room, then in the searching, domestic, -glare of the lamp, inimical to the play of fancy, I saw these two stripped of -every vesture it had amused me to put on them for fun. Queer enough they were. -Is there a human being that isn’t that—more or less secretly? But whatever -their secret, it was manifest to me that it was neither subtle nor profound. -They were a good, stupid, earnest couple and very much bothered. They were -that—with the usual unshaded crudity of average people. There was nothing in -them that the lamplight might not touch without the slightest risk of -indiscretion. -</p> - -<p> -Directly we had entered the room Fyne announced the result by saying “Nothing” -in the same tone as at the gate on his return from the railway station. And as -then Mrs. Fyne uttered an incisive “It’s what I’ve said,” which might have been -the veriest echo of her words in the garden. We three looked at each other as -if on the brink of a disclosure. I don’t know whether she was vexed at my -presence. It could hardly be called intrusion—could it? Little Fyne began it. -It had to go on. We stood before her, plastered with the same mud (Fyne was a -sight!), scratched by the same brambles, conscious of the same experience. Yes. -Before her. And she looked at us with folded arms, with an extraordinary -fulness of assumed responsibility. I addressed her. -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t believe in an accident, Mrs. Fyne, do you?” -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head in curt negation while, caked in mud and inexpressibly -serious-faced, Fyne seemed to be backing her up with all the weight of his -solemn presence. Nothing more absurd could be conceived. It was delicious. And -I went on in deferential accents: “Am I to understand then that you entertain -the theory of suicide?” -</p> - -<p> -I don’t know that I am liable to fits of delirium but by a sudden and alarming -aberration while waiting for her answer I became mentally aware of three -trained dogs dancing on their hind legs. I don’t know why. Perhaps because of -the pervading solemnity. There’s nothing more solemn on earth than a dance of -trained dogs. -</p> - -<p> -“She has chosen to disappear. That’s all.” -</p> - -<p> -In these words Mrs. Fyne answered me. The aggressive tone was too much for my -endurance. In an instant I found myself out of the dance and down on all-fours -so to speak, with liberty to bark and bite. -</p> - -<p> -“The devil she has,” I cried. “Has chosen to . . . Like this, all at once, -anyhow, regardless . . . I’ve had the privilege of meeting that reckless and -brusque young lady and I must say that with her air of an angry victim . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Precisely,” Mrs. Fyne said very unexpectedly like a steel trap going off. I -stared at her. How provoking she was! So I went on to finish my tirade. “She -struck me at first sight as the most inconsiderate wrong-headed girl that I -ever . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Why should a girl be more considerate than anyone else? More than any man, for -instance?” inquired Mrs. Fyne with a still greater assertion of responsibility -in her bearing. -</p> - -<p> -Of course I exclaimed at this, not very loudly it is true, but forcibly. Were -then the feelings of friends, relations and even of strangers to be -disregarded? I asked Mrs. Fyne if she did not think it was a sort of duty to -show elementary consideration not only for the natural feelings but even for -the prejudices of one’s fellow-creatures. -</p> - -<p> -Her answer knocked me over. -</p> - -<p> -“Not for a woman.” -</p> - -<p> -Just like that. I confess that I went down flat. And while in that collapsed -state I learned the true nature of Mrs. Fyne’s feminist doctrine. It was not -political, it was not social. It was a knock-me-down doctrine—a practical -individualistic doctrine. You would not thank me for expounding it to you at -large. Indeed I think that she herself did not enlighten me fully. There must -have been things not fit for a man to hear. But shortly, and as far as my -bewilderment allowed me to grasp its naïve atrociousness, it was something -like this: that no consideration, no delicacy, no tenderness, no scruples -should stand in the way of a woman (who by the mere fact of her sex was the -predestined victim of conditions created by men’s selfish passions, their vices -and their abominable tyranny) from taking the shortest cut towards securing for -herself the easiest possible existence. She had even the right to go out of -existence without considering anyone’s feelings or convenience since some -women’s existences were made impossible by the shortsighted baseness of men. -</p> - -<p> -I looked at her, sitting before the lamp at one o’clock in the morning, with -her mature, smooth-cheeked face of masculine shape robbed of its freshness by -fatigue; at her eyes dimmed by this senseless vigil. I looked also at Fyne; the -mud was drying on him; he was obviously tired. The weariness of solemnity. But -he preserved an unflinching, endorsing, gravity of expression. Endorsing it all -as became a good, convinced husband. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! I see,” I said. “No consideration . . . Well I hope you like it.” -</p> - -<p> -They amused me beyond the wildest imaginings of which I was capable. After the -first shock, you understand, I recovered very quickly. The order of the world -was safe enough. He was a civil servant and she his good and faithful wife. But -when it comes to dealing with human beings anything, anything may be expected. -So even my astonishment did not last very long. How far she developed and -illustrated that conscienceless and austere doctrine to the girl-friends, who -were mere transient shadows to her husband, I could not tell. Any length I -supposed. And he looked on, acquiesced, approved, just for that very -reason—because these pretty girls were but shadows to him. O! Most virtuous -Fyne! He cast his eyes down. He didn’t like it. But I eyed him with hidden -animosity for he had got me to run after him under somewhat false pretences. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne had only smiled at me very expressively, very self-confidently. “Oh I -quite understand that you accept the fullest responsibility,” I said. “I am the -only ridiculous person in this—this—I don’t know how to call it—performance. -However, I’ve nothing more to do here, so I’ll say good-night—or good morning, -for it must be past one.” -</p> - -<p> -But before departing, in common decency, I offered to take any wires they might -write. My lodgings were nearer the post-office than the cottage and I would -send them off the first thing in the morning. I supposed they would wish to -communicate, if only as to the disposal of the luggage, with the young lady’s -relatives . . . -</p> - -<p> -Fyne, he looked rather downcast by then, thanked me and declined. -</p> - -<p> -“There is really no one,” he said, very grave. -</p> - -<p> -“No one,” I exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -“Practically,” said curt Mrs. Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -And my curiosity was aroused again. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! I see. An orphan.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne looked away weary and sombre, and Fyne said “Yes” impulsively, and -then qualified the affirmative by the quaint statement: “To a certain extent.” -</p> - -<p> -I became conscious of a languid, exhausted embarrassment, bowed to Mrs. Fyne, -and went out of the cottage to be confronted outside its door by the -bespangled, cruel revelation of the Immensity of the Universe. The night was -not sufficiently advanced for the stars to have paled; and the earth seemed to -me more profoundly asleep—perhaps because I was alone now. Not having Fyne with -me to set the pace I let myself drift, rather than walk, in the direction of -the farmhouse. To drift is the only reposeful sort of motion (ask any ship if -it isn’t) and therefore consistent with thoughtfulness. And I pondered: How is -one an orphan “to a certain extent”? -</p> - -<p> -No amount of solemnity could make such a statement other than bizarre. What a -strange condition to be in. Very likely one of the parents only was dead? But -no; it couldn’t be, since Fyne had said just before that “there was really no -one” to communicate with. No one! And then remembering Mrs. Fyne’s snappy -“Practically” my thoughts fastened upon that lady as a more tangible object of -speculation. -</p> - -<p> -I wondered—and wondering I doubted—whether she really understood herself the -theory she had propounded to me. Everything may be said—indeed ought to be -said—providing we know how to say it. She probably did not. She was not -intelligent enough for that. She had no knowledge of the world. She had got -hold of words as a child might get hold of some poisonous pills and play with -them for “dear, tiny little marbles.” No! The domestic-slave daughter of -Carleon Anthony and the little Fyne of the Civil Service (that flower of -civilization) were not intelligent people. They were commonplace, earnest, -without smiles and without guile. But he had his solemnities and she had her -reveries, her lurid, violent, crude reveries. And I thought with some sadness -that all these revolts and indignations, all these protests, revulsions of -feeling, pangs of suffering and of rage, expressed but the uneasiness of -sensual beings trying for their share in the joys of form, colour, -sensations—the only riches of our world of senses. A poet may be a simple being -but he is bound to be various and full of wiles, ingenious and irritable. I -reflected on the variety of ways the ingenuity of the late bard of civilization -would be able to invent for the tormenting of his dependants. Poets not being -generally foresighted in practical affairs, no vision of consequences would -restrain him. Yes. The Fynes were excellent people, but Mrs. Fyne wasn’t the -daughter of a domestic tyrant for nothing. There were no limits to her revolt. -But they were excellent people. It was clear that they must have been extremely -good to that girl whose position in the world seemed somewhat difficult, with -her face of a victim, her obvious lack of resignation and the bizarre status of -orphan “to a certain extent.” -</p> - -<p> -Such were my thoughts, but in truth I soon ceased to trouble about all these -people. I found that my lamp had gone out leaving behind an awful smell. I fled -from it up the stairs and went to bed in the dark. My slumbers—I suppose the -one good in pedestrian exercise, confound it, is that it helps our natural -callousness—my slumbers were deep, dreamless and refreshing. -</p> - -<p> -My appetite at breakfast was not affected by my ignorance of the facts, -motives, events and conclusions. I think that to understand everything is not -good for the intellect. A well-stocked intelligence weakens the impulse to -action; an overstocked one leads gently to idiocy. But Mrs. Fyne’s -individualist woman-doctrine, naïvely unscrupulous, flitted through my -mind. The salad of unprincipled notions she put into these girl-friends’ heads! -Good innocent creature, worthy wife, excellent mother (of the strict governess -type), she was as guileless of consequences as any determinist philosopher ever -was. -</p> - -<p> -As to honour—you know—it’s a very fine medieval inheritance which women never -got hold of. It wasn’t theirs. Since it may be laid as a general principle that -women always get what they want we must suppose they didn’t want it. In -addition they are devoid of decency. I mean masculine decency. Cautiousness too -is foreign to them—the heavy reasonable cautiousness which is our glory. And if -they had it they would make of it a thing of passion, so that its own mother—I -mean the mother of cautiousness—wouldn’t recognize it. Prudence with them is a -matter of thrill like the rest of sublunary contrivances. “Sensation at any -cost,” is their secret device. All the virtues are not enough for them; they -want also all the crimes for their own. And why? Because in such completeness -there is power—the kind of thrill they love most . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you expect me to agree to all this?” I interrupted. -</p> - -<p> -“No, it isn’t necessary,” said Marlow, feeling the check to his eloquence but -with a great effort at amiability. “You need not even understand it. I -continue: with such disposition what prevents women—to use the phrase an old -boatswain of my acquaintance applied descriptively to his captain—what prevents -them from “coming on deck and playing hell with the ship” generally, is that -something in them precise and mysterious, acting both as restraint and as -inspiration; their femininity in short which they think they can get rid of by -trying hard, but can’t, and never will. Therefore we may conclude that, for all -their enterprises, the world is and remains safe enough. Feeling, in my -character of a lover of peace, soothed by that conclusion I prepared myself to -enjoy a fine day. -</p> - -<p> -And it was a fine day; a delicious day, with the horror of the Infinite veiled -by the splendid tent of blue; a day innocently bright like a child with a -washed face, fresh like an innocent young girl, suave in welcoming one’s -respects like—like a Roman prelate. I love such days. They are perfection for -remaining indoors. And I enjoyed it temperamentally in a chair, my feet up on -the sill of the open window, a book in my hands and the murmured harmonies of -wind and sun in my heart making an accompaniment to the rhythms of my author. -Then looking up from the page I saw outside a pair of grey eyes thatched by -ragged yellowy-white eyebrows gazing at me solemnly over the toes of my -slippers. There was a grave, furrowed brow surmounting that portentous gaze, a -brown tweed cap set far back on the perspiring head. -</p> - -<p> -“Come inside,” I cried as heartily as my sinking heart would permit. -</p> - -<p> -After a short but severe scuffle with his dog at the outer door, Fyne entered. -I treated him without ceremony and only waved my hand towards a chair. Even -before he sat down he gasped out: -</p> - -<p> -“We’ve heard—midday post.” -</p> - -<p> -Gasped out! The grave, immovable Fyne of the Civil Service, gasped! This was -enough, you’ll admit, to cause me to put my feet to the ground swiftly. That -fellow was always making me do things in subtle discord with my meditative -temperament. No wonder that I had but a qualified liking for him. I said with -just a suspicion of jeering tone: -</p> - -<p> -“Of course. I told you last night on the road that it was a farce we were -engaged in.” -</p> - -<p> -He made the little parlour resound to its foundations with a note of anger -positively sepulchral in its depth of tone. “Farce be hanged! She has bolted -with my wife’s brother, Captain Anthony.” This outburst was followed by -complete subsidence. He faltered miserably as he added from force of habit: -“The son of the poet, you know.” -</p> - -<p> -A silence fell. Fyne’s several expressions were so many examples of varied -consistency. This was the discomfiture of solemnity. My interest of course was -revived. -</p> - -<p> -“But hold on,” I said. “They didn’t go together. Is it a suspicion or does she -actually say that . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“She has gone after him,” stated Fyne in comminatory tones. “By previous -arrangement. She confesses that much.” -</p> - -<p> -He added that it was very shocking. I asked him whether he should have -preferred them going off together; and on what ground he based that preference. -This was sheer fun for me in regard of the fact that Fyne’s too was a runaway -match, which even got into the papers in its time, because the late indignant -poet had no discretion and sought to avenge this outrage publicly in some -absurd way before a bewigged judge. The dejected gesture of little Fyne’s hand -disarmed my mocking mood. But I could not help expressing my surprise that Mrs. -Fyne had not detected at once what was brewing. Women were supposed to have an -unerring eye. -</p> - -<p> -He told me that his wife had been very much engaged in a certain work. I had -always wondered how she occupied her time. It was in writing. Like her husband -she too published a little book. Much later on I came upon it. It had nothing -to do with pedestrianism. It was a sort of hand-book for women with grievances -(and all women had them), a sort of compendious theory and practice of feminine -free morality. It made you laugh at its transparent simplicity. But that -authorship was revealed to me much later. I didn’t of course ask Fyne what work -his wife was engaged on; but I marvelled to myself at her complete ignorance of -the world, of her own sex and of the other kind of sinners. Yet, where could -she have got any experience? Her father had kept her strictly cloistered. -Marriage with Fyne was certainly a change but only to another kind of -claustration. You may tell me that the ordinary powers of observation ought to -have been enough. Why, yes! But, then, as she had set up for a guide and -teacher, there was nothing surprising for me in the discovery that she was -blind. That’s quite in order. She was a profoundly innocent person; only it -would not have been proper to tell her husband so. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER THREE—THRIFT—AND THE CHILD</h3> - -<p> -But there was nothing improper in my observing to Fyne that, last night, Mrs. -Fyne seemed to have some idea where that enterprising young lady had gone to. -Fyne shook his head. No; his wife had been by no means so certain as she had -pretended to be. She merely had her reasons to think, to hope, that the girl -might have taken a room somewhere in London, had buried herself in town—in -readiness or perhaps in horror of the approaching day— -</p> - -<p> -He ceased and sat solemnly dejected, in a brown study. “What day?” I asked at -last; but he did not hear me apparently. He diffused such portentous gloom into -the atmosphere that I lost patience with him. -</p> - -<p> -“What on earth are you so dismal about?” I cried, being genuinely surprised and -puzzled. “One would think the girl was a state prisoner under your care.” -</p> - -<p> -And suddenly I became still more surprised at myself, at the way I had somehow -taken for granted things which did appear queer when one thought them out. -</p> - -<p> -“But why this secrecy? Why did they elope—if it is an elopement? Was the girl -afraid of your wife? And your brother-in-law? What on earth possesses him to -make a clandestine match of it? Was he afraid of your wife too?” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne made an effort to rouse himself. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course my brother-in-law, Captain Anthony, the son of . . . ” He checked -himself as if trying to break a bad habit. “He would be persuaded by her. We -have been most friendly to the girl!” -</p> - -<p> -“She struck me as a foolish and inconsiderate little person. But why should you -and your wife take to heart so strongly mere folly—or even a want of -consideration?” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s the most unscrupulous action,” declared Fyne weightily—and sighed. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose she is poor,” I observed after a short silence. “But after all . . . -” -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t know who she is.” Fyne had regained his average solemnity. -</p> - -<p> -I confessed that I had not caught her name when his wife had introduced us to -each other. “It was something beginning with an S- wasn’t it?” And then with -the utmost coolness Fyne remarked that it did not matter. The name was not her -name. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you mean to say that you made a young lady known to me under a false name?” -I asked, with the amused feeling that the days of wonders and portents had not -passed away yet. That the eminently serious Fynes should do such an exceptional -thing was simply staggering. With a more hasty enunciation than usual little -Fyne was sure that I would not demand an apology for this irregularity if I -knew what her real name was. A sort of warmth crept into his deep tone. -</p> - -<p> -“We have tried to befriend that girl in every way. She is the daughter and only -child of de Barral.” -</p> - -<p> -Evidently he expected to produce a sensation; he kept his eyes fixed upon me -prepared for some sign of it. But I merely returned his intense, awaiting gaze. -For a time we stared at each other. Conscious of being reprehensibly dense I -groped in the darkness of my mind: De Barral, De Barral—and all at once noise -and light burst on me as if a window of my memory had been suddenly flung open -on a street in the City. De Barral! But could it be the same? Surely not! -</p> - -<p> -“The financier?” I suggested half incredulous. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” said Fyne; and in this instance his native solemnity of tone seemed to -be strangely appropriate. “The convict.” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow looked at me, significantly, and remarked in an explanatory tone: -</p> - -<p> -“One somehow never thought of de Barral as having any children, or any other -home than the offices of the “Orb”; or any other existence, associations or -interests than financial. I see you remember the crash . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“I was away in the Indian Seas at the time,” I said. “But of course—” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course,” Marlow struck in. “All the world . . . You may wonder at my -slowness in recognizing the name. But you know that my memory is merely a -mausoleum of proper names. There they lie inanimate, awaiting the magic -touch—and not very prompt in arising when called, either. The name is the first -thing I forget of a man. It is but just to add that frequently it is also the -last, and this accounts for my possession of a good many anonymous memories. In -de Barral’s case, he got put away in my mausoleum in company with so many names -of his own creation that really he had to throw off a monstrous heap of grisly -bones before he stood before me at the call of the wizard Fyne. The fellow had -a pretty fancy in names: the “Orb” Deposit Bank, the “Sceptre” Mutual Aid -Society, the “Thrift and Independence” Association. Yes, a very pretty taste in -names; and nothing else besides—absolutely nothing—no other merit. Well yes. He -had another name, but that’s pure luck—his own name of de Barral which he did -not invent. I don’t think that a mere Jones or Brown could have fished out from -the depths of the Incredible such a colossal manifestation of human folly as -that man did. But it may be that I am underestimating the alacrity of human -folly in rising to the bait. No doubt I am. The greed of that absurd monster is -incalculable, unfathomable, inconceivable. The career of de Barral demonstrates -that it will rise to a naked hook. He didn’t lure it with a fairy tale. He -hadn’t enough imagination for it . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Was he a foreigner?” I asked. “It’s clearly a French name. I suppose it -<i>was</i> his name?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, he didn’t invent it. He was born to it, in Bethnal Green, as it came out -during the proceedings. He was in the habit of alluding to his Scotch -connections. But every great man has done that. The mother, I believe, was -Scotch, right enough. The father de Barral whatever his origins retired from -the Customs Service (tide-waiter I think), and started lending money in a very, -very small way in the East End to people connected with the docks, stevedores, -minor barge-owners, ship-chandlers, tally clerks, all sorts of very small fry. -He made his living at it. He was a very decent man I believe. He had enough -influence to place his only son as junior clerk in the account department of -one of the Dock Companies. “Now, my boy,” he said to him, “I’ve given you a -fine start.” But de Barral didn’t start. He stuck. He gave perfect -satisfaction. At the end of three years he got a small rise of salary and went -out courting in the evenings. He went courting the daughter of an old -sea-captain who was a churchwarden of his parish and lived in an old badly -preserved Georgian house with a garden: one of these houses standing in a -reduced bit of “grounds” that you discover in a labyrinth of the most sordid -streets, exactly alike and composed of six-roomed hutches. -</p> - -<p> -Some of them were the vicarages of slum parishes. The old sailor had got hold -of one cheap, and de Barral got hold of his daughter—which was a good bargain -for him. The old sailor was very good to the young couple and very fond of -their little girl. Mrs. de Barral was an equable, unassuming woman, at that -time with a fund of simple gaiety, and with no ambitions; but, woman-like, she -longed for change and for something interesting to happen now and then. It was -she who encouraged de Barral to accept the offer of a post in the west-end -branch of a great bank. It appears he shrank from such a great adventure for a -long time. At last his wife’s arguments prevailed. Later on she used to say: -‘It’s the only time he ever listened to me; and I wonder now if it hadn’t been -better for me to die before I ever made him go into that bank.’ -</p> - -<p> -You may be surprised at my knowledge of these details. Well, I had them -ultimately from Mrs. Fyne. Mrs. Fyne while yet Miss Anthony, in her days of -bondage, knew Mrs. de Barral in her days of exile. Mrs. de Barral was living -then in a big stone mansion with mullioned windows in a large damp park, called -the Priory, adjoining the village where the refined poet had built himself a -house. -</p> - -<p> -These were the days of de Barral’s success. He had bought the place without -ever seeing it and had packed off his wife and child at once there to take -possession. He did not know what to do with them in London. He himself had a -suite of rooms in an hotel. He gave there dinner parties followed by cards in -the evening. He had developed the gambling passion—or else a mere card -mania—but at any rate he played heavily, for relaxation, with a lot of dubious -hangers on. -</p> - -<p> -Meantime Mrs. de Barral, expecting him every day, lived at the Priory, with a -carriage and pair, a governess for the child and many servants. The village -people would see her through the railings wandering under the trees with her -little girl lost in her strange surroundings. Nobody ever came near her. And -there she died as some faithful and delicate animals die—from neglect, -absolutely from neglect, rather unexpectedly and without any fuss. The village -was sorry for her because, though obviously worried about something, she was -good to the poor and was always ready for a chat with any of the humble folks. -Of course they knew that she wasn’t a lady—not what you would call a real lady. -And even her acquaintance with Miss Anthony was only a cottage-door, a -village-street acquaintance. Carleon Anthony was a tremendous aristocrat (his -father had been a “restoring” architect) and his daughter was not allowed to -associate with anyone but the county young ladies. Nevertheless in defiance of -the poet’s wrathful concern for undefiled refinement there were some quiet, -melancholy strolls to and fro in the great avenue of chestnuts leading to the -park-gate, during which Mrs. de Barral came to call Miss Anthony ‘my dear’—and -even ‘my poor dear.’ The lonely soul had no one to talk to but that not very -happy girl. The governess despised her. The housekeeper was distant in her -manner. Moreover Mrs. de Barral was no foolish gossiping woman. But she made -some confidences to Miss Anthony. Such wealth was a terrific thing to have -thrust upon one she affirmed. Once she went so far as to confess that she was -dying with anxiety. Mr. de Barral (so she referred to him) had been an -excellent husband and an exemplary father but “you see my dear I have had a -great experience of him. I am sure he won’t know what to do with all that money -people are giving to him to take care of for them. He’s as likely as not to do -something rash. When he comes here I must have a good long serious talk with -him, like the talks we often used to have together in the good old times of our -life.” And then one day a cry of anguish was wrung from her: ‘My dear, he will -never come here, he will never, never come!’ -</p> - -<p> -She was wrong. He came to the funeral, was extremely cut up, and holding the -child tightly by the hand wept bitterly at the side of the grave. Miss Anthony, -at the cost of a whole week of sneers and abuse from the poet, saw it all with -her own eyes. De Barral clung to the child like a drowning man. He managed, -though, to catch the half-past five fast train, travelling to town alone in a -reserved compartment, with all the blinds down . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Leaving the child?” I said interrogatively. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Leaving . . . He shirked the problem. He was born that way. He had no -idea what to do with her or for that matter with anything or anybody including -himself. He bolted back to his suite of rooms in the hotel. He was the most -helpless . . . She might have been left in the Priory to the end of time had -not the high-toned governess threatened to send in her resignation. She didn’t -care for the child a bit, and the lonely, gloomy Priory had got on her nerves. -She wasn’t going to put up with such a life and, having just come out of some -ducal family, she bullied de Barral in a very lofty fashion. To pacify her he -took a splendidly furnished house in the most expensive part of Brighton for -them, and now and then ran down for a week-end, with a trunk full of exquisite -sweets and with his hat full of money. The governess spent it for him in extra -ducal style. She was nearly forty and harboured a secret taste for patronizing -young men of sorts—of a certain sort. But of that Mrs. Fyne of course had no -personal knowledge then; she told me however that even in the Priory days she -had suspected her of being an artificial, heartless, vulgar-minded woman with -the lowest possible ideals. But de Barral did not know it. He literally did not -know anything . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“But tell me, Marlow,” I interrupted, “how do you account for this opinion? He -must have been a personality in a sense—in some one sense surely. You don’t -work the greatest material havoc of a decade at least, in a commercial -community, without having something in you.” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow shook his head. -</p> - -<p> -“He was a mere sign, a portent. There was nothing in him. Just about that time -the word Thrift was to the fore. You know the power of words. We pass through -periods dominated by this or that word—it may be development, or it may be -competition, or education, or purity or efficiency or even sanctity. It is the -word of the time. Well just then it was the word Thrift which was out in the -streets walking arm in arm with righteousness, the inseparable companion and -backer up of all such national catch-words, looking everybody in the eye as it -were. The very drabs of the pavement, poor things, didn’t escape the -fascination . . . However! . . . Well the greatest portion of the press were -screeching in all possible tones, like a confounded company of parrots -instructed by some devil with a taste for practical jokes, that the financier -de Barral was helping the great moral evolution of our character towards the -newly-discovered virtue of Thrift. He was helping it by all these great -establishments of his, which made the moral merits of Thrift manifest to the -most callous hearts, simply by promising to pay ten per cent. interest on all -deposits. And you didn’t want necessarily to belong to the well-to-do classes -in order to participate in the advantages of virtue. If you had but a spare -sixpence in the world and went and gave it to de Barral it was Thrift! It’s -quite likely that he himself believed it. He must have. It’s inconceivable that -he alone should stand out against the infatuation of the whole world. He hadn’t -enough intelligence for that. But to look at him one couldn’t tell . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“You did see him then?” I said with some curiosity. -</p> - -<p> -“I did. Strange, isn’t it? It was only once, but as I sat with the distressed -Fyne who had suddenly resuscitated his name buried in my memory with other dead -labels of the past, I may say I saw him again, I saw him with great vividness -of recollection, as he appeared in the days of his glory or splendour. No! -Neither of these words will fit his success. There was never any glory or -splendour about that figure. Well, let us say in the days when he was, -according to the majority of the daily press, a financial force working for the -improvement of the character of the people. I’ll tell you how it came about. -</p> - -<p> -At that time I used to know a podgy, wealthy, bald little man having chambers -in the Albany; a financier too, in his way, carrying out transactions of an -intimate nature and of no moral character; mostly with young men of birth and -expectations—though I dare say he didn’t withhold his ministrations from -elderly plebeians either. He was a true democrat; he would have done business -(a sharp kind of business) with the devil himself. Everything was fly that came -into his web. He received the applicants in an alert, jovial fashion which was -quite surprising. It gave relief without giving too much confidence, which was -just as well perhaps. His business was transacted in an apartment furnished -like a drawing-room, the walls hung with several brown, heavily-framed, oil -paintings. I don’t know if they were good, but they were big, and with their -elaborate, tarnished gilt-frames had a melancholy dignity. The man himself sat -at a shining, inlaid writing table which looked like a rare piece from a museum -of art; his chair had a high, oval, carved back, upholstered in faded tapestry; -and these objects made of the costly black Havana cigar, which he rolled -incessantly from the middle to the left corner of his mouth and back again, an -inexpressibly cheap and nasty object. I had to see him several times in the -interest of a poor devil so unlucky that he didn’t even have a more competent -friend than myself to speak for him at a very difficult time in his life. -</p> - -<p> -I don’t know at what hour my private financier began his day, but he used to -give one appointments at unheard of times: such as a quarter to eight in the -morning, for instance. On arriving one found him busy at that marvellous -writing table, looking very fresh and alert, exhaling a faint fragrance of -scented soap and with the cigar already well alight. You may believe that I -entered on my mission with many unpleasant forebodings; but there was in that -fat, admirably washed, little man such a profound contempt for mankind that it -amounted to a species of good nature; which, unlike the milk of genuine -kindness, was never in danger of turning sour. Then, once, during a pause in -business, while we were waiting for the production of a document for which he -had sent (perhaps to the cellar?) I happened to remark, glancing round the -room, that I had never seen so many fine things assembled together out of a -collection. Whether this was unconscious diplomacy on my part, or not, I -shouldn’t like to say—but the remark was true enough, and it pleased him -extremely. “It <i>is</i> a collection,” he said emphatically. “Only I live -right in it, which most collectors don’t. But I see that you know what you are -looking at. Not many people who come here on business do. Stable fittings are -more in their way.” -</p> - -<p> -I don’t know whether my appreciation helped to advance my friend’s business but -at any rate it helped our intercourse. He treated me with a shade of -familiarity as one of the initiated. -</p> - -<p> -The last time I called on him to conclude the transaction we were interrupted -by a person, something like a cross between a bookmaker and a private -secretary, who, entering through a door which was not the anteroom door, walked -up and stooped to whisper into his ear. -</p> - -<p> -“Eh? What? Who, did you say?” -</p> - -<p> -The nondescript person stooped and whispered again, adding a little louder: -“Says he won’t detain you a moment.” -</p> - -<p> -My little man glanced at me, said “Ah! Well,” irresolutely. I got up from my -chair and offered to come again later. He looked whimsically alarmed. “No, no. -It’s bad enough to lose my money but I don’t want to waste any more of my time -over your friend. We must be done with this to-day. Just go and have a look at -that <i>garniture de cheminée</i> yonder. There’s another, something -like it, in the castle of Laeken, but mine’s much superior in design.” -</p> - -<p> -I moved accordingly to the other side of that big room. The <i>garniture</i> -was very fine. But while pretending to examine it I watched my man going -forward to meet a tall visitor, who said, “I thought you would be disengaged so -early. It’s only a word or two”—and after a whispered confabulation of no more -than a minute, reconduct him to the door and shake hands ceremoniously. “Not at -all, not at all. Very pleased to be of use. You can depend absolutely on my -information”—“Oh thank you, thank you. I just looked in.” “Certainly, quite -right. Any time . . . Good morning.” -</p> - -<p> -I had a good look at the visitor while they were exchanging these civilities. -He was clad in black. I remember perfectly that he wore a flat, broad, black -satin tie in which was stuck a large cameo pin; and a small turn down collar. -His hair, discoloured and silky, curled slightly over his ears. His cheeks were -hairless and round, and apparently soft. He held himself very upright, walked -with small steps and spoke gently in an inward voice. Perhaps from contrast -with the magnificent polish of the room and the neatness of its owner, he -struck me as dingy, indigent, and, if not exactly humble, then much subdued by -evil fortune. -</p> - -<p> -I wondered greatly at my fat little financier’s civility to that dubious -personage when he asked me, as we resumed our respective seats, whether I knew -who it was that had just gone out. On my shaking my head negatively he smiled -queerly, said “De Barral,” and enjoyed my surprise. Then becoming grave: -“That’s a deep fellow, if you like. We all know where he started from and where -he got to; but nobody knows what he means to do.” He became thoughtful for a -moment and added as if speaking to himself, “I wonder what his game is.” -</p> - -<p> -And, you know, there was no game, no game of any sort, or shape or kind. It -came out plainly at the trial. As I’ve told you before, he was a clerk in a -bank, like thousands of others. He got that berth as a second start in life and -there he stuck again, giving perfect satisfaction. Then one day as though a -supernatural voice had whispered into his ear or some invisible fly had stung -him, he put on his hat, went out into the street and began advertising. That’s -absolutely all that there was to it. He caught in the street the word of the -time and harnessed it to his preposterous chariot. -</p> - -<p> -One remembers his first modest advertisements headed with the magic word -Thrift, Thrift, Thrift, thrice repeated; promising ten per cent. on all -deposits and giving the address of the Thrift and Independence Aid Association -in Vauxhall Bridge Road. Apparently nothing more was necessary. He didn’t even -explain what he meant to do with the money he asked the public to pour into his -lap. Of course he meant to lend it out at high rates of interest. He did so—but -he did it without system, plan, foresight or judgment. And as he frittered away -the sums that flowed in, he advertised for more—and got it. During a period of -general business prosperity he set up The Orb Bank and The Sceptre Trust, -simply, it seems for advertising purposes. They were mere names. He was totally -unable to organize anything, to promote any sort of enterprise if it were only -for the purpose of juggling with the shares. At that time he could have had for -the asking any number of Dukes, retired Generals, active M.P.’s, ex-ambassadors -and so on as Directors to sit at the wildest boards of his invention. But he -never tried. He had no real imagination. All he could do was to publish more -advertisements and open more branch offices of the Thrift and Independence, of -The Orb, of The Sceptre, for the receipt of deposits; first in this town, then -in that town, north and south—everywhere where he could find suitable premises -at a moderate rent. For this was the great characteristic of the management. -Modesty, moderation, simplicity. Neither The Orb nor The Sceptre nor yet their -parent the Thrift and Independence had built for themselves the usual palaces. -For this abstention they were praised in silly public prints as illustrating in -their management the principle of Thrift for which they were founded. The fact -is that de Barral simply didn’t think of it. Of course he had soon moved from -Vauxhall Bridge Road. He knew enough for that. What he got hold of next was an -old, enormous, rat-infested brick house in a small street off the Strand. -Strangers were taken in front of the meanest possible, begrimed, yellowy, flat -brick wall, with two rows of unadorned window-holes one above the other, and -were exhorted with bated breath to behold and admire the simplicity of the -head-quarters of the great financial force of the day. The word THRIFT perched -right up on the roof in giant gilt letters, and two enormous shield-like -brass-plates curved round the corners on each side of the doorway were the only -shining spots in de Barral’s business outfit. Nobody knew what operations were -carried on inside except this—that if you walked in and tendered your money -over the counter it would be calmly taken from you by somebody who would give -you a printed receipt. That and no more. It appears that such knowledge is -irresistible. People went in and tendered; and once it was taken from their -hands their money was more irretrievably gone from them than if they had thrown -it into the sea. This then, and nothing else was being carried on in there . . -. ” -</p> - -<p> -“Come, Marlow,” I said, “you exaggerate surely—if only by your way of putting -things. It’s too startling.” -</p> - -<p> -“I exaggerate!” he defended himself. “My way of putting things! My dear fellow -I have merely stripped the rags of business verbiage and financial jargon off -my statements. And you are startled! I am giving you the naked truth. It’s true -too that nothing lays itself open to the charge of exaggeration more than the -language of naked truth. What comes with a shock is admitted with difficulty. -But what will you say to the end of his career? -</p> - -<p> -It was of course sensational and tolerably sudden. It began with the Orb -Deposit Bank. Under the name of that institution de Barral with the frantic -obstinacy of an unimaginative man had been financing an Indian prince who was -prosecuting a claim for immense sums of money against the government. It was an -enormous number of scores of lakhs—a miserable remnant of his ancestors’ -treasures—that sort of thing. And it was all authentic enough. There was a real -prince; and the claim too was sufficiently real—only unfortunately it was not a -valid claim. So the prince lost his case on the last appeal and the beginning -of de Barral’s end became manifest to the public in the shape of a half-sheet -of note paper wafered by the four corners on the closed door of The Orb offices -notifying that payment was stopped at that establishment. -</p> - -<p> -Its consort The Sceptre collapsed within the week. I won’t say in American -parlance that suddenly the bottom fell out of the whole of de Barral concerns. -There never had been any bottom to it. It was like the cask of Danaides into -which the public had been pleased to pour its deposits. That they were gone was -clear; and the bankruptcy proceedings which followed were like a sinister -farce, bursts of laughter in a setting of mute anguish—that of the depositors; -hundreds of thousands of them. The laughter was irresistible; the accompaniment -of the bankrupt’s public examination. -</p> - -<p> -I don’t know if it was from utter lack of all imagination or from the -possession in undue proportion of a particular kind of it, or from both—and the -three alternatives are possible—but it was discovered that this man who had -been raised to such a height by the credulity of the public was himself more -gullible than any of his depositors. He had been the prey of all sorts of -swindlers, adventurers, visionaries and even lunatics. Wrapping himself up in -deep and imbecile secrecy he had gone in for the most fantastic schemes: a -harbour and docks on the coast of Patagonia, quarries in Labrador—such like -speculations. Fisheries to feed a canning Factory on the banks of the Amazon -was one of them. A principality to be bought in Madagascar was another. As the -grotesque details of these incredible transactions came out one by one ripples -of laughter ran over the closely packed court—each one a little louder than the -other. The audience ended by fairly roaring under the cumulative effect of -absurdity. The Registrar laughed, the barristers laughed, the reporters -laughed, the serried ranks of the miserable depositors watching anxiously every -word, laughed like one man. They laughed hysterically—the poor wretches—on the -verge of tears. -</p> - -<p> -There was only one person who remained unmoved. It was de Barral himself. He -preserved his serene, gentle expression, I am told (for I have not witnessed -those scenes myself), and looked around at the people with an air of placid -sufficiency which was the first hint to the world of the man’s overweening, -unmeasurable conceit, hidden hitherto under a diffident manner. It could be -seen too in his dogged assertion that if he had been given enough time and a -lot more money everything would have come right. And there were some people -(yes, amongst his very victims) who more than half believed him, even after the -criminal prosecution which soon followed. When placed in the dock he lost his -steadiness as if some sustaining illusion had gone to pieces within him -suddenly. He ceased to be himself in manner completely, and even in -disposition, in so far that his faded neutral eyes matching his discoloured -hair so well, were discovered then to be capable of expressing a sort of -underhand hate. He was at first defiant, then insolent, then broke down and -burst into tears; but it might have been from rage. Then he calmed down, -returned to his soft manner of speech and to that unassuming quiet bearing -which had been usual with him even in his greatest days. But it seemed as -though in this moment of change he had at last perceived what a power he had -been; for he remarked to one of the prosecuting counsel who had assumed a lofty -moral tone in questioning him, that—yes, he had gambled—he liked cards. But -that only a year ago a host of smart people would have been only too pleased to -take a hand at cards with him. Yes—he went on—some of the very people who were -there accommodated with seats on the bench; and turning upon the counsel “You -yourself as well,” he cried. He could have had half the town at his rooms to -fawn upon him if he had cared for that sort of thing. “Why, now I think of it, -it took me most of my time to keep people, just of your sort, off me,” he ended -with a good humoured—quite unobtrusive, contempt, as though the fact had dawned -upon him for the first time. -</p> - -<p> -This was the moment, the only moment, when he had perhaps all the audience in -Court with him, in a hush of dreary silence. And then the dreary proceedings -were resumed. For all the outside excitement it was the most dreary of all -celebrated trials. The bankruptcy proceedings had exhausted all the laughter -there was in it. Only the fact of wide-spread ruin remained, and the resentment -of a mass of people for having been fooled by means too simple to save their -self-respect from a deep wound which the cleverness of a consummate scoundrel -would not have inflicted. A shamefaced amazement attended these proceedings in -which de Barral was not being exposed alone. For himself his only cry was: -Time! Time! Time would have set everything right. In time some of these -speculations of his were certain to have succeeded. He repeated this defence, -this excuse, this confession of faith, with wearisome iteration. Everything he -had done or left undone had been to gain time. He had hypnotized himself with -the word. Sometimes, I am told, his appearance was ecstatic, his motionless -pale eyes seemed to be gazing down the vista of future ages. Time—and of -course, more money. “Ah! If only you had left me alone for a couple of years -more,” he cried once in accents of passionate belief. “The money was coming in -all right.” The deposits you understand—the savings of Thrift. Oh yes they had -been coming in to the very last moment. And he regretted them. He had arrived -to regard them as his own by a sort of mystical persuasion. And yet it was a -perfectly true cry, when he turned once more on the counsel who was beginning a -question with the words “You have had all these immense sums . . . ” with the -indignant retort “<i>What</i> have I had out of them?” -</p> - -<p> -“It was perfectly true. He had had nothing out of them—nothing of the -prestigious or the desirable things of the earth, craved for by predatory -natures. He had gratified no tastes, had known no luxury; he had built no -gorgeous palaces, had formed no splendid galleries out of these “immense sums.” -He had not even a home. He had gone into these rooms in an hotel and had stuck -there for years, giving no doubt perfect satisfaction to the management. They -had twice raised his rent to show I suppose their high sense of his -distinguished patronage. He had bought for himself out of all the wealth -streaming through his fingers neither adulation nor love, neither splendour nor -comfort. There was something perfect in his consistent mediocrity. His very -vanity seemed to miss the gratification of even the mere show of power. In the -days when he was most fully in the public eye the invincible obscurity of his -origins clung to him like a shadowy garment. He had handled millions without -ever enjoying anything of what is counted as precious in the community of men, -because he had neither the brutality of temperament nor the fineness of mind to -make him desire them with the will power of a masterful adventurer . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“You seem to have studied the man,” I observed. -</p> - -<p> -“Studied,” repeated Marlow thoughtfully. “No! Not studied. I had no -opportunities. You know that I saw him only on that one occasion I told you of. -But it may be that a glimpse and no more is the proper way of seeing an -individuality; and de Barral was that, in virtue of his very deficiencies for -they made of him something quite unlike one’s preconceived ideas. There were -also very few materials accessible to a man like me to form a judgment from. -But in such a case I verify believe that a little is as good as a feast—perhaps -better. If one has a taste for that kind of thing the merest starting-point -becomes a coign of vantage, and then by a series of logically deducted -verisimilitudes one arrives at truth—or very near the truth—as near as any -circumstantial evidence can do. I have not studied de Barral but that is how I -understand him so far as he could be understood through the din of the crash; -the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the newspaper contents bills, “The Thrift -Frauds. Cross-examination of the accused. Extra special”—blazing fiercely; the -charitable appeals for the victims, the grave tones of the dailies rumbling -with compassion as if they were the national bowels. All this lasted a whole -week of industrious sittings. A pressman whom I knew told me “He’s an idiot.” -Which was possible. Before that I overheard once somebody declaring that he had -a criminal type of face; which I knew was untrue. The sentence was pronounced -by artificial light in a stifling poisonous atmosphere. Something edifying was -said by the judge weightily, about the retribution overtaking the perpetrator -of “the most heartless frauds on an unprecedented scale.” I don’t understand -these things much, but it appears that he had juggled with accounts, cooked -balance sheets, had gathered in deposits months after he ought to have known -himself to be hopelessly insolvent, and done enough of other things, highly -reprehensible in the eyes of the law, to earn for himself seven years’ penal -servitude. The sentence making its way outside met with a good reception. A -small mob composed mainly of people who themselves did not look particularly -clever and scrupulous, leavened by a slight sprinkling of genuine pickpockets -amused itself by cheering in the most penetrating, abominable cold drizzle that -I remember. I happened to be passing there on my way from the East End where I -had spent my day about the Docks with an old chum who was looking after the -fitting out of a new ship. I am always eager, when allowed, to call on a new -ship. They interest me like charming young persons. -</p> - -<p> -I got mixed up in that crowd seething with an animosity as senseless as things -of the street always are, and it was while I was laboriously making my way out -of it that the pressman of whom I spoke was jostled against me. He did me the -justice to be surprised. “What? You here! The last person in the world . . . If -I had known I could have got you inside. Plenty of room. Interest been over for -the last three days. Got seven years. Well, I am glad.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why are you glad? Because he’s got seven years?” I asked, greatly incommoded -by the pressure of a hulking fellow who was remarking to some of his equally -oppressive friends that the “beggar ought to have been poleaxed.” I don’t know -whether he had ever confided his savings to de Barral but if so, judging from -his appearance, they must have been the proceeds of some successful burglary. -The pressman by my side said ‘No,’ to my question. He was glad because it was -all over. He had suffered greatly from the heat and the bad air of the court. -The clammy, raw, chill of the streets seemed to affect his liver instantly. He -became contemptuous and irritable and plied his elbows viciously making way for -himself and me. -</p> - -<p> -A dull affair this. All such cases were dull. No really dramatic moments. The -book-keeping of The Orb and all the rest of them was certainly a burlesque -revelation but the public did not care for revelations of that kind. Dull dog -that de Barral—he grumbled. He could not or would not take the trouble to -characterize for me the appearance of that man now officially a criminal (we -had gone across the road for a drink) but told me with a sourly, derisive -snigger that, after the sentence had been pronounced the fellow clung to the -dock long enough to make a sort of protest. ‘You haven’t given me time. If I -had been given time I would have ended by being made a peer like some of them.’ -And he had permitted himself his very first and last gesture in all these days, -raising a hard-clenched fist above his head. -</p> - -<p> -The pressman disapproved of that manifestation. It was not his business to -understand it. Is it ever the business of any pressman to understand anything? -I guess not. It would lead him too far away from the actualities which are the -daily bread of the public mind. He probably thought the display worth very -little from a picturesque point of view; the weak voice; the colourless -personality as incapable of an attitude as a bed-post, the very fatuity of the -clenched hand so ineffectual at that time and place—no, it wasn’t worth much. -And then, for him, an accomplished craftsman in his trade, thinking was -distinctly “bad business.” His business was to write a readable account. But I -who had nothing to write, I permitted myself to use my mind as we sat before -our still untouched glasses. And the disclosure which so often rewards a moment -of detachment from mere visual impressions gave me a thrill very much -approaching a shudder. I seemed to understand that, with the shock of the -agonies and perplexities of his trial, the imagination of that man, whose -moods, notions and motives wore frequently an air of grotesque mystery—that his -imagination had been at last roused into activity. And this was awful. Just try -to enter into the feelings of a man whose imagination wakes up at the very -moment he is about to enter the tomb . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“You must not think,” went on Marlow after a pause, “that on that morning with -Fyne I went consciously in my mind over all this, let us call it information; -no, better say, this fund of knowledge which I had, or rather which existed, in -me in regard to de Barral. Information is something one goes out to seek and -puts away when found as you might do a piece of lead: ponderous, useful, -unvibrating, dull. Whereas knowledge comes to one, this sort of knowledge, a -chance acquisition preserving in its repose a fine resonant quality . . . But -as such distinctions touch upon the transcendental I shall spare you the pain -of listening to them. There are limits to my cruelty. No! I didn’t reckon up -carefully in my mind all this I have been telling you. How could I have done -so, with Fyne right there in the room? He sat perfectly still, statuesque in -homely fashion, after having delivered himself of his effective assent: “Yes. -The convict,” and I, far from indulging in a reminiscent excursion into the -past, remained sufficiently in the present to muse in a vague, absent-minded -way on the respectable proportions and on the (upon the whole) comely shape of -his great pedestrian’s calves, for he had thrown one leg over his knee, -carelessly, to conceal the trouble of his mind by an air of ease. But all the -same the knowledge was in me, the awakened resonance of which I spoke just now; -I was aware of it on that beautiful day, so fresh, so warm and friendly, so -accomplished—an exquisite courtesy of the much abused English climate when it -makes up its meteorological mind to behave like a perfect gentleman. Of course -the English climate is never a rough. It suffers from spleen somewhat -frequently—but that is gentlemanly too, and I don’t mind going to meet him in -that mood. He has his days of grey, veiled, polite melancholy, in which he is -very fascinating. How seldom he lapses into a blustering manner, after all! And -then it is mostly in a season when, appropriately enough, one may go out and -kill something. But his fine days are the best for stopping at home, to read, -to think, to muse—even to dream; in fact to live fully, intensely and quietly, -in the brightness of comprehension, in that receptive glow of the mind, the -gift of the clear, luminous and serene weather. -</p> - -<p> -That day I had intended to live intensely and quietly, basking in the weather’s -glory which would have lent enchantment to the most unpromising of intellectual -prospects. For a companion I had found a book, not bemused with the cleverness -of the day—a fine-weather book, simple and sincere like the talk of an -unselfish friend. But looking at little Fyne seated in the room I understood -that nothing would come of my contemplative aspirations; that in one way or -another I should be let in for some form of severe exercise. Walking, it would -be, I feared, since, for me, that idea was inseparably associated with the -visual impression of Fyne. Where, why, how, a rapid striding rush could be -brought in helpful relation to the good Fyne’s present trouble and perplexity I -could not imagine; except on the principle that senseless pedestrianism was -Fyne’s panacea for all the ills and evils bodily and spiritual of the universe. -It could be of no use for me to say or do anything. It was bound to come. -Contemplating his muscular limb encased in a golf-stocking, and under the -strong impression of the information he had just imparted I said wondering, -rather irrationally: -</p> - -<p> -“And so de Barral had a wife and child! That girl’s his daughter. And how . . . -” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne interrupted me by stating again earnestly, as though it were something not -easy to believe, that his wife and himself had tried to befriend the girl in -every way—indeed they had! I did not doubt him for a moment, of course, but my -wonder at this was more rational. At that hour of the morning, you mustn’t -forget, I knew nothing as yet of Mrs. Fyne’s contact (it was hardly more) with -de Barral’s wife and child during their exile at the Priory, in the culminating -days of that man’s fame. -</p> - -<p> -Fyne who had come over, it was clear, solely to talk to me on that subject, -gave me the first hint of this initial, merely out of doors, connection. “The -girl was quite a child then,” he continued. “Later on she was removed out of -Mrs. Fyne’s reach in charge of a governess—a very unsatisfactory person,” he -explained. His wife had then—h’m—met him; and on her marriage she lost sight of -the child completely. But after the birth of Polly (Polly was the third Fyne -girl) she did not get on very well, and went to Brighton for some months to -recover her strength—and there, one day in the street, the child (she wore her -hair down her back still) recognized her outside a shop and rushed, actually -rushed, into Mrs. Fyne’s arms. Rather touching this. And so, disregarding the -cold impertinence of that . . . h’m . . . governess, his wife naturally -responded. -</p> - -<p> -He was solemnly fragmentary. I broke in with the observation that it must have -been before the crash. -</p> - -<p> -Fyne nodded with deepened gravity, stating in his bass tone— -</p> - -<p> -“Just before,” and indulged himself with a weighty period of solemn silence. -</p> - -<p> -De Barral, he resumed suddenly, was not coming to Brighton for week-ends -regularly, then. Must have been conscious already of the approaching disaster. -Mrs. Fyne avoided being drawn into making his acquaintance, and this suited the -views of the governess person, very jealous of any outside influence. But in -any case it would not have been an easy matter. Extraordinary, stiff-backed, -thin figure all in black, the observed of all, while walking hand-in-hand with -the girl; apparently shy, but—and here Fyne came very near showing something -like insight—probably nursing under a diffident manner a considerable amount of -secret arrogance. Mrs. Fyne pitied Flora de Barral’s fate long before the -catastrophe. Most unfortunate guidance. Very unsatisfactory surroundings. The -girl was known in the streets, was stared at in public places as if she had -been a sort of princess, but she was kept with a very ominous consistency, from -making any acquaintances—though of course there were many people no doubt who -would have been more than willing to—h’m—make themselves agreeable to Miss de -Barral. But this did not enter into the plans of the governess, an intriguing -person hatching a most sinister plot under her severe air of distant, -fashionable exclusiveness. Good little Fyne’s eyes bulged with solemn horror as -he revealed to me, in agitated speech, his wife’s more than suspicions, at the -time, of that, Mrs., Mrs. What’s her name’s perfidious conduct. She actually -seemed to have—Mrs. Fyne asserted—formed a plot already to marry eventually her -charge to an impecunious relation of her own—a young man with furtive eyes and -something impudent in his manner, whom that woman called her nephew, and whom -she was always having down to stay with her. -</p> - -<p> -“And perhaps not her nephew. No relation at all”—Fyne emitted with a convulsive -effort this, the most awful part of the suspicions Mrs. Fyne used to impart to -him piecemeal when he came down to spend his week-ends gravely with her and the -children. The Fynes, in their good-natured concern for the unlucky child of the -man busied in stirring casually so many millions, spent the moments of their -weekly reunion in wondering earnestly what could be done to defeat the most -wicked of conspiracies, trying to invent some tactful line of conduct in such -extraordinary circumstances. I could see them, simple, and scrupulous, worrying -honestly about that unprotected big girl while looking at their own little -girls playing on the sea-shore. Fyne assured me that his wife’s rest was -disturbed by the great problem of interference. -</p> - -<p> -“It was very acute of Mrs. Fyne to spot such a deep game,” I said, wondering to -myself where her acuteness had gone to now, to let her be taken unawares by a -game so much simpler and played to the end under her very nose. But then, at -that time, when her nightly rest was disturbed by the dread of the fate -preparing for de Barral’s unprotected child, she was not engaged in writing a -compendious and ruthless hand-book on the theory and practice of life, for the -use of women with a grievance. She could as yet, before the task of evolving -the philosophy of rebellious action had affected her intuitive sharpness, -perceive things which were, I suspect, moderately plain. For I am inclined to -believe that the woman whom chance had put in command of Flora de Barral’s -destiny took no very subtle pains to conceal her game. She was conscious of -being a complete master of the situation, having once for all established her -ascendancy over de Barral. She had taken all her measures against outside -observation of her conduct; and I could not help smiling at the thought what a -ghastly nuisance the serious, innocent Fynes must have been to her. How -exasperated she must have been by that couple falling into Brighton as -completely unforeseen as a bolt from the blue—if not so prompt. How she must -have hated them! -</p> - -<p> -But I conclude she would have carried out whatever plan she might have formed. -I can imagine de Barral accustomed for years to defer to her wishes and, either -through arrogance, or shyness, or simply because of his unimaginative -stupidity, remaining outside the social pale, knowing no one but some -card-playing cronies; I can picture him to myself terrified at the prospect of -having the care of a marriageable girl thrust on his hands, forcing on him a -complete change of habits and the necessity of another kind of existence which -he would not even have known how to begin. It is evident to me that Mrs. What’s -her name would have had her atrocious way with very little trouble even if the -excellent Fynes had been able to do something. She would simply have bullied de -Barral in a lofty style. There’s nothing more subservient than an arrogant man -when his arrogance has once been broken in some particular instance. -</p> - -<p> -However there was no time and no necessity for any one to do anything. The -situation itself vanished in the financial crash as a building vanishes in an -earthquake—here one moment and gone the next with only an ill-omened, slight, -preliminary rumble. Well, to say ‘in a moment’ is an exaggeration perhaps; but -that everything was over in just twenty-four hours is an exact statement. Fyne -was able to tell me all about it; and the phrase that would depict the nature -of the change best is: an instant and complete destitution. I don’t understand -these matters very well, but from Fyne’s narrative it seemed as if the -creditors or the depositors, or the competent authorities, had got hold in the -twinkling of an eye of everything de Barral possessed in the world, down to his -watch and chain, the money in his trousers’ pocket, his spare suits of clothes, -and I suppose the cameo pin out of his black satin cravat. Everything! I -believe he gave up the very wedding ring of his late wife. The gloomy Priory -with its damp park and a couple of farms had been made over to Mrs. de Barral; -but when she died (without making a will) it reverted to him, I imagine. They -got that of course; but it was a mere crumb in a Sahara of starvation, a drop -in the thirsty ocean. I dare say that not a single soul in the world got the -comfort of as much as a recovered threepenny bit out of the estate. Then, less -than crumbs, less than drops, there were to be grabbed, the lease of the big -Brighton house, the furniture therein, the carriage and pair, the girl’s riding -horse, her costly trinkets; down to the heavily gold-mounted collar of her -pedigree St. Bernard. The dog too went: the most noble-looking item in the -beggarly assets. -</p> - -<p> -What however went first of all or rather vanished was nothing in the nature of -an asset. It was that plotting governess with the trick of a “perfect lady” -manner (severely conventional) and the soul of a remorseless brigand. When a -woman takes to any sort of unlawful man-trade, there’s nothing to beat her in -the way of thoroughness. It’s true that you will find people who’ll tell you -that this terrific virulence in breaking through all established things, is -altogether the fault of men. Such people will ask you with a clever air why the -servile wars were always the most fierce, desperate and atrocious of all wars. -And you may make such answer as you can—even the eminently feminine one, if you -choose, so typical of the women’s literal mind “I don’t see what this has to do -with it!” How many arguments have been knocked over (I won’t say knocked down) -by these few words! For if we men try to put the spaciousness of all -experiences into our reasoning and would fain put the Infinite itself into our -love, it isn’t, as some writer has remarked, “It isn’t women’s doing.” Oh no. -They don’t care for these things. That sort of aspiration is not much in their -way; and it shall be a funny world, the world of their arranging, where the -Irrelevant would fantastically step in to take the place of the sober humdrum -Imaginative . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -I raised my hand to stop my friend Marlow. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you really believe what you have said?” I asked, meaning no offence, -because with Marlow one never could be sure. -</p> - -<p> -“Only on certain days of the year,” said Marlow readily with a malicious smile. -“To-day I have been simply trying to be spacious and I perceive I’ve managed to -hurt your susceptibilities which are consecrated to women. When you sit alone -and silent you are defending in your mind the poor women from attacks which -cannot possibly touch them. I wonder what can touch them? But to soothe your -uneasiness I will point out again that an Irrelevant world would be very -amusing, if the women take care to make it as charming as they alone can, by -preserving for us certain well-known, well-established, I’ll almost say -hackneyed, illusions, without which the average male creature cannot get on. -And that condition is very important. For there is nothing more provoking than -the Irrelevant when it has ceased to amuse and charm; and then the danger would -be of the subjugated masculinity in its exasperation, making some brusque, -unguarded movement and accidentally putting its elbow through the fine tissue -of the world of which I speak. And that would be fatal to it. For nothing looks -more irretrievably deplorable than fine tissue which has been damaged. The -women themselves would be the first to become disgusted with their own -creation. -</p> - -<p> -There was something of women’s highly practical sanity and also of their -irrelevancy in the conduct of Miss de Barral’s amazing governess. It appeared -from Fyne’s narrative that the day before the first rumble of the cataclysm the -questionable young man arrived unexpectedly in Brighton to stay with his -“Aunt.” To all outward appearance everything was going on normally; the fellow -went out riding with the girl in the afternoon as he often used to do—a sight -which never failed to fill Mrs. Fyne with indignation. Fyne himself was down -there with his family for a whole week and was called to the window to behold -the iniquity in its progress and to share in his wife’s feelings. There was not -even a groom with them. And Mrs. Fyne’s distress was so strong at this glimpse -of the unlucky girl all unconscious of her danger riding smilingly by, that -Fyne began to consider seriously whether it wasn’t their plain duty to -interfere at all risks—simply by writing a letter to de Barral. He said to his -wife with a solemnity I can easily imagine “You ought to undertake that task, -my dear. You have known his wife after all. That’s something at any rate.” On -the other hand the fear of exposing Mrs. Fyne to some nasty rebuff worried him -exceedingly. Mrs. Fyne on her side gave way to despondency. Success seemed -impossible. Here was a woman for more than five years in charge of the girl and -apparently enjoying the complete confidence of the father. What, that would be -effective, could one say, without proofs, without . . . This Mr. de Barral must -be, Mrs. Fyne pronounced, either a very stupid or a downright bad man, to -neglect his child so. -</p> - -<p> -You will notice that perhaps because of Fyne’s solemn view of our transient -life and Mrs. Fyne’s natural capacity for responsibility, it had never occurred -to them that the simplest way out of the difficulty was to do nothing and -dismiss the matter as no concern of theirs. Which in a strict worldly sense it -certainly was not. But they spent, Fyne told me, a most disturbed afternoon, -considering the ways and means of dealing with the danger hanging over the head -of the girl out for a ride (and no doubt enjoying herself) with an abominable -scamp. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER FOUR—THE GOVERNESS</h3> - -<p> -And the best of it was that the danger was all over already. There was no -danger any more. The supposed nephew’s appearance had a purpose. He had come, -full, full to trembling—with the bigness of his news. There must have been -rumours already as to the shaky position of the de Barral’s concerns; but only -amongst those in the very inmost know. No rumour or echo of rumour had reached -the profane in the West-End—let alone in the guileless marine suburb of Hove. -The Fynes had no suspicion; the governess, playing with cold, distinguished -exclusiveness the part of mother to the fabulously wealthy Miss de Barral, had -no suspicion; the masters of music, of drawing, of dancing to Miss de Barral, -had no idea; the minds of her medical man, of her dentist, of the servants in -the house, of the tradesmen proud of having the name of de Barral on their -books, were in a state of absolute serenity. Thus, that fellow, who had -unexpectedly received a most alarming straight tip from somebody in the City -arrived in Brighton, at about lunch-time, with something very much in the -nature of a deadly bomb in his possession. But he knew better than to throw it -on the public pavement. He ate his lunch impenetrably, sitting opposite Flora -de Barral, and then, on some excuse, closeted himself with the woman whom -little Fyne’s charity described (with a slight hesitation of speech however) as -his “Aunt.” -</p> - -<p> -What they said to each other in private we can imagine. She came out of her own -sitting-room with red spots on her cheek-bones, which having provoked a -question from her “beloved” charge, were accounted for by a curt “I have a -headache coming on.” But we may be certain that the talk being over she must -have said to that young blackguard: “You had better take her out for a ride as -usual.” We have proof positive of this in Fyne and Mrs. Fyne observing them -mount at the door and pass under the windows of their sitting-room, talking -together, and the poor girl all smiles; because she enjoyed in all innocence -the company of Charley. She made no secret of it whatever to Mrs. Fyne; in -fact, she had confided to her, long before, that she liked him very much: a -confidence which had filled Mrs. Fyne with desolation and that sense of -powerless anguish which is experienced in certain kinds of nightmare. For how -could she warn the girl? She did venture to tell her once that she didn’t like -Mr. Charley. Miss de Barral heard her with astonishment. How was it possible -not to like Charley? Afterwards with naïve loyalty she told Mrs. Fyne -that, immensely as she was fond of her she could not hear a word against -Charley—the wonderful Charley. -</p> - -<p> -The daughter of de Barral probably enjoyed her jolly ride with the jolly -Charley (infinitely more jolly than going out with a stupid old riding-master), -very much indeed, because the Fynes saw them coming back at a later hour than -usual. In fact it was getting nearly dark. On dismounting, helped off by the -delightful Charley, she patted the neck of her horse and went up the steps. Her -last ride. She was then within a few days of her sixteenth birthday, a slight -figure in a riding habit, rather shorter than the average height for her age, -in a black bowler hat from under which her fine rippling dark hair cut square -at the ends was hanging well down her back. The delightful Charley mounted -again to take the two horses round to the mews. Mrs. Fyne remaining at the -window saw the house door close on Miss de Barral returning from her last ride. -</p> - -<p> -And meantime what had the governess (out of a nobleman’s family) so judiciously -selected (a lady, and connected with well-known county people as she said) to -direct the studies, guard the health, form the mind, polish the manners, and -generally play the perfect mother to that luckless child—what had she been -doing? Well, having got rid of her charge by the most natural device possible, -which proved her practical sense, she started packing her belongings, an act -which showed her clear view of the situation. She had worked methodically, -rapidly, and well, emptying the drawers, clearing the tables in her special -apartment of that big house, with something silently passionate in her -thoroughness; taking everything belonging to her and some things of less -unquestionable ownership, a jewelled penholder, an ivory and gold paper knife -(the house was full of common, costly objects), some chased silver boxes -presented by de Barral and other trifles; but the photograph of Flora de -Barral, with the loving inscription, which stood on her writing desk, of the -most modern and expensive style, in a silver-gilt frame, she neglected to take. -Having accidentally, in the course of the operations, knocked it off on the -floor she let it lie there after a downward glance. Thus it, or the frame at -least, became, I suppose, part of the assets in the de Barral bankruptcy. -</p> - -<p> -At dinner that evening the child found her company dull and brusque. It was -uncommonly slow. She could get nothing from her governess but monosyllables, -and the jolly Charley actually snubbed the various cheery openings of his -“little chum”—as he used to call her at times,—but not at that time. No doubt -the couple were nervous and preoccupied. For all this we have evidence, and for -the fact that Flora being offended with the delightful nephew of her profoundly -respected governess sulked through the rest of the evening and was glad to -retire early. Mrs., Mrs.—I’ve really forgotten her name—the governess, invited -her nephew to her sitting-room, mentioning aloud that it was to talk over some -family matters. This was meant for Flora to hear, and she heard it—without the -slightest interest. In fact there was nothing sufficiently unusual in such an -invitation to arouse in her mind even a passing wonder. She went bored to bed -and being tired with her long ride slept soundly all night. Her last sleep, I -won’t say of innocence—that word would not render my exact meaning, because it -has a special meaning of its own—but I will say: of that ignorance, or better -still, of that unconsciousness of the world’s ways, the unconsciousness of -danger, of pain, of humiliation, of bitterness, of falsehood. An -unconsciousness which in the case of other beings like herself is removed by a -gradual process of experience and information, often only partial at that, with -saving reserves, softening doubts, veiling theories. Her unconsciousness of the -evil which lives in the secret thoughts and therefore in the open acts of -mankind, whenever it happens that evil thought meets evil courage; her -unconsciousness was to be broken into with profane violence with desecrating -circumstances, like a temple violated by a mad, vengeful impiety. Yes, that -very young girl, almost no more than a child—this was what was going to happen -to her. And if you ask me, how, wherefore, for what reason? I will answer you: -Why, by chance! By the merest chance, as things do happen, lucky and unlucky, -terrible or tender, important or unimportant; and even things which are -neither, things so completely neutral in character that you would wonder why -they do happen at all if you didn’t know that they, too, carry in their -insignificance the seeds of further incalculable chances. -</p> - -<p> -Of course, all the chances were that de Barral should have fallen upon a -perfectly harmless, naïve, usual, inefficient specimen of respectable -governess for his daughter; or on a commonplace silly adventuress who would -have tried, say, to marry him or work some other sort of common mischief in a -small way. Or again he might have chanced on a model of all the virtues, or the -repository of all knowledge, or anything equally harmless, conventional, and -middle class. All calculations were in his favour; but, chance being -incalculable, he fell upon an individuality whom it is much easier to define by -opprobrious names than to classify in a calm and scientific spirit—but an -individuality certainly, and a temperament as well. Rare? No. There is a -certain amount of what I would politely call unscrupulousness in all of us. -Think for instance of the excellent Mrs. Fyne, who herself, and in the bosom of -her family, resembled a governess of a conventional type. Only, her mental -excesses were theoretical, hedged in by so much humane feeling and conventional -reserves, that they amounted to no more than mere libertinage of thought; -whereas the other woman, the governess of Flora de Barral, was, as you may have -noticed, severely practical—terribly practical. No! Hers was not a rare -temperament, except in its fierce resentment of repression; a feeling which -like genius or lunacy is apt to drive people into sudden irrelevancy. Hers was -feminine irrelevancy. A male genius, a male ruffian, or even a male lunatic, -would not have behaved exactly as she did behave. There is a softness in -masculine nature, even the most brutal, which acts as a check. -</p> - -<p> -While the girl slept those two, the woman of forty, an age in itself terrible, -and that hopeless young “wrong ’un” of twenty-three (also well connected I -believe) had some sort of subdued row in the cleared rooms: wardrobes open, -drawers half pulled out and empty, trunks locked and strapped, furniture in -idle disarray, and not so much as a single scrap of paper left behind on the -tables. The maid, whom the governess and the pupil shared between them, after -finishing with Flora, came to the door as usual, but was not admitted. She -heard the two voices in dispute before she knocked, and then being sent away -retreated at once—the only person in the house convinced at that time that -there was “something up.” -</p> - -<p> -Dark and, so to speak, inscrutable spaces being met with in life there must be -such places in any statement dealing with life. In what I am telling you of -now—an episode of one of my humdrum holidays in the green country, recalled -quite naturally after all the years by our meeting a man who has been a -blue-water sailor—this evening confabulation is a dark, inscrutable spot. And -we may conjecture what we like. I have no difficulty in imagining that the -woman—of forty, and the chief of the enterprise—must have raged at large. And -perhaps the other did not rage enough. Youth feels deeply it is true, but it -has not the same vivid sense of lost opportunities. It believes in the absolute -reality of time. And then, in that abominable scamp with his youth already -soiled, withered like a plucked flower ready to be flung on some rotting heap -of rubbish, no very genuine feeling about anything could exist—not even about -the hazards of his own unclean existence. A sneering half-laugh with some such -remark as: “We are properly sold and no mistake” would have been enough to make -trouble in that way. And then another sneer, “Waste time enough over it too,” -followed perhaps by the bitter retort from the other party “You seemed to like -it well enough though, playing the fool with that chit of a girl.” Something of -that sort. Don’t you see it—eh . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow looked at me with his dark penetrating glance. I was struck by the -absolute verisimilitude of this suggestion. But we were always tilting at each -other. I saw an opening and pushed my uncandid thrust. -</p> - -<p> -“You have a ghastly imagination,” I said with a cheerfully sceptical smile. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, and if I have,” he returned unabashed. “But let me remind you that this -situation came to me unasked. I am like a puzzle-headed chief-mate we had once -in the dear old <i>Samarcand</i> when I was a youngster. The fellow went -gravely about trying to “account to himself”—his favourite expression—for a lot -of things no one would care to bother one’s head about. He was an old idiot but -he was also an accomplished practical seaman. I was quite a boy and he -impressed me. I must have caught the disposition from him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well—go on with your accounting then,” I said, assuming an air of resignation. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s just it.” Marlow fell into his stride at once. “That’s just it. Mere -disappointed cupidity cannot account for the proceedings of the next morning; -proceedings which I shall not describe to you—but which I shall tell you of -presently, not as a matter of conjecture but of actual fact. Meantime returning -to that evening altercation in deadened tones within the private apartment of -Miss de Barral’s governess, what if I were to tell you that disappointment had -most likely made them touchy with each other, but that perhaps the secret of -his careless, railing behaviour, was in the thought, springing up within him -with an emphatic oath of relief “Now there’s nothing to prevent me from -breaking away from that old woman.” And that the secret of her envenomed rage, -not against this miserable and attractive wretch, but against fate, accident -and the whole course of human life, concentrating its venom on de Barral and -including the innocent girl herself, was in the thought, in the fear crying -within her “Now I have nothing to hold him with . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -I couldn’t refuse Marlow the tribute of a prolonged whistle “Phew! So you -suppose that . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -He waved his hand impatiently. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t suppose. It was so. And anyhow why shouldn’t you accept the -supposition. Do you look upon governesses as creatures above suspicion or -necessarily of moral perfection? I suppose their hearts would not stand looking -into much better than other people’s. Why shouldn’t a governess have passions, -all the passions, even that of libertinage, and even ungovernable passions; yet -suppressed by the very same means which keep the rest of us in order: early -training—necessity—circumstances—fear of consequences; till there comes an age, -a time when the restraint of years becomes intolerable—and infatuation -irresistible . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“But if infatuation—quite possible I admit,” I argued, “how do you account for -the nature of the conspiracy.” -</p> - -<p> -“You expect a cogency of conduct not usual in women,” said Marlow. “The -subterfuges of a menaced passion are not to be fathomed. You think it is going -on the way it looks, whereas it is capable, for its own ends, of walking -backwards into a precipice. -</p> - -<p> -When one once acknowledges that she was not a common woman, then all this is -easily understood. She was abominable but she was not common. She had suffered -in her life not from its constant inferiority but from constant -self-repression. A common woman finding herself placed in a commanding position -might have formed the design to become the second Mrs. de Barral. Which would -have been impracticable. De Barral would not have known what to do with a wife. -But even if by some impossible chance he had made advances, this governess -would have repulsed him with scorn. She had treated him always as an inferior -being with an assured, distant politeness. In her composed, schooled manner she -despised and disliked both father and daughter exceedingly. I have a notion -that she had always disliked intensely all her charges including the two ducal -(if they were ducal) little girls with whom she had dazzled de Barral. What an -odious, ungratified existence it must have been for a woman as avid of all the -sensuous emotions which life can give as most of her betters. -</p> - -<p> -She had seen her youth vanish, her freshness disappear, her hopes die, and now -she felt her flaming middle-age slipping away from her. No wonder that with her -admirably dressed, abundant hair, thickly sprinkled with white threads and -adding to her elegant aspect the piquant distinction of a powdered coiffure—no -wonder, I say, that she clung desperately to her last infatuation for that -graceless young scamp, even to the extent of hatching for him that amazing -plot. He was not so far gone in degradation as to make him utterly hopeless for -such an attempt. She hoped to keep him straight with that enormous bribe. She -was clearly a woman uncommon enough to live without illusions—which, of course, -does not mean that she was reasonable. She had said to herself, perhaps with a -fury of self-contempt “In a few years I shall be too old for anybody. Meantime -I shall have him—and I shall hold him by throwing to him the money of that -ordinary, silly, little girl of no account.” Well, it was a desperate -expedient—but she thought it worth while. And besides there is hardly a woman -in the world, no matter how hard, depraved or frantic, in whom something of the -maternal instinct does not survive, unconsumed like a salamander, in the fires -of the most abandoned passion. Yes there might have been that sentiment for him -too. There <i>was</i> no doubt. So I say again: No wonder! No wonder that she -raged at everything—and perhaps even at him, with contradictory reproaches: for -regretting the girl, a little fool who would never in her life be worth -anybody’s attention, and for taking the disaster itself with a cynical levity -in which she perceived a flavour of revolt. -</p> - -<p> -And so the altercation in the night went on, over the irremediable. He arguing -“What’s the hurry? Why clear out like this?” perhaps a little sorry for the -girl and as usual without a penny in his pocket, appreciating the comfortable -quarters, wishing to linger on as long as possible in the shameless enjoyment -of this already doomed luxury. There was really no hurry for a few days. Always -time enough to vanish. And, with that, a touch of masculine softness, a sort of -regard for appearances surviving his degradation: “You might behave decently at -the last, Eliza.” But there was no softness in the sallow face under the gala -effect of powdered hair, its formal calmness gone, the dark-ringed eyes glaring -at him with a sort of hunger. “No! No! If it is as you say then not a day, not -an hour, not a moment.” She stuck to it, very determined that there should be -no more of that boy and girl philandering since the object of it was gone; -angry with herself for having suffered from it so much in the past, furious at -its having been all in vain. -</p> - -<p> -But she was reasonable enough not to quarrel with him finally. What was the -good? She found means to placate him. The only means. As long as there was some -money to be got she had hold of him. “Now go away. We shall do no good by any -more of this sort of talk. I want to be alone for a bit.” He went away, sulkily -acquiescent. There was a room always kept ready for him on the same floor, at -the further end of a short thickly carpeted passage. -</p> - -<p> -How she passed the night, this woman with no illusions to help her through the -hours which must have been sleepless I shouldn’t like to say. It ended at last; -and this strange victim of the de Barral failure, whose name would never be -known to the Official Receiver, came down to breakfast, impenetrable in her -everyday perfection. From the very first, somehow, she had accepted the fatal -news for true. All her life she had never believed in her luck, with that -pessimism of the passionate who at bottom feel themselves to be the outcasts of -a morally restrained universe. But this did not make it any easier, on opening -the morning paper feverishly, to see the thing confirmed. Oh yes! It was there. -The Orb had suspended payment—the first growl of the storm faint as yet, but to -the initiated the forerunner of a deluge. As an item of news it was not -indecently displayed. It was not displayed at all in a sense. The serious -paper, the only one of the great dailies which had always maintained an -attitude of reserve towards the de Barral group of banks, had its “manner.” -Yes! a modest item of news! But there was also, on another page, a special -financial article in a hostile tone beginning with the words “We have always -feared” and a guarded, half-column leader, opening with the phrase: “It is a -deplorable sign of the times” what was, in effect, an austere, general rebuke -to the absurd infatuations of the investing public. She glanced through these -articles, a line here and a line there—no more was necessary to catch beyond -doubt the murmur of the oncoming flood. Several slighting references by name to -de Barral revived her animosity against the man, suddenly, as by the effect of -unforeseen moral support. The miserable wretch! . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“—You understand,” Marlow interrupted the current of his narrative, “that in -order to be consecutive in my relation of this affair I am telling you at once -the details which I heard from Mrs. Fyne later in the day, as well as what -little Fyne imparted to me with his usual solemnity during that morning call. -As you may easily guess the Fynes, in their apartments, had read the news at -the same time, and, as a matter of fact, in the same august and highly moral -newspaper, as the governess in the luxurious mansion a few doors down on the -opposite side of the street. But they read them with different feelings. They -were thunderstruck. Fyne had to explain the full purport of the intelligence to -Mrs. Fyne whose first cry was that of relief. Then that poor child would be -safe from these designing, horrid people. Mrs. Fyne did not know what it might -mean to be suddenly reduced from riches to absolute penury. Fyne with his -masculine imagination was less inclined to rejoice extravagantly at the girl’s -escape from the moral dangers which had been menacing her defenceless -existence. It was a confoundedly big price to pay. What an unfortunate little -thing she was! “We might be able to do something to comfort that poor child at -any rate for the time she is here,” said Mrs. Fyne. She felt under a sort of -moral obligation not to be indifferent. But no comfort for anyone could be got -by rushing out into the street at this early hour; and so, following the advice -of Fyne not to act hastily, they both sat down at the window and stared -feelingly at the great house, awful to their eyes in its stolid, prosperous, -expensive respectability with ruin absolutely standing at the door. -</p> - -<p> -By that time, or very soon after, all Brighton had the information and formed a -more or less just appreciation of its gravity. The butler in Miss de Barral’s -big house had seen the news, perhaps earlier than anybody within a mile of the -Parade, in the course of his morning duties of which one was to dry the freshly -delivered paper before the fire—an occasion to glance at it which no -intelligent man could have neglected. He communicated to the rest of the -household his vaguely forcible impression that something had gone d---bly wrong -with the affairs of “her father in London.” -</p> - -<p> -This brought an atmosphere of constraint through the house, which Flora de -Barral coming down somewhat later than usual could not help noticing in her own -way. Everybody seemed to stare so stupidly somehow; she feared a dull day. -</p> - -<p> -In the dining-room the governess in her place, a newspaper half-concealed under -the cloth on her lap, after a few words exchanged with lips that seemed hardly -to move, remaining motionless, her eyes fixed before her in an enduring -silence; and presently Charley coming in to whom she did not even give a -glance. He hardly said good morning, though he had a half-hearted try to smile -at the girl, and sitting opposite her with his eyes on his plate and slight -quivers passing along the line of his clean-shaven jaw, he too had nothing to -say. It was dull, horribly dull to begin one’s day like this; but she knew what -it was. These never-ending family affairs! It was not for the first time that -she had suffered from their depressing after-effects on these two. It was a -shame that the delightful Charley should be made dull by these stupid talks, -and it was perfectly stupid of him to let himself be upset like this by his -aunt. -</p> - -<p> -When after a period of still, as if calculating, immobility, her governess got -up abruptly and went out with the paper in her hand, almost immediately -afterwards followed by Charley who left his breakfast half eaten, the girl was -positively relieved. They would have it out that morning whatever it was, and -be themselves again in the afternoon. At least Charley would be. To the moods -of her governess she did not attach so much importance. -</p> - -<p> -For the first time that morning the Fynes saw the front door of the awful house -open and the objectionable young man issue forth, his rascality visible to -their prejudiced eyes in his very bowler hat and in the smart cut of his short -fawn overcoat. He walked away rapidly like a man hurrying to catch a train, -glancing from side to side as though he were carrying something off. Could he -be departing for good? Undoubtedly, undoubtedly! But Mrs. Fyne’s fervent “thank -goodness” turned out to be a bit, as the Americans—some Americans—say -“previous.” In a very short time the odious fellow appeared again, strolling, -absolutely strolling back, his hat now tilted a little on one side, with an air -of leisure and satisfaction. Mrs. Fyne groaned not only in the spirit, at this -sight, but in the flesh, audibly; and asked her husband what it might mean. -Fyne naturally couldn’t say. Mrs. Fyne believed that there was something horrid -in progress and meantime the object of her detestation had gone up the steps -and had knocked at the door which at once opened to admit him. -</p> - -<p> -He had been only as far as the bank. -</p> - -<p> -His reason for leaving his breakfast unfinished to run after Miss de Barral’s -governess, was to speak to her in reference to that very errand possessing the -utmost possible importance in his eyes. He shrugged his shoulders at the -nervousness of her eyes and hands, at the half-strangled whisper “I had to go -out. I could hardly contain myself.” That was her affair. He was, with a young -man’s squeamishness, rather sick of her ferocity. He did not understand it. Men -do not accumulate hate against each other in tiny amounts, treasuring every -pinch carefully till it grows at last into a monstrous and explosive hoard. He -had run out after her to remind her of the balance at the bank. What about -lifting that money without wasting any more time? She had promised him to leave -nothing behind. -</p> - -<p> -An account opened in her name for the expenses of the establishment in -Brighton, had been fed by de Barral with deferential lavishness. The governess -crossed the wide hall into a little room at the side where she sat down to -write the cheque, which he hastened out to go and cash as if it were stolen or -a forgery. As observed by the Fynes, his uneasy appearance on leaving the house -arose from the fact that his first trouble having been caused by a cheque of -doubtful authenticity, the possession of a document of the sort made him -unreasonably uncomfortable till this one was safely cashed. And after all, you -know it was stealing of an indirect sort; for the money was de Barral’s money -if the account was in the name of the accomplished lady. At any rate the cheque -was cashed. On getting hold of the notes and gold he recovered his jaunty -bearing, it being well known that with certain natures the presence of money -(even stolen) in the pocket, acts as a tonic, or at least as a stimulant. He -cocked his hat a little on one side as though he had had a drink or two—which -indeed he might have had in reality, to celebrate the occasion. -</p> - -<p> -The governess had been waiting for his return in the hall, disregarding the -side-glances of the butler as he went in and out of the dining-room clearing -away the breakfast things. It was she, herself, who had opened the door so -promptly. “It’s all right,” he said touching his breast-pocket; and she did not -dare, the miserable wretch without illusions, she did not dare ask him to hand -it over. They looked at each other in silence. He nodded significantly: “Where -is she now?” and she whispered “Gone into the drawing-room. Want to see her -again?” with an archly black look which he acknowledged by a muttered, surly: -“I am damned if I do. Well, as you want to bolt like this, why don’t we go -now?” -</p> - -<p> -She set her lips with cruel obstinacy and shook her head. She had her idea, her -completed plan. At that moment the Fynes, still at the window and watching like -a pair of private detectives, saw a man with a long grey beard and a jovial -face go up the steps helping himself with a thick stick, and knock at the door. -Who could he be? -</p> - -<p> -He was one of Miss de Barral’s masters. She had lately taken up painting in -water-colours, having read in a high-class woman’s weekly paper that a great -many princesses of the European royal houses were cultivating that art. This -was the water-colour morning; and the teacher, a veteran of many exhibitions, -of a venerable and jovial aspect, had turned up with his usual punctuality. He -was no great reader of morning papers, and even had he seen the news it is very -likely he would not have understood its real purport. At any rate he turned up, -as the governess expected him to do, and the Fynes saw him pass through the -fateful door. -</p> - -<p> -He bowed cordially to the lady in charge of Miss de Barral’s education, whom he -saw in the hall engaged in conversation with a very good-looking but somewhat -raffish young gentleman. She turned to him graciously: “Flora is already -waiting for you in the drawing-room.” -</p> - -<p> -The cultivation of the art said to be patronized by princesses was pursued in -the drawing-room from considerations of the right kind of light. The governess -preceded the master up the stairs and into the room where Miss de Barral was -found arrayed in a holland pinafore (also of the right kind for the pursuit of -the art) and smilingly expectant. The water-colour lesson enlivened by the -jocular conversation of the kindly, humorous, old man was always great fun; and -she felt she would be compensated for the tiresome beginning of the day. -</p> - -<p> -Her governess generally was present at the lesson; but on this occasion she -only sat down till the master and pupil had gone to work in earnest, and then -as though she had suddenly remembered some order to give, rose quietly and went -out of the room. -</p> - -<p> -Once outside, the servants summoned by the passing maid without a bell being -rung, and quick, quick, let all this luggage be taken down into the hall, and -let one of you call a cab. She stood outside the drawing-room door on the -landing, looking at each piece, trunk, leather cases, portmanteaus, being -carried past her, her brows knitted and her aspect so sombre and absorbed that -it took some little time for the butler to muster courage enough to speak to -her. But he reflected that he was a free-born Briton and had his rights. He -spoke straight to the point but in the usual respectful manner. -</p> - -<p> -“Beg you pardon, ma’am—but are you going away for good?” -</p> - -<p> -He was startled by her tone. Its unexpected, unlady-like harshness fell on his -trained ear with the disagreeable effect of a false note. “Yes. I am going -away. And the best thing for all of you is to go away too, as soon as you like. -You can go now, to-day, this moment. You had your wages paid you only last -week. The longer you stay the greater your loss. But I have nothing to do with -it now. You are the servants of Mr. de Barral—you know.” -</p> - -<p> -The butler was astounded by the manner of this advice, and as his eyes wandered -to the drawing-room door the governess extended her arm as if to bar the way. -“Nobody goes in there.” And that was said still in another tone, such a tone -that all trace of the trained respectfulness vanished from the butler’s -bearing. He stared at her with a frank wondering gaze. “Not till I am gone,” -she added, and there was such an expression on her face that the man was -daunted by the mystery of it. He shrugged his shoulders slightly and without -another word went down the stairs on his way to the basement, brushing in the -hall past Mr. Charles who hat on head and both hands rammed deep into his -overcoat pockets paced up and down as though on sentry duty there. -</p> - -<p> -The ladies’ maid was the only servant upstairs, hovering in the passage on the -first floor, curious and as if fascinated by the woman who stood there guarding -the door. Being beckoned closer imperiously and asked by the governess to bring -out of the now empty rooms the hat and veil, the only objects besides the -furniture still to be found there, she did so in silence but inwardly -fluttered. And while waiting uneasily, with the veil, before that woman who, -without moving a step away from the drawing-room door was pinning with careless -haste her hat on her head, she heard within a sudden burst of laughter from -Miss de Barral enjoying the fun of the water-colour lesson given her for the -last time by the cheery old man. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. and Mrs. Fyne ambushed at their window—a most incredible occupation for -people of their kind—saw with renewed anxiety a cab come to the door, and -watched some luggage being carried out and put on its roof. The butler appeared -for a moment, then went in again. What did it mean? Was Flora going to be taken -to her father; or were these people, that woman and her horrible nephew, about -to carry her off somewhere? Fyne couldn’t tell. He doubted the last, Flora -having now, he judged, no value, either positive or speculative. Though no -great reader of character he did not credit the governess with humane -intentions. He confessed to me naïvely that he was excited as if watching -some action on the stage. Then the thought struck him that the girl might have -had some money settled on her, be possessed of some means, of some little -fortune of her own and therefore— -</p> - -<p> -He imparted this theory to his wife who shared fully his consternation. “I -can’t believe the child will go away without running in to say good-bye to us,” -she murmured. “We must find out! I shall ask her.” But at that very moment the -cab rolled away, empty inside, and the door of the house which had been -standing slightly ajar till then was pushed to. -</p> - -<p> -They remained silent staring at it till Mrs. Fyne whispered doubtfully “I -really think I must go over.” Fyne didn’t answer for a while (his is a -reflective mind, you know), and then as if Mrs. Fyne’s whispers had an occult -power over that door it opened wide again and the white-bearded man issued, -astonishingly active in his movements, using his stick almost like a -leaping-pole to get down the steps; and hobbled away briskly along the -pavement. Naturally the Fynes were too far off to make out the expression of -his face. But it would not have helped them very much to a guess at the -conditions inside the house. The expression was humorously puzzled—nothing -more. -</p> - -<p> -For, at the end of his lesson, seizing his trusty stick and coming out with his -habitual vivacity, he very nearly cannoned just outside the drawing-room door -into the back of Miss de Barral’s governess. He stopped himself in time and she -turned round swiftly. It was embarrassing; he apologised; but her face was not -startled; it was not aware of him; it wore a singular expression of resolution. -A very singular expression which, as it were, detained him for a moment. In -order to cover his embarrassment, he made some inane remark on the weather, -upon which, instead of returning another inane remark according to the tacit -rules of the game, she only gave him a smile of unfathomable meaning. Nothing -could have been more singular. The good-looking young gentleman of questionable -appearance took not the slightest notice of him in the hall. No servant was to -be seen. He let himself out pulling the door to behind him with a crash as, in -a manner, he was forced to do to get it shut at all. -</p> - -<p> -When the echo of it had died away the woman on the landing leaned over the -banister and called out bitterly to the man below “Don’t you want to come up -and say good-bye.” He had an impatient movement of the shoulders and went on -pacing to and fro as though he had not heard. But suddenly he checked himself, -stood still for a moment, then with a gloomy face and without taking his hands -out of his pockets ran smartly up the stairs. Already facing the door she -turned her head for a whispered taunt: “Come! Confess you were dying to see her -stupid little face once more,”—to which he disdained to answer. -</p> - -<p> -Flora de Barral, still seated before the table at which she had been wording on -her sketch, raised her head at the noise of the opening door. The invading -manner of their entrance gave her the sense of something she had never seen -before. She knew them well. She knew the woman better than she knew her father. -There had been between them an intimacy of relation as great as it can possibly -be without the final closeness of affection. The delightful Charley walked in, -with his eyes fixed on the back of her governess whose raised veil hid her -forehead like a brown band above the black line of the eyebrows. The girl was -astounded and alarmed by the altogether unknown expression in the woman’s face. -The stress of passion often discloses an aspect of the personality completely -ignored till then by its closest intimates. There was something like an -emanation of evil from her eyes and from the face of the other, who, exactly -behind her and overtopping her by half a head, kept his eyelids lowered in a -sinister fashion—which in the poor girl, reached, stirred, set free that -faculty of unreasoning explosive terror lying locked up at the bottom of all -human hearts and of the hearts of animals as well. With suddenly enlarged -pupils and a movement as instinctive almost as the bounding of a startled fawn, -she jumped up and found herself in the middle of the big room, exclaiming at -those amazing and familiar strangers. -</p> - -<p> -“What do you want?” -</p> - -<p> -You will note that she cried: What do you want? Not: What has happened? She -told Mrs. Fyne that she had received suddenly the feeling of being personally -attacked. And that must have been very terrifying. The woman before her had -been the wisdom, the authority, the protection of life, security embodied and -visible and undisputed. -</p> - -<p> -You may imagine then the force of the shock in the intuitive perception not -merely of danger, for she did not know what was alarming her, but in the sense -of the security being gone. And not only security. I don’t know how to explain -it clearly. Look! Even a small child lives, plays and suffers in terms of its -conception of its own existence. Imagine, if you can, a fact coming in suddenly -with a force capable of shattering that very conception itself. It was only -because of the girl being still so much of a child that she escaped mental -destruction; that, in other words she got over it. Could one conceive of her -more mature, while still as ignorant as she was, one must conclude that she -would have become an idiot on the spot—long before the end of that experience. -Luckily, people, whether mature or not mature (and who really is ever mature?) -are for the most part quite incapable of understanding what is happening to -them: a merciful provision of nature to preserve an average amount of sanity -for working purposes in this world . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“But we, my dear Marlow, have the inestimable advantage of understanding what -is happening to others,” I struck in. “Or at least some of us seem to. Is that -too a provision of nature? And what is it for? Is it that we may amuse -ourselves gossiping about each other’s affairs? You for instance seem—” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know what I seem,” Marlow silenced me, “and surely life must be amused -somehow. It would be still a very respectable provision if it were only for -that end. But from that same provision of understanding, there springs in us -compassion, charity, indignation, the sense of solidarity; and in minds of any -largeness an inclination to that indulgence which is next door to affection. I -don’t mean to say that I am inclined to an indulgent view of the precious -couple which broke in upon an unsuspecting girl. They came marching in (it’s -the very expression she used later on to Mrs. Fyne) but at her cry they -stopped. It must have been startling enough to them. It was like having the -mask torn off when you don’t expect it. The man stopped for good; he didn’t -offer to move a step further. But, though the governess had come in there for -the very purpose of taking the mask off for the first time in her life, she -seemed to look upon the frightened cry as a fresh provocation. “What are you -screaming for, you little fool?” she said advancing alone close to the girl who -was affected exactly as if she had seen Medusa’s head with serpentine locks set -mysteriously on the shoulders of that familiar person, in that brown dress, -under that hat she knew so well. It made her lose all her hold on reality. She -told Mrs. Fyne: “I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t even know that I was -frightened. If she had told me it was a joke I would have laughed. If she had -told me to put on my hat and go out with her I would have gone to put on my hat -and gone out with her and never said a single word; I should have been -convinced I had been mad for a minute or so, and I would have worried myself to -death rather than breathe a hint of it to her or anyone. But the wretch put her -face close to mine and I could not move. Directly I had looked into her eyes I -felt grown on to the carpet.” -</p> - -<p> -It was years afterwards that she used to talk like this to Mrs. Fyne—and to -Mrs. Fyne alone. Nobody else ever heard the story from her lips. But it was -never forgotten. It was always felt; it remained like a mark on her soul, a -sort of mystic wound, to be contemplated, to be meditated over. And she said -further to Mrs. Fyne, in the course of many confidences provoked by that -contemplation, that, as long as that woman called her names, it was almost -soothing, it was in a manner reassuring. Her imagination had, like her body, -gone off in a wild bound to meet the unknown; and then to hear after all -something which more in its tone than in its substance was mere venomous abuse, -had steadied the inward flutter of all her being. -</p> - -<p> -“She called me a little fool more times than I can remember. I! A fool! Why, -Mrs. Fyne! I do assure you I had never yet thought at all; never of anything in -the world, till then. I just went on living. And one can’t be a fool without -one has at least tried to think. But what had I ever to think about?” -</p> - -<p> -“And no doubt,” commented Marlow, “her life had been a mere life of -sensations—the response to which can neither be foolish nor wise. It can only -be temperamental; and I believe that she was of a generally happy disposition, -a child of the average kind. Even when she was asked violently whether she -imagined that there was anything in her, apart from her money, to induce any -intelligent person to take any sort of interest in her existence, she only -caught her breath in one dry sob and said nothing, made no other sound, made no -movement. When she was viciously assured that she was in heart, mind, manner -and appearance, an utterly common and insipid creature, she remained still, -without indignation, without anger. She stood, a frail and passive vessel into -which the other went on pouring all the accumulated dislike for all her pupils, -her scorn of all her employers (the ducal one included), the accumulated -resentment, the infinite hatred of all these unrelieved years of—I won’t say -hypocrisy. The practice of perfect hypocrisy is a relief in itself, a secret -triumph of the vilest sort, no doubt, but still a way of getting even with the -common morality from which some of us appear to suffer so much. No! I will say -the years, the passionate, bitter years, of restraint, the iron, admirably -mannered restraint at every moment, in a never-failing perfect correctness of -speech, glances, movements, smiles, gestures, establishing for her a high -reputation, an impressive record of success in her sphere. It had been like -living half strangled for years. -</p> - -<p> -And all this torture for nothing, in the end! What looked at last like a -possible prize (oh, without illusions! but still a prize) broken in her hands, -fallen in the dust, the bitter dust, of disappointment, she revelled in the -miserable revenge—pretty safe too—only regretting the unworthiness of the -girlish figure which stood for so much she had longed to be able to spit venom -at, if only once, in perfect liberty. The presence of the young man at her back -increased both her satisfaction and her rage. But the very violence of the -attack seemed to defeat its end by rendering the representative victim as it -were insensible. The cause of this outrage naturally escaping the girl’s -imagination her attitude was in effect that of dense, hopeless stupidity. And -it is a fact that the worst shocks of life are often received without outcries, -without gestures, without a flow of tears and the convulsions of sobbing. The -insatiable governess missed these signs exceedingly. This pitiful stolidity was -only a fresh provocation. Yet the poor girl was deadly pale. -</p> - -<p> -“I was cold,” she used to explain to Mrs. Fyne. “I had had time to get -terrified. She had pushed her face so near mine and her teeth looked as though -she wanted to bite me. Her eyes seemed to have become quite dry, hard and small -in a lot of horrible wrinkles. I was too afraid of her to shudder, too afraid -of her to put my fingers to my ears. I didn’t know what I expected her to call -me next, but when she told me I was no better than a beggar—that there would be -no more masters, no more servants, no more horses for me—I said to myself: Is -that all? I should have laughed if I hadn’t been too afraid of her to make the -least little sound.” -</p> - -<p> -It seemed that poor Flora had to know all the possible phases of that sort of -anguish, beginning with instinctive panic, through the bewildered stage, the -frozen stage and the stage of blanched apprehension, down to the instinctive -prudence of extreme terror—the stillness of the mouse. But when she heard -herself called the child of a cheat and a swindler, the very monstrous -unexpectedness of this caused in her a revulsion towards letting herself go. -She screamed out all at once “You mustn’t speak like this of Papa!” -</p> - -<p> -The effort of it uprooted her from that spot where her little feet seemed dug -deep into the thick luxurious carpet, and she retreated backwards to a distant -part of the room, hearing herself repeat “You mustn’t, you mustn’t” as if it -were somebody else screaming. She came to a chair and flung herself into it. -Thereupon the somebody else ceased screaming and she lolled, exhausted, -sightless, in a silent room, as if indifferent to everything and without a -single thought in her head. -</p> - -<p> -The next few seconds seemed to last for ever so long; a black abyss of time -separating what was past and gone from the reappearance of the governess and -the reawakening of fear. And that woman was forcing the words through her set -teeth: “You say I mustn’t, I mustn’t. All the world will be speaking of him -like this to-morrow. They will say it, and they’ll print it. You shall hear it -and you shall read it—and then you shall know whose daughter you are.” -</p> - -<p> -Her face lighted up with an atrocious satisfaction. “He’s nothing but a thief,” -she cried, “this father of yours. As to you I have never been deceived in you -for a moment. I have been growing more and more sick of you for years. You are -a vulgar, silly nonentity, and you shall go back to where you belong, whatever -low place you have sprung from, and beg your bread—that is if anybody’s charity -will have anything to do with you, which I doubt—” -</p> - -<p> -She would have gone on regardless of the enormous eyes, of the open mouth of -the girl who sat up suddenly with the wild staring expression of being choked -by invisible fingers on her throat, and yet horribly pale. The effect on her -constitution was so profound, Mrs. Fyne told me, that she who as a child had a -rather pretty delicate colouring, showed a white bloodless face for a couple of -years afterwards, and remained always liable at the slightest emotion to an -extraordinary ghost-like whiteness. The end came in the abomination of -desolation of the poor child’s miserable cry for help: “Charley! Charley!” -coming from her throat in hidden gasping efforts. Her enlarged eyes had -discovered him where he stood motionless and dumb. -</p> - -<p> -He started from his immobility, a hand withdrawn brusquely from the pocket of -his overcoat, strode up to the woman, seized her by the arm from behind, saying -in a rough commanding tone: “Come away, Eliza.” In an instant the child saw -them close together and remote, near the door, gone through the door, which she -neither heard nor saw being opened or shut. But it was shut. Oh yes, it was -shut. Her slow unseeing glance wandered all over the room. For some time longer -she remained leaning forward, collecting her strength, doubting if she would be -able to stand. She stood up at last. Everything about her spun round in an -oppressive silence. She remembered perfectly—as she told Mrs. Fyne—that -clinging to the arm of the chair she called out twice “Papa! Papa!” At the -thought that he was far away in London everything about her became quite still. -Then, frightened suddenly by the solitude of that empty room, she rushed out of -it blindly. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -With that fatal diffidence in well doing, inherent in the present condition of -humanity, the Fynes continued to watch at their window. “It’s always so -difficult to know what to do for the best,” Fyne assured me. It is. Good -intentions stand in their own way so much. Whereas if you want to do harm to -anyone you needn’t hesitate. You have only to go on. No one will reproach you -with your mistakes or call you a confounded, clumsy meddler. The Fynes watched -the door, the closed street door inimical somehow to their benevolent thoughts, -the face of the house cruelly impenetrable. It was just as on any other day. -The unchanged daily aspect of inanimate things is so impressive that Fyne went -back into the room for a moment, picked up the paper again, and ran his eyes -over the item of news. No doubt of it. It looked very bad. He came back to the -window and Mrs. Fyne. Tired out as she was she sat there resolute and ready for -responsibility. But she had no suggestion to offer. People do fear a rebuff -wonderfully, and all her audacity was in her thoughts. She shrank from the -incomparably insolent manner of the governess. Fyne stood by her side, as in -those old-fashioned photographs of married couples where you see a husband with -his hand on the back of his wife’s chair. And they were about as efficient as -an old photograph, and as still, till Mrs. Fyne started slightly. The street -door had swung open, and, bursting out, appeared the young man, his hat (Mrs. -Fyne observed) tilted forward over his eyes. After him the governess slipped -through, turning round at once to shut the door behind her with care. Meantime -the man went down the white steps and strode along the pavement, his hands -rammed deep into the pockets of his fawn overcoat. The woman, that woman of -composed movements, of deliberate superior manner, took a little run to catch -up with him, and directly she had caught up with him tried to introduce her -hand under his arm. Mrs. Fyne saw the brusque half turn of the fellow’s body as -one avoids an importunate contact, defeating her attempt rudely. She did not -try again but kept pace with his stride, and Mrs. Fyne watched them, walking -independently, turn the corner of the street side by side, disappear for ever. -</p> - -<p> -The Fynes looked at each other eloquently, doubtfully: What do you think of -this? Then with common accord turned their eyes back to the street door, -closed, massive, dark; the great, clear-brass knocker shining in a quiet slant -of sunshine cut by a diagonal line of heavy shade filling the further end of -the street. Could the girl be already gone? Sent away to her father? Had she -any relations? Nobody but de Barral himself ever came to see her, Mrs. Fyne -remembered; and she had the instantaneous, profound, maternal perception of the -child’s loneliness—and a girl too! It was irresistible. And, besides, the -departure of the governess was not without its encouraging influence. “I am -going over at once to find out,” she declared resolutely but still staring -across the street. Her intention was arrested by the sight of that awful, -sombrely glistening door, swinging back suddenly on the yawning darkness of the -hall, out of which literally flew out, right out on the pavement, almost -without touching the white steps, a little figure swathed in a holland pinafore -up to the chin, its hair streaming back from its head, darting past a -lamp-post, past the red pillar-box . . . “Here,” cried Mrs. Fyne; “she’s coming -here! Run, John! Run!” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne bounded out of the room. This is his own word. Bounded! He assured me with -intensified solemnity that he bounded; and the sight of the short and muscular -Fyne bounding gravely about the circumscribed passages and staircases of a -small, very high class, private hotel, would have been worth any amount of -money to a man greedy of memorable impressions. But as I looked at him, the -desire of laughter at my very lips, I asked myself: how many men could be found -ready to compromise their cherished gravity for the sake of the unimportant -child of a ruined financier with an ugly, black cloud already wreathing his -head. I didn’t laugh at little Fyne. I encouraged him: “You did!—very good . . -. Well?” -</p> - -<p> -His main thought was to save the child from some unpleasant interference. There -was a porter downstairs, page boys; some people going away with their trunks in -the passage; a railway omnibus at the door, white-breasted waiters dodging -about the entrance. -</p> - -<p> -He was in time. He was at the door before she reached it in her blind course. -She did not recognize him; perhaps she did not see him. He caught her by the -arm as she ran past and, very sensibly, without trying to check her, simply -darted in with her and up the stairs, causing no end of consternation amongst -the people in his way. They scattered. What might have been their thoughts at -the spectacle of a shameless middle-aged man abducting headlong into the upper -regions of a respectable hotel a terrified young girl obviously under age, I -don’t know. And Fyne (he told me so) did not care for what people might think. -All he wanted was to reach his wife before the girl collapsed. For a time she -ran with him but at the last flight of stairs he had to seize and half drag, -half carry her to his wife. Mrs. Fyne waited at the door with her quite unmoved -physiognomy and her readiness to confront any sort of responsibility, which -already characterized her, long before she became a ruthless theorist. -Relieved, his mission accomplished, Fyne closed hastily the door of the -sitting-room. -</p> - -<p> -But before long both Fynes became frightened. After a period of immobility in -the arms of Mrs. Fyne, the girl, who had not said a word, tore herself out from -that slightly rigid embrace. She struggled dumbly between them, they did not -know why, soundless and ghastly, till she sank exhausted on a couch. Luckily -the children were out with the two nurses. The hotel housemaid helped Mrs. Fyne -to put Flora de Barral to bed. She was as if gone speechless and insane. She -lay on her back, her face white like a piece of paper, her dark eyes staring at -the ceiling, her awful immobility broken by sudden shivering fits with a loud -chattering of teeth in the shadowy silence of the room, the blinds pulled down, -Mrs. Fyne sitting by patiently, her arms folded, yet inwardly moved by the -riddle of that distress of which she could not guess the word, and saying to -herself: “That child is too emotional—much too emotional to be ever really -sound!” As if anyone not made of stone could be perfectly sound in this world. -And then how sound? In what sense—to resist what? Force or corruption? And even -in the best armour of steel there are joints a treacherous stroke can always -find if chance gives the opportunity. -</p> - -<p> -General considerations never had the power to trouble Mrs. Fyne much. The girl -not being in a state to be questioned she waited by the bedside. Fyne had -crossed over to the house, his scruples overcome by his anxiety to discover -what really had happened. He did not have to lift the knocker; the door stood -open on the inside gloom of the hall; he walked into it and saw no one about, -the servants having assembled for a fatuous consultation in the basement. -Fyne’s uplifted bass voice startled them down there, the butler coming up, -staring and in his shirt sleeves, very suspicious at first, and then, on Fyne’s -explanation that he was the husband of a lady who had called several times at -the house—Miss de Barral’s mother’s friend—becoming humanely concerned and -communicative, in a man to man tone, but preserving his trained high-class -servant’s voice: “Oh bless you, sir, no! She does not mean to come back. She -told me so herself”—he assured Fyne with a faint shade of contempt creeping -into his tone. -</p> - -<p> -As regards their young lady nobody downstairs had any idea that she had run out -of the house. He dared say they all would have been willing to do their very -best for her, for the time being; but since she was now with her mother’s -friends . . . -</p> - -<p> -He fidgeted. He murmured that all this was very unexpected. He wanted to know -what he had better do with letters or telegrams which might arrive in the -course of the day. -</p> - -<p> -“Letters addressed to Miss de Barral, you had better bring over to my hotel -over there,” said Fyne beginning to feel extremely worried about the future. -The man said “Yes, sir,” adding, “and if a letter comes addressed to Mrs. . . . -” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne stopped him by a gesture. “I don’t know . . . Anything you like.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -The butler did not shut the street door after Fyne, but remained on the -doorstep for a while, looking up and down the street in the spirit of -independent expectation like a man who is again his own master. Mrs. Fyne -hearing her husband return came out of the room where the girl was lying in -bed. “No change,” she whispered; and Fyne could only make a hopeless sign of -ignorance as to what all this meant and how it would end. -</p> - -<p> -He feared future complications—naturally; a man of limited means, in a public -position, his time not his own. Yes. He owned to me in the parlour of my -farmhouse that he had been very much concerned then at the possible -consequences. But as he was making this artless confession I said to myself -that, whatever consequences and complications he might have imagined, the -complication from which he was suffering now could never, never have presented -itself to his mind. Slow but sure (for I conceive that the Book of Destiny has -been written up from the beginning to the last page) it had been coming for -something like six years—and now it had come. The complication was there! I -looked at his unshaken solemnity with the amused pity we give the victim of a -funny if somewhat ill-natured practical joke. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh hang it,” he exclaimed—in no logical connection with what he had been -relating to me. Nevertheless the exclamation was intelligible enough. -</p> - -<p> -However at first there were, he admitted, no untoward complications, no -embarrassing consequences. To a telegram in guarded terms dispatched to de -Barral no answer was received for more than twenty-four hours. This certainly -caused the Fynes some anxiety. When the answer arrived late on the evening of -next day it was in the shape of an elderly man. An unexpected sort of man. Fyne -explained to me with precision that he evidently belonged to what is most -respectable in the lower middle classes. He was calm and slow in his speech. He -was wearing a frock-coat, had grey whiskers meeting under his chin, and -declared on entering that Mr. de Barral was his cousin. He hastened to add that -he had not seen his cousin for many years, while he looked upon Fyne (who -received him alone) with so much distrust that Fyne felt hurt (the person -actually refusing at first the chair offered to him) and retorted tartly that -he, for his part, had <i>never</i> seen Mr. de Barral, in his life, and that, -since the visitor did not want to sit down, he, Fyne, begged him to state his -business as shortly as possible. The man in black sat down then with a faint -superior smile. -</p> - -<p> -He had come for the girl. His cousin had asked him in a note delivered by a -messenger to go to Brighton at once and take “his girl” over from a gentleman -named Fyne and give her house-room for a time in his family. And there he was. -His business had not allowed him to come sooner. His business was the -manufacture on a large scale of cardboard boxes. He had two grown-up girls of -his own. He had consulted his wife and so that was all right. The girl would -get a welcome in his home. His home most likely was not what she had been used -to but, etc. etc. -</p> - -<p> -All the time Fyne felt subtly in that man’s manner a derisive disapproval of -everything that was not lower middle class, a profound respect for money, a -mean sort of contempt for speculators that fail, and a conceited satisfaction -with his own respectable vulgarity. -</p> - -<p> -With Mrs. Fyne the manner of the obscure cousin of de Barral was but little -less offensive. He looked at her rather slyly but her cold, decided demeanour -impressed him. Mrs. Fyne on her side was simply appalled by the personage, but -did not show it outwardly. Not even when the man remarked with false simplicity -that Florrie—her name was Florrie wasn’t it? would probably miss at first all -her grand friends. And when he was informed that the girl was in bed, not -feeling well at all he showed an unsympathetic alarm. She wasn’t an invalid was -she? No. What was the matter with her then? -</p> - -<p> -An extreme distaste for that respectable member of society was depicted in -Fyne’s face even as he was telling me of him after all these years. He was a -specimen of precisely the class of which people like the Fynes have the least -experience; and I imagine he jarred on them painfully. He possessed all the -civic virtues in their very meanest form, and the finishing touch was given by -a low sort of consciousness he manifested of possessing them. His industry was -exemplary. He wished to catch the earliest possible train next morning. It -seems that for seven and twenty years he had never missed being seated on his -office-stool at the factory punctually at ten o’clock every day. He listened to -Mrs. Fyne’s objections with undisguised impatience. Why couldn’t Florrie get up -and have her breakfast at eight like other people? In his house the breakfast -was at eight sharp. Mrs. Fyne’s polite stoicism overcame him at last. He had -come down at a very great personal inconvenience, he assured her with -displeasure, but he gave up the early train. -</p> - -<p> -The good Fynes didn’t dare to look at each other before this unforeseen but -perfectly authorized guardian, the same thought springing up in their minds: -Poor girl! Poor girl! If the women of the family were like this too! . . . And -of course they would be. Poor girl! But what could they have done even if they -had been prepared to raise objections. The person in the frock-coat had the -father’s note; he had shown it to Fyne. Just a request to take care of the -girl—as her nearest relative—without any explanation or a single allusion to -the financial catastrophe, its tone strangely detached and in its very silence -on the point giving occasion to think that the writer was not uneasy as to the -child’s future. Probably it was that very idea which had set the cousin so -readily in motion. Men had come before out of commercial crashes with estates -in the country and a comfortable income, if not for themselves then for their -wives. And if a wife could be made comfortable by a little dexterous management -then why not a daughter? Yes. This possibility might have been discussed in the -person’s household and judged worth acting upon. -</p> - -<p> -The man actually hinted broadly that such was his belief and in face of Fyne’s -guarded replies gave him to understand that he was not the dupe of such -reticences. Obviously he looked upon the Fynes as being disappointed because -the girl was taken away from them. They, by a diplomatic sacrifice in the -interests of poor Flora, had asked the man to dinner. He accepted ungraciously, -remarking that he was not used to late hours. He had generally a bit of supper -about half-past eight or nine. However . . . -</p> - -<p> -He gazed contemptuously round the prettily decorated dining-room. He wrinkled -his nose in a puzzled way at the dishes offered to him by the waiter but -refused none, devouring the food with a great appetite and drinking (“swilling” -Fyne called it) gallons of ginger beer, which was procured for him (in stone -bottles) at his request. The difficulty of keeping up a conversation with that -being exhausted Mrs. Fyne herself, who had come to the table armed with -adamantine resolution. The only memorable thing he said was when, in a pause of -gorging himself “with these French dishes” he deliberately let his eyes roam -over the little tables occupied by parties of diners, and remarked that his -wife did for a moment think of coming down with him, but that he was glad she -didn’t do so. “She wouldn’t have been at all happy seeing all this alcohol -about. Not at all happy,” he declared weightily. -</p> - -<p> -“You must have had a charming evening,” I said to Fyne, “if I may judge from -the way you have kept the memory green.” -</p> - -<p> -“Delightful,” he growled with, positively, a flash of anger at the -recollection, but lapsed back into his solemnity at once. After we had been -silent for a while I asked whether the man took away the girl next day. -</p> - -<p> -Fyne said that he did; in the afternoon, in a fly, with a few clothes the maid -had got together and brought across from the big house. He only saw Flora again -ten minutes before they left for the railway station, in the Fynes’ -sitting-room at the hotel. It was a most painful ten minutes for the Fynes. The -respectable citizen addressed Miss de Barral as “Florrie” and “my dear,” -remarking to her that she was not very big “there’s not much of you my dear” in -a familiarly disparaging tone. Then turning to Mrs. Fyne, and quite loud “She’s -very white in the face. Why’s that?” To this Mrs. Fyne made no reply. She had -put the girl’s hair up that morning with her own hands. It changed her very -much, observed Fyne. He, naturally, played a subordinate, merely approving -part. All he could do for Miss de Barral personally was to go downstairs and -put her into the fly himself, while Miss de Barral’s nearest relation, having -been shouldered out of the way, stood by, with an umbrella and a little black -bag, watching this proceeding with grim amusement, as it seemed. It was -difficult to guess what the girl thought or what she felt. She no longer looked -a child. She whispered to Fyne a faint “Thank you,” from the fly, and he said -to her in very distinct tones and while still holding her hand: “Pray don’t -forget to write fully to my wife in a day or two, Miss de Barral.” Then Fyne -stepped back and the cousin climbed into the fly muttering quite audibly: “I -don’t think you’ll be troubled much with her in the future;” without however -looking at Fyne on whom he did not even bestow a nod. The fly drove away. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER FIVE—THE TEA-PARTY</h3> - -<p> -“Amiable personality,” I observed seeing Fyne on the point of falling into a -brown study. But I could not help adding with meaning: “He hadn’t the gift of -prophecy though.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne got up suddenly with a muttered “No, evidently not.” He was gloomy, -hesitating. I supposed that he would not wish to play chess that afternoon. -This would dispense me from leaving my rooms on a day much too fine to be -wasted in walking exercise. And I was disappointed when picking up his cap he -intimated to me his hope of seeing me at the cottage about four o’clock—as -usual. -</p> - -<p> -“It wouldn’t be as usual.” I put a particular stress on that remark. He -admitted, after a short reflection, that it would not be. No. Not as usual. In -fact it was his wife who hoped, rather, for my presence. She had formed a very -favourable opinion of my practical sagacity. -</p> - -<p> -This was the first I ever heard of it. I had never suspected that Mrs. Fyne had -taken the trouble to distinguish in me the signs of sagacity or folly. The few -words we had exchanged last night in the excitement—or the bother—of the girl’s -disappearance, were the first moderately significant words which had ever -passed between us. I had felt myself always to be in Mrs. Fyne’s view her -husband’s chess-player and nothing else—a convenience—almost an implement. -</p> - -<p> -“I am highly flattered,” I said. “I have always heard that there are no limits -to feminine intuition; and now I am half inclined to believe it is so. But -still I fail to see in what way my sagacity, practical or otherwise, can be of -any service to Mrs. Fyne. One man’s sagacity is very much like any other man’s -sagacity. And with you at hand—” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne, manifestly not attending to what I was saying, directed straight at me -his worried solemn eyes and struck in: -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yes. Very likely. But you will come—won’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -I had made up my mind that no Fyne of either sex would make me walk three miles -(there and back to their cottage) on this fine day. If the Fynes had been an -average sociable couple one knows only because leisure must be got through -somehow, I would have made short work of that special invitation. But they were -not that. Their undeniable humanity had to be acknowledged. At the same time I -wanted to have my own way. So I proposed that I should be allowed the pleasure -of offering them a cup of tea at my rooms. -</p> - -<p> -A short reflective pause—and Fyne accepted eagerly in his own and his wife’s -name. A moment after I heard the click of the gate-latch and then in an ecstasy -of barking from his demonstrative dog his serious head went past my window on -the other side of the hedge, its troubled gaze fixed forward, and the mind -inside obviously employed in earnest speculation of an intricate nature. One at -least of his wife’s girl-friends had become more than a mere shadow for him. I -surmised however that it was not of the girl-friend but of his wife that Fyne -was thinking. He was an excellent husband. -</p> - -<p> -I prepared myself for the afternoon’s hospitalities, calling in the farmer’s -wife and reviewing with her the resources of the house and the village. She was -a helpful woman. But the resources of my sagacity I did not review. Except in -the gross material sense of the afternoon tea I made no preparations for Mrs. -Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -It was impossible for me to make any such preparations. I could not tell what -sort of sustenance she would look for from my sagacity. And as to taking stock -of the wares of my mind no one I imagine is anxious to do that sort of thing if -it can be avoided. A vaguely grandiose state of mental self-confidence is much -too agreeable to be disturbed recklessly by such a delicate investigation. -Perhaps if I had had a helpful woman at my elbow, a dear, flattering acute, -devoted woman . . . There are in life moments when one positively regrets not -being married. No! I don’t exaggerate. I have said—moments, not years or even -days. Moments. The farmer’s wife obviously could not be asked to assist. She -could not have been expected to possess the necessary insight and I doubt -whether she would have known how to be flattering enough. She was being helpful -in her own way, with an extraordinary black bonnet on her head, a good mile off -by that time, trying to discover in the village shops a piece of eatable cake. -The pluck of women! The optimism of the dear creatures! -</p> - -<p> -And she managed to find something which looked eatable. That’s all I know as I -had no opportunity to observe the more intimate effects of that comestible. I -myself never eat cake, and Mrs. Fyne, when she arrived punctually, brought with -her no appetite for cake. She had no appetite for anything. But she had a -thirst—the sign of deep, of tormenting emotion. Yes it was emotion, not the -brilliant sunshine—more brilliant than warm as is the way of our discreet -self-repressed, distinguished, insular sun, which would not turn a real lady -scarlet—not on any account. Mrs. Fyne looked even cool. She wore a white skirt -and coat; a white hat with a large brim reposed on her smoothly arranged hair. -The coat was cut something like an army mess-jacket and the style suited her. I -dare say there are many youthful subalterns, and not the worst-looking too, who -resemble Mrs. Fyne in the type of face, in the sunburnt complexion, down to -that something alert in bearing. But not many would have had that aspect -breathing a readiness to assume any responsibility under Heaven. This is the -sort of courage which ripens late in life and of course Mrs. Fyne was of mature -years for all her unwrinkled face. -</p> - -<p> -She looked round the room, told me positively that I was very comfortable -there; to which I assented, humbly, acknowledging my undeserved good fortune. -</p> - -<p> -“Why undeserved?” she wanted to know. -</p> - -<p> -“I engaged these rooms by letter without asking any questions. It might have -been an abominable hole,” I explained to her. “I always do things like that. I -don’t like to be bothered. This is no great proof of sagacity—is it? Sagacious -people I believe like to exercise that faculty. I have heard that they can’t -even help showing it in the veriest trifles. It must be very delightful. But I -know nothing of it. I think that I have no sagacity—no practical sagacity.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne made an inarticulate bass murmur of protest. I asked after the children -whom I had not seen yet since my return from town. They had been very well. -They were always well. Both Fyne and Mrs. Fyne spoke of the rude health of -their children as if it were a result of moral excellence; in a peculiar tone -which seemed to imply some contempt for people whose children were liable to be -unwell at times. One almost felt inclined to apologize for the inquiry. And -this annoyed me; unreasonably, I admit, because the assumption of superior -merit is not a very exceptional weakness. Anxious to make myself disagreeable -by way of retaliation I observed in accents of interested civility that the -dear girls must have been wondering at the sudden disappearance of their -mother’s young friend. Had they been putting any awkward questions about Miss -Smith. Wasn’t it as Miss Smith that Miss de Barral had been introduced to me? -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne, staring fixedly but also colouring deeper under her tan, told me -that the children had never liked Flora very much. She hadn’t the high spirits -which endear grown-ups to healthy children, Mrs. Fyne explained unflinchingly. -Flora had been staying at the cottage several times before. Mrs. Fyne assured -me that she often found it very difficult to have her in the house. -</p> - -<p> -“But what else could we do?” she exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -That little cry of distress quite genuine in its inexpressiveness, altered my -feeling towards Mrs. Fyne. It would have been so easy to have done nothing and -to have thought no more about it. My liking for her began while she was trying -to tell me of the night she spent by the girl’s bedside, the night before her -departure with her unprepossessing relative. That Mrs. Fyne found means to -comfort the child I doubt very much. She had not the genius for the task of -undoing that which the hate of an infuriated woman had planned so well. -</p> - -<p> -You will tell me perhaps that children’s impressions are not durable. That’s -true enough. But here, child is only a manner of speaking. The girl was within -a few days of her sixteenth birthday; she was old enough to be matured by the -shock. The very effort she had to make in conveying the impression to Mrs. -Fyne, in remembering the details, in finding adequate words—or any words at -all—was in itself a terribly enlightening, an ageing process. She had talked a -long time, uninterrupted by Mrs. Fyne, childlike enough in her wonder and pain, -pausing now and then to interject the pitiful query: “It was cruel of her. -Wasn’t it cruel, Mrs. Fyne?” -</p> - -<p> -For Charley she found excuses. He at any rate had not said anything, while he -had looked very gloomy and miserable. He couldn’t have taken part against his -aunt—could he? But after all he did, when she called upon him, take “that cruel -woman away.” He had dragged her out by the arm. She had seen that plainly. She -remembered it. That was it! The woman was mad. “Oh! Mrs. Fyne, don’t tell me -she wasn’t mad. If you had only seen her face . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -But Mrs. Fyne was unflinching in her idea that as much truth as could be told -was due in the way of kindness to the girl, whose fate she feared would be to -live exposed to the hardest realities of unprivileged existences. She explained -to her that there were in the world evil-minded, selfish people. Unscrupulous -people . . . These two persons had been after her father’s money. The best -thing she could do was to forget all about them. -</p> - -<p> -“After papa’s money? I don’t understand,” poor Flora de Barral had murmured, -and lay still as if trying to think it out in the silence and shadows of the -room where only a night-light was burning. Then she had a long shivering fit -while holding tight the hand of Mrs. Fyne whose patient immobility by the -bedside of that brutally murdered childhood did infinite honour to her -humanity. That vigil must have been the more trying because I could see very -well that at no time did she think the victim particularly charming or -sympathetic. It was a manifestation of pure compassion, of compassion in -itself, so to speak, not many women would have been capable of displaying with -that unflinching steadiness. The shivering fit over, the girl’s next words in -an outburst of sobs were, “Oh! Mrs. Fyne, am I really such a horrid thing as -she has made me out to be?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, no!” protested Mrs. Fyne. “It is your former governess who is horrid and -odious. She is a vile woman. I cannot tell you that she was mad but I think she -must have been beside herself with rage and full of evil thoughts. You must try -not to think of these abominations, my dear child.” -</p> - -<p> -They were not fit for anyone to think of much, Mrs. Fyne commented to me in a -curt positive tone. All that had been very trying. The girl was like a creature -struggling under a net. -</p> - -<p> -“But how can I forget? she called my father a cheat and a swindler! Do tell me -Mrs. Fyne that it isn’t true. It can’t be true. How can it be true?” -</p> - -<p> -She sat up in bed with a sudden wild motion as if to jump out and flee away -from the sound of the words which had just passed her own lips. Mrs. Fyne -restrained her, soothed her, induced her at last to lay her head on her pillow -again, assuring her all the time that nothing this woman had had the cruelty to -say deserved to be taken to heart. The girl, exhausted, cried quietly for a -time. It may be she had noticed something evasive in Mrs. Fyne’s assurances. -After a while, without stirring, she whispered brokenly: -</p> - -<p> -“That awful woman told me that all the world would call papa these awful names. -Is it possible? Is it possible?” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne kept silent. -</p> - -<p> -“Do say something to me, Mrs. Fyne,” the daughter of de Barral insisted in the -same feeble whisper. -</p> - -<p> -Again Mrs. Fyne assured me that it had been very trying. Terribly trying. “Yes, -thanks, I will.” She leaned back in the chair with folded arms while I poured -another cup of tea for her, and Fyne went out to pacify the dog which, tied up -under the porch, had become suddenly very indignant at somebody having the -audacity to walk along the lane. Mrs. Fyne stirred her tea for a long time, -drank a little, put the cup down and said with that air of accepting all the -consequences: -</p> - -<p> -“Silence would have been unfair. I don’t think it would have been kind either. -I told her that she must be prepared for the world passing a very severe -judgment on her father . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“Wasn’t it admirable,” cried Marlow interrupting his narrative. “Admirable!” -And as I looked dubiously at this unexpected enthusiasm he started justifying -it after his own manner. -</p> - -<p> -“I say admirable because it was so characteristic. It was perfect. Nothing -short of genius could have found better. And this was nature! As they say of an -artist’s work: this was a perfect Fyne. Compassion—judiciousness—something -correctly measured. None of your dishevelled sentiment. And right! You must -confess that nothing could have been more right. I had a mind to shout “Brava! -Brava!” but I did not do that. I took a piece of cake and went out to bribe the -Fyne dog into some sort of self-control. His sharp comical yapping was -unbearable, like stabs through one’s brain, and Fyne’s deeply modulated -remonstrances abashed the vivacious animal no more than the deep, patient -murmur of the sea abashes a nigger minstrel on a popular beach. Fyne was -beginning to swear at him in low, sepulchral tones when I appeared. The dog -became at once wildly demonstrative, half strangling himself in his collar, his -eyes and tongue hanging out in the excess of his incomprehensible affection for -me. This was before he caught sight of the cake in my hand. A series of -vertical springs high up in the air followed, and then, when he got the cake, -he instantly lost his interest in everything else. -</p> - -<p> -Fyne was slightly vexed with me. As kind a master as any dog could wish to -have, he yet did not approve of cake being given to dogs. The Fyne dog was -supposed to lead a Spartan existence on a diet of repulsive biscuits with an -occasional dry, hygienic, bone thrown in. Fyne looked down gloomily at the -appeased animal, I too looked at that fool-dog; and (you know how one’s memory -gets suddenly stimulated) I was reminded visually, with an almost painful -distinctness, of the ghostly white face of the girl I saw last accompanied by -that dog—deserted by that dog. I almost heard her distressed voice as if on the -verge of resentful tears calling to the dog, the unsympathetic dog. Perhaps she -had not the power of evoking sympathy, that personal gift of direct appeal to -the feelings. I said to Fyne, mistrusting the supine attitude of the dog: -</p> - -<p> -“Why don’t you let him come inside?” -</p> - -<p> -Oh dear no! He couldn’t think of it! I might indeed have saved my breath, I -knew it was one of the Fynes’ rules of life, part of their solemnity and -responsibility, one of those things that were part of their unassertive but -ever present superiority, that their dog must not be allowed in. It was most -improper to intrude the dog into the houses of the people they were calling -on—if it were only a careless bachelor in farmhouse lodgings and a personal -friend of the dog. It was out of the question. But they would let him bark -one’s sanity away outside one’s window. They were strangely consistent in their -lack of imaginative sympathy. I didn’t insist but simply led the way back to -the parlour, hoping that no wayfarer would happen along the lane for the next -hour or so to disturb the dog’s composure. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne seated immovable before the table charged with plates, cups, jugs, a -cold teapot, crumbs, and the general litter of the entertainment turned her -head towards us. -</p> - -<p> -“You see, Mr. Marlow,” she said in an unexpectedly confidential tone: “they are -so utterly unsuited for each other.” -</p> - -<p> -At the moment I did not know how to apply this remark. I thought at first of -Fyne and the dog. Then I adjusted it to the matter in hand which was neither -more nor less than an elopement. Yes, by Jove! It was something very much like -an elopement—with certain unusual characteristics of its own which made it in a -sense equivocal. With amused wonder I remembered that my sagacity was -requisitioned in such a connection. How unexpected! But we never know what -tests our gifts may be put to. Sagacity dictated caution first of all. I -believe caution to be the first duty of sagacity. Fyne sat down as if preparing -himself to witness a joust, I thought. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you think so, Mrs. Fyne?” I said sagaciously. “Of course you are in a -position . . . ” I was continuing with caution when she struck out vivaciously -for immediate assent. -</p> - -<p> -“Obviously! Clearly! You yourself must admit . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“But, Mrs. Fyne,” I remonstrated, “you forget that I don’t know your brother.” -</p> - -<p> -This argument which was not only sagacious but true, overwhelmingly true, -unanswerably true, seemed to surprise her. -</p> - -<p> -I wondered why. I did not know enough of her brother for the remotest guess at -what he might be like. I had never set eyes on the man. I didn’t know him so -completely that by contrast I seemed to have known Miss de Barral—whom I had -seen twice (altogether about sixty minutes) and with whom I had exchanged about -sixty words—from the cradle so to speak. And perhaps, I thought, looking down -at Mrs. Fyne (I had remained standing) perhaps she thinks that this ought to be -enough for a sagacious assent. -</p> - -<p> -She kept silent; and I looking at her with polite expectation, went on -addressing her mentally in a mood of familiar approval which would have -astonished her had it been audible: You my dear at any rate are a sincere woman -. . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“I call a woman sincere,” Marlow began again after giving me a cigar and -lighting one himself, “I call a woman sincere when she volunteers a statement -resembling remotely in form what she really would like to say, what she really -thinks ought to be said if it were not for the necessity to spare the stupid -sensitiveness of men. The women’s rougher, simpler, more upright judgment, -embraces the whole truth, which their tact, their mistrust of masculine -idealism, ever prevents them from speaking in its entirety. And their tact is -unerring. We could not stand women speaking the truth. We could not bear it. It -would cause infinite misery and bring about most awful disturbances in this -rather mediocre, but still idealistic fool’s paradise in which each of us lives -his own little life—the unit in the great sum of existence. And they know it. -They are merciful. This generalization does not apply exactly to Mrs. Fyne’s -outburst of sincerity in a matter in which neither my affections nor my vanity -were engaged. That’s why, may be, she ventured so far. For a woman she chose to -be as open as the day with me. There was not only the form but almost the whole -substance of her thought in what she said. She believed she could risk it. She -had reasoned somewhat in this way; there’s a man, possessing a certain amount -of sagacity . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow paused with a whimsical look at me. The last few words he had spoken -with the cigar in his teeth. He took it out now by an ample movement of his arm -and blew a thin cloud. -</p> - -<p> -“You smile? It would have been more kind to spare my blushes. But as a matter -of fact I need not blush. This is not vanity; it is analysis. We’ll let -sagacity stand. But we must also note what sagacity in this connection stands -for. When you see this you shall see also that there was nothing in it to alarm -my modesty. I don’t think Mrs. Fyne credited me with the possession of wisdom -tempered by common sense. And had I had the wisdom of the Seven Sages of -Antiquity, she would not have been moved to confidence or admiration. The -secret scorn of women for the capacity to consider judiciously and to express -profoundly a meditated conclusion is unbounded. They have no use for these -lofty exercises which they look upon as a sort of purely masculine game—game -meaning a respectable occupation devised to kill time in this man-arranged life -which must be got through somehow. What women’s acuteness really respects are -the inept “ideas” and the sheeplike impulses by which our actions and opinions -are determined in matters of real importance. For if women are not rational -they are indeed acute. Even Mrs. Fyne was acute. The good woman was making up -to her husband’s chess-player simply because she had scented in him that small -portion of ‘femininity,’ that drop of superior essence of which I am myself -aware; which, I gratefully acknowledge, has saved me from one or two -misadventures in my life either ridiculous or lamentable, I am not very certain -which. It matters very little. Anyhow misadventures. Observe that I say -‘femininity,’ a privilege—not ‘feminism,’ an attitude. I am not a feminist. It -was Fyne who on certain solemn grounds had adopted that mental attitude; but it -was enough to glance at him sitting on one side, to see that he was purely -masculine to his finger-tips, masculine solidly, densely, -amusingly,—hopelessly. -</p> - -<p> -I did glance at him. You don’t get your sagacity recognized by a man’s wife -without feeling the propriety and even the need to glance at the man now and -again. So I glanced at him. Very masculine. So much so that “hopelessly” was -not the last word of it. He was helpless. He was bound and delivered by it. And -if by the obscure promptings of my composite temperament I beheld him with -malicious amusement, yet being in fact, by definition and especially from -profound conviction, a man, I could not help sympathizing with him largely. -Seeing him thus disarmed, so completely captive by the very nature of things I -was moved to speak to him kindly. -</p> - -<p> -“Well. And what do you think of it?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know. How’s one to tell? But I say that the thing is done now and -there’s an end of it,” said the masculine creature as bluntly as his innate -solemnity permitted. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne moved a little in her chair. I turned to her and remarked gently that -this was a charge, a criticism, which was often made. Some people always ask: -What could he see in her? Others wonder what she could have seen in him? -Expressions of unsuitability. -</p> - -<p> -She said with all the emphasis of her quietly folded arms: -</p> - -<p> -“I know perfectly well what Flora has seen in my brother.” -</p> - -<p> -I bowed my head to the gust but pursued my point. -</p> - -<p> -“And then the marriage in most cases turns out no worse than the average, to -say the least of it.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne was disappointed by the optimistic turn of my sagacity. She rested -her eyes on my face as though in doubt whether I had enough femininity in my -composition to understand the case. -</p> - -<p> -I waited for her to speak. She seemed to be asking herself; Is it after all, -worth while to talk to that man? You understand how provoking this was. I -looked in my mind for something appallingly stupid to say, with the object of -distressing and teasing Mrs. Fyne. It is humiliating to confess a failure. One -would think that a man of average intelligence could command stupidity at will. -But it isn’t so. I suppose it’s a special gift or else the difficulty consists -in being relevant. Discovering that I could find no really telling stupidity, I -turned to the next best thing; a platitude. I advanced, in a common-sense tone, -that, surely, in the matter of marriage a man had only himself to please. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne received this without the flutter of an eyelid. Fyne’s masculine -breast, as might have been expected, was pierced by that old, regulation shaft. -He grunted most feelingly. I turned to him with false simplicity. “Don’t you -agree with me?” -</p> - -<p> -“The very thing I’ve been telling my wife,” he exclaimed in his extra-manly -bass. “We have been discussing—” -</p> - -<p> -A discussion in the Fyne ménage! How portentous! Perhaps the very first -difference they had ever had: Mrs. Fyne unflinching and ready for any -responsibility, Fyne solemn and shrinking—the children in bed upstairs; and -outside the dark fields, the shadowy contours of the land on the starry -background of the universe, with the crude light of the open window like a -beacon for the truant who would never come back now; a truant no longer but a -downright fugitive. Yet a fugitive carrying off spoils. It was the flight of a -raider—or a traitor? This affair of the purloined brother, as I had named it to -myself, had a very puzzling physiognomy. The girl must have been desperate, I -thought, hearing the grave voice of Fyne well enough but catching the sense of -his words not at all, except the very last words which were: -</p> - -<p> -“Of course, it’s extremely distressing.” -</p> - -<p> -I looked at him inquisitively. What was distressing him? The purloining of the -son of the poet-tyrant by the daughter of the financier-convict. Or only, if I -may say so, the wind of their flight disturbing the solemn placidity of the -Fynes’ domestic atmosphere. My incertitude did not last long, for he added: -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Fyne urges me to go to London at once.” -</p> - -<p> -One could guess at, almost see, his profound distaste for the journey, his -distress at a difference of feeling with his wife. With his serious view of the -sublunary comedy Fyne suffered from not being able to agree solemnly with her -sentiment as he was accustomed to do, in recognition of having had his way in -one supreme instance; when he made her elope with him—the most momentous step -imaginable in a young lady’s life. He had been really trying to acknowledge it -by taking the rightness of her feeling for granted on every other occasion. It -had become a sort of habit at last. And it is never pleasant to break a habit. -The man was deeply troubled. I said: “Really! To go to London!” -</p> - -<p> -He looked dumbly into my eyes. It was pathetic and funny. “And you of course -feel it would be useless,” I pursued. -</p> - -<p> -He evidently felt that, though he said nothing. He only went on blinking at me -with a solemn and comical slowness. “Unless it be to carry there the family’s -blessing,” I went on, indulging my chaffing humour steadily, in a rather -sneaking fashion, for I dared not look at Mrs. Fyne, to my right. No sound or -movement came from that direction. “You think very naturally that to match mere -good, sound reasons, against the passionate conclusions of love is a waste of -intellect bordering on the absurd.” -</p> - -<p> -He looked surprised as if I had discovered something very clever. He, dear man, -had thought of nothing at all. -</p> - -<p> -He simply knew that he did not want to go to London on that mission. Mere -masculine delicacy. In a moment he became enthusiastic. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes! Yes! Exactly. A man in love . . . You hear, my dear? Here you have an -independent opinion—” -</p> - -<p> -“Can anything be more hopeless,” I insisted to the fascinated little Fyne, -“than to pit reason against love. I must confess however that in this case when -I think of that poor girl’s sharp chin I wonder if . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -My levity was too much for Mrs. Fyne. Still leaning back in her chair she -exclaimed: -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Marlow!” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -As if mysteriously affected by her indignation the absurd Fyne dog began to -bark in the porch. It might have been at a trespassing bumble-bee however. That -animal was capable of any eccentricity. Fyne got up quickly and went out to -him. I think he was glad to leave us alone to discuss that matter of his -journey to London. A sort of anti-sentimental journey. He, too, apparently, had -confidence in my sagacity. It was touching, this confidence. It was at any rate -more genuine than the confidence his wife pretended to have in her husband’s -chess-player, of three successive holidays. Confidence be hanged! -Sagacity—indeed! She had simply marched in without a shadow of misgiving to -make me back her up. But she had delivered herself into my hands . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Interrupting his narrative Marlow addressed me in his tone between grim jest -and grim earnest: -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps you didn’t know that my character is upon the whole rather -vindictive.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I didn’t know,” I said with a grin. “That’s rather unusual for a sailor. -They always seemed to me the least vindictive body of men in the world.” -</p> - -<p> -“H’m! Simple souls,” Marlow muttered moodily. “Want of opportunity. The world -leaves them alone for the most part. For myself it’s towards women that I feel -vindictive mostly, in my small way. I admit that it is small. But then the -occasions in themselves are not great. Mainly I resent that pretence of winding -us round their dear little fingers, as of right. Not that the result ever -amounts to much generally. There are so very few momentous opportunities. It is -the assumption that each of us is a combination of a kid and an imbecile which -I find provoking—in a small way; in a very small way. You needn’t stare as -though I were breathing fire and smoke out of my nostrils. I am not a -women-devouring monster. I am not even what is technically called “a brute.” I -hope there’s enough of a kid and an imbecile in me to answer the requirements -of some really good woman eventually—some day . . . Some day. Why do you gasp? -You don’t suppose I should be afraid of getting married? That supposition would -be offensive . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“I wouldn’t dream of offending you,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well. But meantime please remember that I was not married to Mrs. Fyne. -That lady’s little finger was none of my legal property. I had not run off with -it. It was Fyne who had done that thing. Let him be wound round as much as his -backbone could stand—or even more, for all I cared. His rushing away from the -discussion on the transparent pretence of quieting the dog confirmed my notion -of there being a considerable strain on his elasticity. I confronted Mrs. Fyne -resolved not to assist her in her eminently feminine occupation of thrusting a -stick in the spokes of another woman’s wheel. -</p> - -<p> -She tried to preserve her calm-eyed superiority. She was familiar and olympian, -fenced in by the tea-table, that excellent symbol of domestic life in its -lighter hour and its perfect security. In a few severely unadorned words she -gave me to understand that she had ventured to hope for some really helpful -suggestion from me. To this almost chiding declaration—because my -vindictiveness seldom goes further than a bit of teasing—I said that I was -really doing my best. And being a physiognomist . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Being what?” she interrupted me. -</p> - -<p> -“A physiognomist,” I repeated raising my voice a little. “A physiognomist, Mrs. -Fyne. And on the principles of that science a pointed little chin is a -sufficient ground for interference. You want to interfere—do you not?” -</p> - -<p> -Her eyes grew distinctly bigger. She had never been bantered before in her -life. The late subtle poet’s method of making himself unpleasant was merely -savage and abusive. Fyne had been always solemnly subservient. What other men -she knew I cannot tell but I assume they must have been gentlemanly creatures. -The girl-friends sat at her feet. How could she recognize my intention. She -didn’t know what to make of my tone. -</p> - -<p> -“Are you serious in what you say?” she asked slowly. And it was touching. It -was as if a very young, confiding girl had spoken. I felt myself relenting. -</p> - -<p> -“No. I am not, Mrs. Fyne,” I said. “I didn’t know I was expected to be serious -as well as sagacious. No. That science is farcical and therefore I am not -serious. It’s true that most sciences are farcical except those which teach us -how to put things together.” -</p> - -<p> -“The question is how to keep these two people apart,” she struck in. She had -recovered. I admired the quickness of women’s wit. Mental agility is a rare -perfection. And aren’t they agile! Aren’t they—just! And tenacious! When they -once get hold you may uproot the tree but you won’t shake them off the branch. -In fact the more you shake . . . But only look at the charm of contradictory -perfections! No wonder men give in—generally. I won’t say I was actually -charmed by Mrs. Fyne. I was not delighted with her. What affected me was not -what she displayed but something which she could not conceal. And that was -emotion—nothing less. The form of her declaration was dry, almost -peremptory—but not its tone. Her voice faltered just the least bit, she smiled -faintly; and as we were looking straight at each other I observed that her eyes -were glistening in a peculiar manner. She was distressed. And indeed that Mrs. -Fyne should have appealed to me at all was in itself the evidence of her -profound distress. “By Jove she’s desperate too,” I thought. This discovery was -followed by a movement of instinctive shrinking from this unreasonable and -unmasculine affair. They were all alike, with their supreme interest aroused -only by fighting with each other about some man: a lover, a son, a brother. -</p> - -<p> -“But do you think there’s time yet to do anything?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -She had an impatient movement of her shoulders without detaching herself from -the back of the chair. Time! Of course? It was less than forty-eight hours -since she had followed him to London . . . I am no great clerk at those matters -but I murmured vaguely an allusion to special licences. We couldn’t tell what -might have happened to-day already. But she knew better, scornfully. Nothing -had happened. -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing’s likely to happen before next Friday week,—if then.” -</p> - -<p> -This was wonderfully precise. Then after a pause she added that she should -never forgive herself if some effort were not made, an appeal. -</p> - -<p> -“To your brother?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. John ought to go to-morrow. Nine o’clock train.” -</p> - -<p> -“So early as that!” I said. But I could not find it in my heart to pursue this -discussion in a jocular tone. I submitted to her several obvious arguments, -dictated apparently by common sense but in reality by my secret compassion. -Mrs. Fyne brushed them aside, with the semi-conscious egoism of all safe, -established, existences. They had known each other so little. Just three weeks. -And of that time, too short for the birth of any serious sentiment, the first -week had to be deducted. They would hardly look at each other to begin with. -Flora barely consented to acknowledge Captain Anthony’s presence. Good -morning—good night—that was all—absolutely the whole extent of their -intercourse. Captain Anthony was a silent man, completely unused to the society -of girls of any sort and so shy in fact that he avoided raising his eyes to her -face at the table. It was perfectly absurd. It was even inconvenient, -embarrassing to her—Mrs. Fyne. After breakfast Flora would go off by herself -for a long walk and Captain Anthony (Mrs. Fyne referred to him at times also as -Roderick) joined the children. But he was actually too shy to get on terms with -his own nieces. -</p> - -<p> -This would have sounded pathetic if I hadn’t known the Fyne children who were -at the same time solemn and malicious, and nursed a secret contempt for all the -world. No one could get on terms with those fresh and comely young monsters! -They just tolerated their parents and seemed to have a sort of mocking -understanding among themselves against all outsiders, yet with no visible -affection for each other. They had the habit of exchanging derisive glances -which to a shy man must have been very trying. They thought their uncle no -doubt a bore and perhaps an ass. -</p> - -<p> -I was not surprised to hear that very soon Anthony formed the habit of crossing -the two neighbouring fields to seek the shade of a clump of elms at a good -distance from the cottage. He lay on the grass and smoked his pipe all the -morning. Mrs. Fyne wondered at her brother’s indolent habits. He had asked for -books it is true but there were but few in the cottage. He read them through in -three days and then continued to lie contentedly on his back with no other -companion but his pipe. Amazing indolence! The live-long morning, Mrs. Fyne, -busy writing upstairs in the cottage, could see him out of the window. She had -a very long sight, and these elms were grouped on a rise of the ground. His -indolence was plainly exposed to her criticism on a gentle green slope. Mrs. -Fyne wondered at it; she was disgusted too. But having just then ‘commenced -author,’ as you know, she could not tear herself away from the fascinating -novelty. She let him wallow in his vice. I imagine Captain Anthony must have -had a rather pleasant time in a quiet way. It was, I remember, a hot dry -summer, favourable to contemplative life out of doors. And Mrs. Fyne was -scandalized. Women don’t understand the force of a contemplative temperament. -It simply shocks them. They feel instinctively that it is the one which escapes -best the domination of feminine influences. The dear girls were exchanging -jeering remarks about “lazy uncle Roderick” openly, in her indulgent hearing. -And it was so strange, she told me, because as a boy he was anything but -indolent. On the contrary. Always active. -</p> - -<p> -I remarked that a man of thirty-five was no longer a boy. It was an obvious -remark but she received it without favour. She told me positively that the -best, the nicest men remained boys all their lives. She was disappointed not to -be able to detect anything boyish in her brother. Very, very sorry. She had not -seen him for fifteen years or thereabouts, except on three or four occasions -for a few hours at a time. No. Not a trace of the boy, he used to be, left in -him. -</p> - -<p> -She fell silent for a moment and I mused idly on the boyhood of little Fyne. I -could not imagine what it might have been like. His dominant trait was clearly -the remnant of still earlier days, because I’ve never seen such staring -solemnity as Fyne’s except in a very young baby. But where was he all that -time? Didn’t he suffer contamination from the indolence of Captain Anthony, I -inquired. I was told that Mr. Fyne was very little at the cottage at the time. -Some colleague of his was convalescing after a severe illness in a little -seaside village in the neighbourhood and Fyne went off every morning by train -to spend the day with the elderly invalid who had no one to look after him. It -was a very praiseworthy excuse for neglecting his brother-in-law “the son of -the poet, you know,” with whom he had nothing in common even in the remotest -degree. If Captain Anthony (Roderick) had been a pedestrian it would have been -sufficient; but he was not. Still, in the afternoon, he went sometimes for a -slow casual stroll, by himself of course, the children having definitely -cold-shouldered him, and his only sister being busy with that inflammatory book -which was to blaze upon the world a year or more afterwards. It seems however -that she was capable of detaching her eyes from her task now and then, if only -for a moment, because it was from that garret fitted out for a study that one -afternoon she observed her brother and Flora de Barral coming down the road -side by side. They had met somewhere accidentally (which of them crossed the -other’s path, as the saying is, I don’t know), and were returning to tea -together. She noticed that they appeared to be conversing without constraint. -</p> - -<p> -“I had the simplicity to be pleased,” Mrs. Fyne commented with a dry little -laugh. “Pleased for both their sakes.” Captain Anthony shook off his indolence -from that day forth, and accompanied Miss Flora frequently on her morning -walks. Mrs. Fyne remained pleased. She could now forget them comfortably and -give herself up to the delights of audacious thought and literary composition. -Only a week before the blow fell she, happening to raise her eyes from the -paper, saw two figures seated on the grass under the shade of the elms. She -could make out the white blouse. There could be no mistake. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose they imagined themselves concealed by the hedge. They forgot no -doubt I was working in the garret,” she said bitterly. “Or perhaps they didn’t -care. They were right. I am rather a simple person . . . ” She laughed again . -. . “I was incapable of suspecting such duplicity.” -</p> - -<p> -“Duplicity is a strong word, Mrs. Fyne—isn’t it?” I expostulated. “And -considering that Captain Anthony himself . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh well—perhaps,” she interrupted me. Her eyes which never strayed away from -mine, her set features, her whole immovable figure, how well I knew those -appearances of a person who has “made up her mind.” A very hopeless condition -that, specially in women. I mistrusted her concession so easily, so stonily -made. She reflected a moment. “Yes. I ought to have said—ingratitude, perhaps.” -</p> - -<p> -After having thus disengaged her brother and pushed the poor girl a little -further off as it were—isn’t women’s cleverness perfectly diabolic when they -are really put on their mettle?—after having done these things and also made me -feel that I was no match for her, she went on scrupulously: “One doesn’t like -to use that word either. The claim is very small. It’s so little one could do -for her. Still . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“I dare say,” I exclaimed, throwing diplomacy to the winds. “But really, Mrs. -Fyne, it’s impossible to dismiss your brother like this out of the business . . -. ” -</p> - -<p> -“She threw herself at his head,” Mrs. Fyne uttered firmly. -</p> - -<p> -“He had no business to put his head in the way, then,” I retorted with an angry -laugh. I didn’t restrain myself because her fixed stare seemed to express the -purpose to daunt me. I was not afraid of her, but it occurred to me that I was -within an ace of drifting into a downright quarrel with a lady and, besides, my -guest. There was the cold teapot, the emptied cups, emblems of hospitality. It -could not be. I cut short my angry laugh while Mrs. Fyne murmured with a slight -movement of her shoulders, “He! Poor man! Oh come . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -By a great effort of will I found myself able to smile amiably, to speak with -proper softness. -</p> - -<p> -“My dear Mrs. Fyne, you forget that I don’t know him—not even by sight. It’s -difficult to imagine a victim as passive as all that; but granting you the (I -very nearly said: imbecility, but checked myself in time) innocence of Captain -Anthony, don’t you think now, frankly, that there is a little of your own fault -in what has happened. You bring them together, you leave your brother to -himself!” -</p> - -<p> -She sat up and leaning her elbow on the table sustained her head in her open -palm casting down her eyes. Compunction? It was indeed a very off-hand way of -treating a brother come to stay for the first time in fifteen years. I suppose -she discovered very soon that she had nothing in common with that sailor, that -stranger, fashioned and marked by the sea of long voyages. In her strong-minded -way she had scorned pretences, had gone to her writing which interested her -immensely. A very praiseworthy thing your sincere conduct,—if it didn’t at -times resemble brutality so much. But I don’t think it was compunction. That -sentiment is rare in women . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Is it?” I interrupted indignantly. -</p> - -<p> -“You know more women than I do,” retorted the unabashed Marlow. “You make it -your business to know them—don’t you? You go about a lot amongst all sorts of -people. You are a tolerably honest observer. Well, just try to remember how -many instances of compunction you have seen. I am ready to take your bare word -for it. Compunction! Have you ever seen as much as its shadow? Have you ever? -Just a shadow—a passing shadow! I tell you it is so rare that you may call it -non-existent. They are too passionate. Too pedantic. Too courageous with -themselves—perhaps. No I don’t think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne felt the -slightest compunction at her treatment of her sea-going brother. What <i>he</i> -thought of it who can tell? It is possible that he wondered why he had been so -insistently urged to come. It is possible that he wondered bitterly—or -contemptuously—or humbly. And it may be that he was only surprised and bored. -Had he been as sincere in his conduct as his only sister he would have probably -taken himself off at the end of the second day. But perhaps he was afraid of -appearing brutal. I am not far removed from the conviction that between the -sincerities of his sister and of his dear nieces, Captain Anthony of the -<i>Ferndale</i> must have had his loneliness brought home to his bosom for the -first time of his life, at an age, thirty-five or thereabouts, when one is -mature enough to feel the pang of such a discovery. Angry or simply sad but -certainly disillusioned he wanders about and meets the girl one afternoon and -under the sway of a strong feeling forgets his shyness. This is no supposition. -It is a fact. There was such a meeting in which the shyness must have perished -before we don’t know what encouragement, or in the community of mood made -apparent by some casual word. You remember that Mrs. Fyne saw them one -afternoon coming back to the cottage together. Don’t you think that I have hit -on the psychology of the situation? . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Doubtless . . . ” I began to ponder. -</p> - -<p> -“I was very certain of my conclusions at the time,” Marlow went on impatiently. -“But don’t think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne in her new attitude and toying -thoughtfully with a teaspoon was about to surrender. She murmured: -</p> - -<p> -“It’s the last thing I should have thought could happen.” -</p> - -<p> -“You didn’t suppose they were romantic enough,” I suggested dryly. -</p> - -<p> -She let it pass and with great decision but as if speaking to herself, -</p> - -<p> -“Roderick really must be warned.” -</p> - -<p> -She didn’t give me the time to ask of what precisely. She raised her head and -addressed me. -</p> - -<p> -“I am surprised and grieved more than I can tell you at Mr. Fyne’s resistance. -We have been always completely at one on every question. And that we should -differ now on a point touching my brother so closely is a most painful surprise -to me.” Her hand rattled the teaspoon brusquely by an involuntary movement. “It -is intolerable,” she added tempestuously—for Mrs. Fyne that is. I suppose she -had nerves of her own like any other woman. -</p> - -<p> -Under the porch where Fyne had sought refuge with the dog there was silence. I -took it for a proof of deep sagacity. I don’t mean on the part of the dog. He -was a confirmed fool. -</p> - -<p> -I said: -</p> - -<p> -“You want absolutely to interfere . . . ?” Mrs. Fyne nodded just perceptibly . -. . “Well—for my part . . . but I don’t really know how matters stand at the -present time. You have had a letter from Miss de Barral. What does that letter -say?” -</p> - -<p> -“She asks for her valise to be sent to her town address,” Mrs. Fyne uttered -reluctantly and stopped. I waited a bit—then exploded. -</p> - -<p> -“Well! What’s the matter? Where’s the difficulty? Does your husband object to -that? You don’t mean to say that he wants you to appropriate the girl’s -clothes?” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Marlow!” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, but you talk of a painful difference of opinion with your husband, and -then, when I ask for information on the point, you bring out a valise. And only -a few moments ago you reproached me for not being serious. I wonder who is the -serious person of us two now.” -</p> - -<p> -She smiled faintly and in a friendly tone, from which I concluded at once that -she did not mean to show me the girl’s letter, she said that undoubtedly the -letter disclosed an understanding between Captain Anthony and Flora de Barral. -</p> - -<p> -“What understanding?” I pressed her. “An engagement is an understanding.” -</p> - -<p> -“There is no engagement—not yet,” she said decisively. “That letter, Mr. -Marlow, is couched in very vague terms. That is why—” -</p> - -<p> -I interrupted her without ceremony. -</p> - -<p> -“You still hope to interfere to some purpose. Isn’t it so? Yes? But how should -you have liked it if anybody had tried to interfere between you and Mr. Fyne at -the time when your understanding with each other could still have been -described in vague terms?” -</p> - -<p> -She had a genuine movement of astonished indignation. It is with the accent of -perfect sincerity that she cried out at me: -</p> - -<p> -“But it isn’t at all the same thing! How can you!” -</p> - -<p> -Indeed how could I! The daughter of a poet and the daughter of a convict are -not comparable in the consequences of their conduct if their necessity may wear -at times a similar aspect. Amongst these consequences I could perceive -undesirable cousins for these dear healthy girls, and such like, possible -causes of embarrassment in the future. -</p> - -<p> -“No! You can’t be serious,” Mrs. Fyne’s smouldering resentment broke out again. -“You haven’t thought—” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes, Mrs. Fyne! I have thought. I am still thinking. I am even trying to -think like you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Marlow,” she said earnestly. “Believe me that I really am thinking of my -brother in all this . . . ” I assured her that I quite believed she was. For -there is no law of nature making it impossible to think of more than one person -at a time. Then I said: -</p> - -<p> -“She has told him all about herself of course.” -</p> - -<p> -“All about her life,” assented Mrs. Fyne with an air, however, of making some -mental reservation which I did not pause to investigate. “Her life!” I -repeated. “That girl must have had a mighty bad time of it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Horrible,” Mrs. Fyne admitted with a ready frankness very creditable under the -circumstances, and a warmth of tone which made me look at her with a friendly -eye. “Horrible! No! You can’t imagine the sort of vulgar people she became -dependent on . . . You know her father never attempted to see her while he was -still at large. After his arrest he instructed that relative of his—the odious -person who took her away from Brighton—not to let his daughter come to the -court during the trial. He refused to hold any communication with her -whatever.” -</p> - -<p> -I remembered what Mrs. Fyne had told me before of the view she had years ago of -de Barral clinging to the child at the side of his wife’s grave and later on of -these two walking hand in hand the observed of all eyes by the sea. Pictures -from Dickens—pregnant with pathos. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER SIX—FLORA</h3> - -<p> -“A very singular prohibition,” remarked Mrs. Fyne after a short silence. “He -seemed to love the child.” -</p> - -<p> -She was puzzled. But I surmised that it might have been the sullenness of a man -unconscious of guilt and standing at bay to fight his “persecutors,” as he -called them; or else the fear of a softer emotion weakening his defiant -attitude; perhaps, even, it was a self-denying ordinance, in order to spare the -girl the sight of her father in the dock, accused of cheating, sentenced as a -swindler—proving the possession of a certain moral delicacy. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne didn’t know what to think. She supposed it might have been mere -callousness. But the people amongst whom the girl had fallen had positively not -a grain of moral delicacy. Of that she was certain. Mrs. Fyne could not -undertake to give me an idea of their abominable vulgarity. Flora used to tell -her something of her life in that household, over there, down Limehouse way. It -was incredible. It passed Mrs. Fyne’s comprehension. It was a sort of moral -savagery which she could not have thought possible. -</p> - -<p> -I, on the contrary, thought it very possible. I could imagine easily how the -poor girl must have been bewildered and hurt at her reception in that -household—envied for her past while delivered defenceless to the tender mercies -of people without any fineness either of feeling or mind, unable to understand -her misery, grossly curious, mistaking her manner for disdain, her silent -shrinking for pride. The wife of the “odious person” was witless and fatuously -conceited. Of the two girls of the house one was pious and the other a romp; -both were coarse-minded—if they may be credited with any mind at all. The -rather numerous men of the family were dense and grumpy, or dense and jocose. -None in that grubbing lot had enough humanity to leave her alone. At first she -was made much of, in an offensively patronising manner. The connection with the -great de Barral gratified their vanity even in the moment of the smash. They -dragged her to their place of worship, whatever it might have been, where the -congregation stared at her, and they gave parties to other beings like -themselves at which they exhibited her with ignoble self-satisfaction. She did -not know how to defend herself from their importunities, insolence and -exigencies. She lived amongst them, a passive victim, quivering in every nerve, -as if she were flayed. After the trial her position became still worse. On the -least occasion and even on no occasions at all she was scolded, or else taunted -with her dependence. The pious girl lectured her on her defects, the romping -girl teased her with contemptuous references to her accomplishments, and was -always trying to pick insensate quarrels with her about some “fellow” or other. -The mother backed up her girls invariably, adding her own silly, wounding -remarks. I must say they were probably not aware of the ugliness of their -conduct. They were nasty amongst themselves as a matter of course; their -disputes were nauseating in origin, in manner, in the spirit of mean -selfishness. These women, too, seemed to enjoy greatly any sort of row and were -always ready to combine together to make awful scenes to the luckless girl on -incredibly flimsy pretences. Thus Flora on one occasion had been reduced to -rage and despair, had her most secret feelings lacerated, had obtained a view -of the utmost baseness to which common human nature can descend—I won’t say -<i>à propos de bottes</i> as the French would excellently put it, but -literally <i>à propos</i> of some mislaid cheap lace trimmings for a -nightgown the romping one was making for herself. Yes, that was the origin of -one of the grossest scenes which, in their repetition, must have had a -deplorable effect on the unformed character of the most pitiful of de Barral’s -victims. I have it from Mrs. Fyne. The girl turned up at the Fynes’ house at -half-past nine on a cold, drizzly evening. She had walked bareheaded, I -believe, just as she ran out of the house, from somewhere in Poplar to the -neighbourhood of Sloane Square—without stopping, without drawing breath, if -only for a sob. -</p> - -<p> -“We were having some people to dinner,” said the anxious sister of Captain -Anthony. -</p> - -<p> -She had heard the front door bell and wondered what it might mean. The -parlourmaid managed to whisper to her without attracting attention. The -servants had been frightened by the invasion of that wild girl in a muddy skirt -and with wisps of damp hair sticking to her pale cheeks. But they had seen her -before. This was not the first occasion, nor yet the last. -</p> - -<p> -Directly she could slip away from her guests Mrs. Fyne ran upstairs. -</p> - -<p> -“I found her in the night nursery crouching on the floor, her head resting on -the cot of the youngest of my girls. The eldest was sitting up in bed looking -at her across the room.” -</p> - -<p> -Only a nightlight was burning there. Mrs. Fyne raised her up, took her over to -Mr. Fyne’s little dressing-room on the other side of the landing, to a fire by -which she could dry herself, and left her there. She had to go back to her -guests. -</p> - -<p> -A most disagreeable surprise it must have been to the Fynes. Afterwards they -both went up and interviewed the girl. She jumped up at their entrance. She had -shaken her damp hair loose; her eyes were dry—with the heat of rage. -</p> - -<p> -I can imagine little Fyne solemnly sympathetic, solemnly listening, solemnly -retreating to the marital bedroom. Mrs. Fyne pacified the girl, and, -fortunately, there was a bed which could be made up for her in the -dressing-room. -</p> - -<p> -“But—what could one do after all!” concluded Mrs. Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -And this stereotyped exclamation, expressing the difficulty of the problem and -the readiness (at any rate) of good intentions, made me, as usual, feel more -kindly towards her. -</p> - -<p> -Next morning, very early, long before Fyne had to start for his office, the -“odious personage” turned up, not exactly unexpected perhaps, but startling all -the same, if only by the promptness of his action. From what Flora herself -related to Mrs. Fyne, it seems that without being very perceptibly less -“odious” than his family he had in a rather mysterious fashion interposed his -authority for the protection of the girl. “Not that he cares,” explained Flora. -“I am sure he does not. I could not stand being liked by any of these people. -If I thought he liked me I would drown myself rather than go back with him.” -</p> - -<p> -For of course he had come to take “Florrie” home. The scene was the -dining-room—breakfast interrupted, dishes growing cold, little Fyne’s toast -growing leathery, Fyne out of his chair with his back to the fire, the -newspaper on the carpet, servants shut out, Mrs. Fyne rigid in her place with -the girl sitting beside her—the “odious person,” who had bustled in with hardly -a greeting, looking from Fyne to Mrs. Fyne as though he were inwardly amused at -something he knew of them; and then beginning ironically his discourse. He did -not apologize for disturbing Fyne and his “good lady” at breakfast, because he -knew they did not want (with a nod at the girl) to have more of her than could -be helped. He came the first possible moment because he had his business to -attend to. He wasn’t drawing a tip-top salary (this staring at Fyne) in a -luxuriously furnished office. Not he. He had risen to be an employer of labour -and was bound to give a good example. -</p> - -<p> -I believe the fellow was aware of, and enjoyed quietly, the consternation his -presence brought to the bosom of Mr. and Mrs. Fyne. He turned briskly to the -girl. Mrs. Fyne confessed to me that they had remained all three silent and -inanimate. He turned to the girl: “What’s this game, Florrie? You had better -give it up. If you expect me to run all over London looking for you every time -you happen to have a tiff with your auntie and cousins you are mistaken. I -can’t afford it.” -</p> - -<p> -Tiff—was the sort of definition to take one’s breath away, having regard to the -fact that both the word convict and the word pauper had been used a moment -before Flora de Barral ran away from the quarrel about the lace trimmings. Yes, -these very words! So at least the girl had told Mrs. Fyne the evening before. -The word tiff in connection with her tale had a peculiar savour, a paralysing -effect. Nobody made a sound. The relative of de Barral proceeded uninterrupted -to a display of magnanimity. “Auntie told me to tell you she’s sorry—there! And -Amelia (the romping sister) shan’t worry you again. I’ll see to that. You ought -to be satisfied. Remember your position.” -</p> - -<p> -Emboldened by the utter stillness pervading the room he addressed himself to -Mrs. Fyne with stolid effrontery: -</p> - -<p> -“What I say is that people should be good-natured. She can’t stand being -chaffed. She puts on her grand airs. She won’t take a bit of a joke from people -as good as herself anyway. We are a plain lot. We don’t like it. And that’s how -trouble begins.” -</p> - -<p> -Insensible to the stony stare of three pairs of eyes, which, if the stories of -our childhood as to the power of the human eye are true, ought to have been -enough to daunt a tiger, that unabashed manufacturer from the East End fastened -his fangs, figuratively speaking, into the poor girl and prepared to drag her -away for a prey to his cubs of both sexes. “Auntie has thought of sending you -your hat and coat. I’ve got them outside in the cab.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne looked mechanically out of the window. A four-wheeler stood before -the gate under the weeping sky. The driver in his conical cape and tarpaulin -hat, streamed with water. The drooping horse looked as though it had been -fished out, half unconscious, from a pond. Mrs. Fyne found some relief in -looking at that miserable sight, away from the room in which the voice of the -amiable visitor resounded with a vulgar intonation exhorting the strayed sheep -to return to the delightful fold. “Come, Florrie, make a move. I can’t wait on -you all day here.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne heard all this without turning her head away from the window. Fyne on -the hearthrug had to listen and to look on too. I shall not try to form a -surmise as to the real nature of the suspense. Their very goodness must have -made it very anxious. The girl’s hands were lying in her lap; her head was -lowered as if in deep thought; and the other went on delivering a sort of -homily. Ingratitude was condemned in it, the sinfulness of pride was pointed -out—together with the proverbial fact that it “goes before a fall.” There were -also some sound remarks as to the danger of nonsensical notions and the -disadvantages of a quick temper. It sets one’s best friends against one. “And -if anybody ever wanted friends in the world it’s you, my girl.” Even respect -for parental authority was invoked. “In the first hour of his trouble your -father wrote to me to take care of you—don’t forget it. Yes, to me, just a -plain man, rather than to any of his fine West-End friends. You can’t get over -that. And a father’s a father no matter what a mess he’s got himself into. You -ain’t going to throw over your own father—are you?” -</p> - -<p> -It was difficult to say whether he was more absurd than cruel or more cruel -than absurd. Mrs. Fyne, with the fine ear of a woman, seemed to detect a -jeering intention in his meanly unctuous tone, something more vile than mere -cruelty. She glanced quickly over her shoulder and saw the girl raise her two -hands to her head, then let them fall again on her lap. Fyne in front of the -fire was like the victim of an unholy spell—bereft of motion and speech but -obviously in pain. It was a short pause of perfect silence, and then that -“odious creature” (he must have been really a remarkable individual in his way) -struck out into sarcasm. -</p> - -<p> -“Well? . . . ” Again a silence. “If you have fixed it up with the lady and -gentleman present here for your board and lodging you had better say so. I -don’t want to interfere in a bargain I know nothing of. But I wonder how your -father will take it when he comes out . . . or don’t you expect him ever to -come out?” -</p> - -<p> -At that moment, Mrs. Fyne told me she met the girl’s eyes. There was that in -them which made her shut her own. She also felt as though she would have liked -to put her fingers in her ears. She restrained herself, however; and the “plain -man” passed in his appalling versatility from sarcasm to veiled menace. -</p> - -<p> -“You have—eh? Well and good. But before I go home let me ask you, my girl, to -think if by any chance you throwing us over like this won’t be rather bad for -your father later on? Just think it over.” -</p> - -<p> -He looked at his victim with an air of cunning mystery. She jumped up so -suddenly that he started back. Mrs. Fyne rose too, and even the spell was -removed from her husband. But the girl dropped again into the chair and turned -her head to look at Mrs. Fyne. This time it was no accidental meeting of -fugitive glances. It was a deliberate communication. To my question as to its -nature Mrs. Fyne said she did not know. “Was it appealing?” I suggested. “No,” -she said. “Was it frightened, angry, crushed, resigned?” “No! No! Nothing of -these.” But it had frightened her. She remembered it to this day. She had been -ever since fancying she could detect the lingering reflection of that look in -all the girl’s glances. In the attentive, in the casual—even in the grateful -glances—in the expression of the softest moods. -</p> - -<p> -“Has she her soft moods, then?” I asked with interest. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs Fyne, much moved by her recollections, heeded not my inquiry. All her -mental energy was concentrated on the nature of that memorable glance. The -general tradition of mankind teaches us that glances occupy a considerable -place in the self-expression of women. Mrs. Fyne was trying honestly to give me -some idea, as much perhaps to satisfy her own uneasiness as my curiosity. She -was frowning in the effort as you see sometimes a child do (what is delightful -in women is that they so often resemble intelligent children—I mean the -crustiest, the sourest, the most battered of them do—at times). She was -frowning, I say, and I was beginning to smile faintly at her when all at once -she came out with something totally unexpected. -</p> - -<p> -“It was horribly merry,” she said. -</p> - -<p> -I suppose she must have been satisfied by my sudden gravity because she looked -at me in a friendly manner. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Mrs. Fyne,” I said, smiling no longer. “I see. It would have been -horrible even on the stage.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” she interrupted me—and I really believe her change of attitude back to -folded arms was meant to check a shudder. “But it wasn’t on the stage, and it -was not with her lips that she laughed.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. It must have been horrible,” I assented. “And then she had to go away -ultimately—I suppose. You didn’t say anything?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said Mrs. Fyne. “I rang the bell and told one of the maids to go and -bring the hat and coat out of the cab. And then we waited.” -</p> - -<p> -I don’t think that there ever was such waiting unless possibly in a jail at -some moment or other on the morning of an execution. The servant appeared with -the hat and coat, and then, still as on the morning of an execution, when the -condemned, I believe, is offered a breakfast, Mrs. Fyne, anxious that the -white-faced girl should swallow something warm (if she could) before leaving -her house for an interminable drive through raw cold air in a damp -four-wheeler—Mrs. Fyne broke the awful silence: “You really must try to eat -something,” in her best resolute manner. She turned to the “odious person” with -the same determination. “Perhaps you will sit down and have a cup of coffee, -too.” -</p> - -<p> -The worthy “employer of labour” sat down. He might have been awed by Mrs. -Fyne’s peremptory manner—for she did not think of conciliating him then. He sat -down, provisionally, like a man who finds himself much against his will in -doubtful company. He accepted ungraciously the cup handed to him by Mrs. Fyne, -took an unwilling sip or two and put it down as if there were some moral -contamination in the coffee of these “swells.” Between whiles he directed -mysteriously inexpressive glances at little Fyne, who, I gather, had no -breakfast that morning at all. Neither had the girl. She never moved her hands -from her lap till her appointed guardian got up, leaving his cup half full. -</p> - -<p> -“Well. If you don’t mean to take advantage of this lady’s kind offer I may just -as well take you home at once. I want to begin my day—I do.” -</p> - -<p> -After a few more dumb, leaden-footed minutes while Flora was putting on her hat -and jacket, the Fynes without moving, without saying anything, saw these two -leave the room. -</p> - -<p> -“She never looked back at us,” said Mrs. Fyne. “She just followed him out. I’ve -never had such a crushing impression of the miserable dependence of girls—of -women. This was an extreme case. But a young man—any man—could have gone to -break stones on the roads or something of that kind—or enlisted—or—” -</p> - -<p> -It was very true. Women can’t go forth on the high roads and by-ways to pick up -a living even when dignity, independence, or existence itself are at stake. But -what made me interrupt Mrs. Fyne’s tirade was my profound surprise at the fact -of that respectable citizen being so willing to keep in his home the poor girl -for whom it seemed there was no place in the world. And not only willing but -anxious. I couldn’t credit him with generous impulses. For it seemed obvious to -me from what I had learned that, to put it mildly, he was not an impulsive -person. -</p> - -<p> -“I confess that I can’t understand his motive,” I exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -“This is exactly what John wondered at, at first,” said Mrs. Fyne. By that time -an intimacy—if not exactly confidence—had sprung up between us which permitted -her in this discussion to refer to her husband as John. “You know he had not -opened his lips all that time,” she pursued. “I don’t blame his restraint. On -the contrary. What could he have said? I could see he was observing the man -very thoughtfully.” -</p> - -<p> -“And so, Mr. Fyne listened, observed and meditated,” I said. “That’s an -excellent way of coming to a conclusion. And may I ask at what conclusion he -had managed to arrive? On what ground did he cease to wonder at the -inexplicable? For I can’t admit humanity to be the explanation. It would be too -monstrous.” -</p> - -<p> -It was nothing of the sort, Mrs. Fyne assured me with some resentment, as -though I had aspersed little Fyne’s sanity. Fyne very sensibly had set himself -the mental task of discovering the self-interest. I should not have thought him -capable of so much cynicism. He said to himself that for people of that sort -(religious fears or the vanity of righteousness put aside) money—not great -wealth, but money, just a little money—is the measure of virtue, of expediency, -of wisdom—of pretty well everything. But the girl was absolutely destitute. The -father was in prison after the most terribly complete and disgraceful smash of -modern times. And then it dawned upon Fyne that this was just it. The great -smash, in the great dust of vanishing millions! Was it possible that they all -had vanished to the last penny? Wasn’t there, somewhere, something palpable; -some fragment of the fabric left? -</p> - -<p> -“That’s it,” had exclaimed Fyne, startling his wife by this explosive unseating -of his lips less than half an hour after the departure of de Barral’s cousin -with de Barral’s daughter. It was still in the dining-room, very near the time -for him to go forth affronting the elements in order to put in another day’s -work in his country’s service. All he could say at the moment in elucidation of -this breakdown from his usual placid solemnity was: -</p> - -<p> -“The fellow imagines that de Barral has got some plunder put away somewhere.” -</p> - -<p> -This being the theory arrived at by Fyne, his comment on it was that a good -many bankrupts had been known to have taken such a precaution. It was possible -in de Barral’s case. Fyne went so far in his display of cynical pessimism as to -say that it was extremely probable. -</p> - -<p> -He explained at length to Mrs. Fyne that de Barral certainly did not take -anyone into his confidence. But the beastly relative had made up his low mind -that it was so. He was selfish and pitiless in his stupidity, but he had -clearly conceived the notion of making a claim on de Barral when de Barral came -out of prison on the strength of having “looked after” (as he would have -himself expressed it) his daughter. He nursed his hopes, such as they were, in -secret, and it is to be supposed kept them even from his wife. -</p> - -<p> -I could see it very well. That belief accounted for his mysterious air while he -interfered in favour of the girl. He was the only protector she had. It was as -though Flora had been fated to be always surrounded by treachery and lies -stifling every better impulse, every instinctive aspiration of her soul to -trust and to love. It would have been enough to drive a fine nature into the -madness of universal suspicion—into any sort of madness. I don’t know how far a -sense of humour will stand by one. To the foot of the gallows, perhaps. But -from my recollection of Flora de Barral I feared that she hadn’t much sense of -humour. She had cried at the desertion of the absurd Fyne dog. That animal was -certainly free from duplicity. He was frank and simple and ridiculous. The -indignation of the girl at his unhypocritical behaviour had been funny but not -humorous. -</p> - -<p> -As you may imagine I was not very anxious to resume the discussion on the -justice, expediency, effectiveness or what not, of Fyne’s journey to London. It -isn’t that I was unfaithful to little Fyne out in the porch with the dog. (They -kept amazingly quiet there. Could they have gone to sleep?) What I felt was -that either my sagacity or my conscience would come out damaged from that -campaign. And no man will willingly put himself in the way of moral damage. I -did not want a war with Mrs. Fyne. I much preferred to hear something more of -the girl. I said: -</p> - -<p> -“And so she went away with that respectable ruffian.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders slightly—“What else could she have done?” I -agreed with her by another hopeless gesture. It isn’t so easy for a girl like -Flora de Barral to become a factory hand, a pathetic seamstress or even a -barmaid. She wouldn’t have known how to begin. She was the captive of the -meanest conceivable fate. And she wasn’t mean enough for it. It is to be -remarked that a good many people are born curiously unfitted for the fate -awaiting them on this earth. As I don’t want you to think that I am unduly -partial to the girl we shall say that she failed decidedly to endear herself to -that simple, virtuous and, I believe, teetotal household. It’s my conviction -that an angel would have failed likewise. It’s no use going into details; -suffice it to state that before the year was out she was again at the Fynes’ -door. -</p> - -<p> -This time she was escorted by a stout youth. His large pale face wore a smile -of inane cunning soured by annoyance. His clothes were new and the -indescribable smartness of their cut, a <i>genre</i> which had never been -obtruded on her notice before, astonished Mrs. Fyne, who came out into the hall -with her hat on; for she was about to go out to hear a new pianist (a girl) in -a friend’s house. The youth addressing Mrs. Fyne easily begged her not to let -“that silly thing go back to us any more.” There had been, he said, nothing but -“ructions” at home about her for the last three weeks. Everybody in the family -was heartily sick of quarrelling. His governor had charged him to bring her to -this address and say that the lady and gentleman were quite welcome to all -there was in it. She hadn’t enough sense to appreciate a plain, honest English -home and she was better out of it. -</p> - -<p> -The young, pimply-faced fellow was vexed by this job his governor had sprung on -him. It was the cause of his missing an appointment for that afternoon with a -certain young lady. The lady he was engaged to. But he meant to dash back and -try for a sight of her that evening yet “if he were to burst over it.” -“Good-bye, Florrie. Good luck to you—and I hope I’ll never see your face -again.” -</p> - -<p> -With that he ran out in lover-like haste leaving the hall-door wide open. Mrs. -Fyne had not found a word to say. She had been too much taken aback even to -gasp freely. But she had the presence of mind to grab the girl’s arm just as -she, too, was running out into the street—with the haste, I suppose, of despair -and to keep I don’t know what tragic tryst. -</p> - -<p> -“You stopped her with your own hand, Mrs. Fyne,” I said. “I presume she meant -to get away. That girl is no comedian—if I am any judge.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes! I had to use some force to drag her in.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne had no difficulty in stating the truth. “You see I was in the very -act of letting myself out when these two appeared. So that, when that -unpleasant young man ran off, I found myself alone with Flora. It was all I -could do to hold her in the hall while I called to the servants to come and -shut the door.” -</p> - -<p> -As is my habit, or my weakness, or my gift, I don’t know which, I visualized -the story for myself. I really can’t help it. And the vision of Mrs. Fyne -dressed for a rather special afternoon function, engaged in wrestling with a -wild-eyed, white-faced girl had a certain dramatic fascination. -</p> - -<p> -“Really!” I murmured. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! There’s no doubt that she struggled,” said Mrs. Fyne. She compressed her -lips for a moment and then added: “As to her being a comedian that’s another -question.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne had returned to her attitude of folded arms. I saw before me the -daughter of the refined poet accepting life whole with its unavoidable -conditions of which one of the first is the instinct of self-preservation and -the egoism of every living creature. “The fact remains nevertheless that -you—yourself—have, in your own words, pulled her in,” I insisted in a jocular -tone, with a serious intention. -</p> - -<p> -“What was one to do,” exclaimed Mrs. Fyne with almost comic exasperation. “Are -you reproaching me with being too impulsive?” -</p> - -<p> -And she went on telling me that she was not that in the least. One of the -recommendations she always insisted on (to the girl-friends, I imagine) was to -be on guard against impulse. Always! But I had not been there to see the face -of Flora at the time. If I had it would be haunting me to this day. Nobody -unless made of iron would have allowed a human being with a face like that to -rush out alone into the streets. -</p> - -<p> -“And doesn’t it haunt you, Mrs. Fyne?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -“No, not now,” she said implacably. “Perhaps if I had let her go it might have -done . . . Don’t conclude, though, that I think she was playing a comedy then, -because after struggling at first she ended by remaining. She gave up very -suddenly. She collapsed in our arms, mine and the maid’s who came running up in -response to my calls, and . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“And the door was then shut,” I completed the phrase in my own way. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, the door was shut,” Mrs. Fyne lowered and raised her head slowly. -</p> - -<p> -I did not ask her for details. Of one thing I am certain, and that is that Mrs. -Fyne did not go out to the musical function that afternoon. She was no doubt -considerably annoyed at missing the privilege of hearing privately an -interesting young pianist (a girl) who, since, had become one of the recognized -performers. Mrs. Fyne did not dare leave her house. As to the feelings of -little Fyne when he came home from the office, via his club, just half an hour -before dinner, I have no information. But I venture to affirm that in the main -they were kindly, though it is quite possible that in the first moment of -surprise he had to keep down a swear-word or two. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -The long and the short of it all is that next day the Fynes made up their minds -to take into their confidence a certain wealthy old lady. With certain old -ladies the passing years bring back a sort of mellowed youthfulness of feeling, -an optimistic outlook, liking for novelty, readiness for experiment. The old -lady was very much interested: “Do let me see the poor thing!” She was -accordingly allowed to see Flora de Barral in Mrs. Fyne’s drawing-room on a day -when there was no one else there, and she preached to her with charming, -sympathetic authority: “The only way to deal with our troubles, my dear child, -is to forget them. You must forget yours. It’s very simple. Look at me. I -always forget mine. At your age one ought to be cheerful.” -</p> - -<p> -Later on when left alone with Mrs. Fyne she said to that lady: “I do hope the -child will manage to be cheerful. I can’t have sad faces near me. At my age one -needs cheerful companions.” -</p> - -<p> -And in this hope she carried off Flora de Barral to Bournemouth for the winter -months in the quality of reader and companion. She had said to her with kindly -jocularity: “We shall have a good time together. I am not a grumpy old woman.” -But on their return to London she sought Mrs. Fyne at once. She had discovered -that Flora was not naturally cheerful. When she made efforts to be it was still -worse. The old lady couldn’t stand the strain of that. And then, to have the -whole thing out, she could not bear to have for a companion anyone who did not -love her. She was certain that Flora did not love her. Why? She couldn’t say. -Moreover, she had caught the girl looking at her in a peculiar way at times. Oh -no!—it was not an evil look—it was an unusual expression which one could not -understand. And when one remembered that her father was in prison shut up -together with a lot of criminals and so on—it made one uncomfortable. If the -child had only tried to forget her troubles! But she obviously was incapable or -unwilling to do so. And that was somewhat perverse—wasn’t it? Upon the whole, -she thought it would be better perhaps— -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne assented hurriedly to the unspoken conclusion: “Oh certainly! -Certainly,” wondering to herself what was to be done with Flora next; but she -was not very much surprised at the change in the old lady’s view of Flora de -Barral. She almost understood it. -</p> - -<p> -What came next was a German family, the continental acquaintances of the wife -of one of Fyne’s colleagues in the Home Office. Flora of the enigmatical -glances was dispatched to them without much reflection. As it was not -considered absolutely necessary to take them into full confidence, they neither -expected the girl to be specially cheerful nor were they discomposed unduly by -the indescribable quality of her glances. The German woman was quite ordinary; -there were two boys to look after; they were ordinary, too, I presume; and -Flora, I understand, was very attentive to them. If she taught them anything it -must have been by inspiration alone, for she certainly knew nothing of -teaching. But it was mostly “conversation” which was demanded from her. Flora -de Barral conversing with two small German boys, regularly, industriously, -conscientiously, in order to keep herself alive in the world which held for her -the past we know and the future of an even more undesirable quality—seems to me -a very fantastic combination. But I believe it was not so bad. She was being, -she wrote, mercifully drugged by her task. She had learned to “converse” all -day long, mechanically, absently, as if in a trance. An uneasy trance it must -have been! Her worst moments were when off duty—alone in the evening, shut up -in her own little room, her dulled thoughts waking up slowly till she started -into the full consciousness of her position, like a person waking up in contact -with something venomous—a snake, for instance—experiencing a mad impulse to -fling the thing away and run off screaming to hide somewhere. -</p> - -<p> -At this period of her existence Flora de Barral used to write to Mrs. Fyne not -regularly but fairly often. I don’t know how long she would have gone on -“conversing” and, incidentally, helping to supervise the beautifully stocked -linen closets of that well-to-do German household, if the man of it had not -developed in the intervals of his avocations (he was a merchant and a -thoroughly domesticated character) a psychological resemblance to the -Bournemouth old lady. It appeared that he, too, wanted to be loved. -</p> - -<p> -He was not, however, of a conquering temperament—a kiss-snatching, -door-bursting type of libertine. In the very act of straying from the path of -virtue he remained a respectable merchant. It would have been perhaps better -for Flora if he had been a mere brute. But he set about his sinister enterprise -in a sentimental, cautious, almost paternal manner; and thought he would be -safe with a pretty orphan. The girl for all her experience was still too -innocent, and indeed not yet sufficiently aware of herself as a woman, to -mistrust these masked approaches. She did not see them, in fact. She thought -him sympathetic—the first expressively sympathetic person she had ever met. She -was so innocent that she could not understand the fury of the German woman. -For, as you may imagine, the wifely penetration was not to be deceived for any -great length of time—the more so that the wife was older than the husband. The -man with the peculiar cowardice of respectability never said a word in Flora’s -defence. He stood by and heard her reviled in the most abusive terms, only -nodding and frowning vaguely from time to time. It will give you the idea of -the girl’s innocence when I say that at first she actually thought this storm -of indignant reproaches was caused by the discovery of her real name and her -relation to a convict. She had been sent out under an assumed name—a highly -recommended orphan of honourable parentage. Her distress, her burning cheeks, -her endeavours to express her regret for this deception were taken for a -confession of guilt. “You attempted to bring dishonour to my home,” the German -woman screamed at her. -</p> - -<p> -Here’s a misunderstanding for you! Flora de Barral, who felt the shame but did -not believe in the guilt of her father, retorted fiercely, “Nevertheless I am -as honourable as you are.” And then the German woman nearly went into a fit -from rage. “I shall have you thrown out into the street.” -</p> - -<p> -Flora was not exactly thrown out into the street, I believe, but she was -bundled bag and baggage on board a steamer for London. Did I tell you these -people lived in Hamburg? Well yes—sent to the docks late on a rainy winter -evening in charge of some sneering lackey or other who behaved to her -insolently and left her on deck burning with indignation, her hair half down, -shaking with excitement and, truth to say, scared as near as possible into -hysterics. If it had not been for the stewardess who, without asking questions, -good soul, took charge of her quietly in the ladies’ saloon (luckily it was -empty) it is by no means certain she would ever have reached England. I can’t -tell if a straw ever saved a drowning man, but I know that a mere glance is -enough to make despair pause. For in truth we who are creatures of impulse are -not creatures of despair. Suicide, I suspect, is very often the outcome of mere -mental weariness—not an act of savage energy but the final symptom of complete -collapse. The quiet, matter-of-fact attentions of a ship’s stewardess, who did -not seem aware of other human agonies than sea-sickness, who talked of the -probable weather of the passage—it would be a rough night, she thought—and who -insisted in a professionally busy manner, “Let me make you comfortable down -below at once, miss,” as though she were thinking of nothing else but her -tip—was enough to dissipate the shades of death gathering round the mortal -weariness of bewildered thinking which makes the idea of non-existence welcome -so often to the young. Flora de Barral did lie down, and it may be presumed she -slept. At any rate she survived the voyage across the North Sea and told Mrs. -Fyne all about it, concealing nothing and receiving no rebuke—for Mrs. Fyne’s -opinions had a large freedom in their pedantry. She held, I suppose, that a -woman holds an absolute right—or possesses a perfect excuse—to escape in her -own way from a man-mismanaged world. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -What is to be noted is that even in London, having had time to take a -reflective view, poor Flora was far from being certain as to the true -inwardness of her violent dismissal. She felt the humiliation of it with an -almost maddened resentment. -</p> - -<p> -“And did you enlighten her on the point?” I ventured to ask. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders with a philosophical acceptance of all the -necessities which ought not to be. Something had to be said, she murmured. She -had told the girl enough to make her come to the right conclusion by herself. -</p> - -<p> -“And she did?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Of course. She isn’t a goose,” retorted Mrs. Fyne tartly. -</p> - -<p> -“Then her education is completed,” I remarked with some bitterness. “Don’t you -think she ought to be given a chance?” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne understood my meaning. -</p> - -<p> -“Not this one,” she snapped in a quite feminine way. “It’s all very well for -you to plead, but I—” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not plead. I simply asked. It seemed natural to ask what you thought.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s what I feel that matters. And I can’t help my feelings. You may guess,” -she added in a softer tone, “that my feelings are mostly concerned with my -brother. We were very fond of each other. The difference of our ages was not -very great. I suppose you know he is a little younger than I am. He was a -sensitive boy. He had the habit of brooding. It is no use concealing from you -that neither of us was happy at home. You have heard, no doubt . . . Yes? Well, -I was made still more unhappy and hurt—I don’t mind telling you that. He made -his way to some distant relations of our mother’s people who I believe were not -known to my father at all. I don’t wish to judge their action.” -</p> - -<p> -I interrupted Mrs. Fyne here. I had heard. Fyne was not very communicative in -general, but he was proud of his father-in-law—“Carleon Anthony, the poet, you -know.” Proud of his celebrity without approving of his character. It was on -that account, I strongly suspect, that he seized with avidity upon the theory -of poetical genius being allied to madness, which he got hold of in some -idiotic book everybody was reading a few years ago. It struck him as being -truth itself—illuminating like the sun. He adopted it devoutly. He bored me -with it sometimes. Once, just to shut him up, I asked quietly if this theory -which he regarded as so incontrovertible did not cause him some uneasiness -about his wife and the dear girls? He transfixed me with a pitying stare and -requested me in his deep solemn voice to remember the “well-established fact” -that genius was not transmissible. -</p> - -<p> -I said only “Oh! Isn’t it?” and he thought he had silenced me by an -unanswerable argument. But he continued to talk of his glorious father-in-law, -and it was in the course of that conversation that he told me how, when the -Liverpool relations of the poet’s late wife naturally addressed themselves to -him in considerable concern, suggesting a friendly consultation as to the boy’s -future, the incensed (but always refined) poet wrote in answer a letter of mere -polished <i>badinage</i> which offended mortally the Liverpool people. This -witty outbreak of what was in fact mortification and rage appeared to them so -heartless that they simply kept the boy. They let him go to sea not because he -was in their way but because he begged hard to be allowed to go. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! You do know,” said Mrs. Fyne after a pause. “Well—I felt myself very much -abandoned. Then his choice of life—so extraordinary, so unfortunate, I may say. -I was very much grieved. I should have liked him to have been distinguished—or -at any rate to remain in the social sphere where we could have had common -interests, acquaintances, thoughts. Don’t think that I am estranged from him. -But the precise truth is that I do not know him. I was most painfully affected -when he was here by the difficulty of finding a single topic we could discuss -together.” -</p> - -<p> -While Mrs. Fyne was talking of her brother I let my thoughts wander out of the -room to little Fyne who by leaving me alone with his wife had, so to speak, -entrusted his domestic peace to my honour. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, then, Mrs. Fyne, does it not strike you that it would be reasonable -under the circumstances to let your brother take care of himself?” -</p> - -<p> -“And suppose I have grounds to think that he can’t take care of himself in a -given instance.” She hesitated in a funny, bashful manner which roused my -interest. Then: -</p> - -<p> -“Sailors I believe are very susceptible,” she added with forced assurance. -</p> - -<p> -I burst into a laugh which only increased the coldness of her observing stare. -</p> - -<p> -“They are. Immensely! Hopelessly! My dear Mrs. Fyne, you had better give it up! -It only makes your husband miserable.” -</p> - -<p> -“And I am quite miserable too. It is really our first difference . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Regarding Miss de Barral?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Regarding everything. It’s really intolerable that this girl should be the -occasion. I think he really ought to give way.” -</p> - -<p> -She turned her chair round a little and picking up the book I had been reading -in the morning began to turn the leaves absently. -</p> - -<p> -Her eyes being off me, I felt I could allow myself to leave the room. Its -atmosphere had become hopeless for little Fyne’s domestic peace. You may smile. -But to the solemn all things are solemn. I had enough sagacity to understand -that. -</p> - -<p> -I slipped out into the porch. The dog was slumbering at Fyne’s feet. The -muscular little man leaning on his elbow and gazing over the fields presented a -forlorn figure. He turned his head quickly, but seeing I was alone, relapsed -into his moody contemplation of the green landscape. -</p> - -<p> -I said loudly and distinctly: “I’ve come out to smoke a cigarette,” and sat -down near him on the little bench. Then lowering my voice: “Tolerance is an -extremely difficult virtue,” I said. “More difficult for some than heroism. -More difficult than compassion.” -</p> - -<p> -I avoided looking at him. I knew well enough that he would not like this -opening. General ideas were not to his taste. He mistrusted them. I lighted a -cigarette, not that I wanted to smoke, but to give another moment to the -consideration of the advice—the diplomatic advice I had made up my mind to bowl -him over with. And I continued in subdued tones. -</p> - -<p> -“I have been led to make these remarks by what I have discovered since you left -us. I suspected from the first. And now I am certain. What your wife cannot -tolerate in this affair is Miss de Barral being what she is.” -</p> - -<p> -He made a movement, but I kept my eyes away from him and went on steadily. -“That is—her being a woman. I have some idea of Mrs. Fyne’s mental attitude -towards society with its injustices, with its atrocious or ridiculous -conventions. As against them there is no audacity of action your wife’s mind -refuses to sanction. The doctrine which I imagine she stuffs into the pretty -heads of your girl-guests is almost vengeful. A sort of moral fire-and-sword -doctrine. How far the lesson is wise is not for me to say. I don’t permit -myself to judge. I seem to see her very delightful disciples singeing -themselves with the torches, and cutting their fingers with the swords of Mrs. -Fyne’s furnishing.” -</p> - -<p> -“My wife holds her opinions very seriously,” murmured Fyne suddenly. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. No doubt,” I assented in a low voice as before. “But it is a mere -intellectual exercise. What I see is that in dealing with reality Mrs. Fyne -ceases to be tolerant. In other words, that she can’t forgive Miss de Barral -for being a woman and behaving like a woman. And yet this is not only -reasonable and natural, but it is her only chance. A woman against the world -has no resources but in herself. Her only means of action is to be what <i>she -is</i>. You understand what I mean.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne mumbled between his teeth that he understood. But he did not seem -interested. What he expected of me was to extricate him from a difficult -situation. I don’t know how far credible this may sound, to less solemn married -couples, but to remain at variance with his wife seemed to him a considerable -incident. Almost a disaster. -</p> - -<p> -“It looks as though I didn’t care what happened to her brother,” he said. “And -after all if anything . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -I became a little impatient but without raising my tone: -</p> - -<p> -“What thing?” I asked. “The liability to get penal servitude is so far like -genius that it isn’t hereditary. And what else can be objected to the girl? All -the energy of her deeper feelings, which she would use up vainly in the danger -and fatigue of a struggle with society may be turned into devoted attachment to -the man who offers her a way of escape from what can be only a life of moral -anguish. I don’t mention the physical difficulties.” -</p> - -<p> -Glancing at Fyne out of the corner of one eye I discovered that he was -attentive. He made the remark that I should have said all this to his wife. It -was a sensible enough remark. But I had given Mrs. Fyne up. I asked him if his -impression was that his wife meant to entrust him with a letter for her -brother? -</p> - -<p> -No. He didn’t think so. There were certain reasons which made Mrs. Fyne -unwilling to commit her arguments to paper. Fyne was to be primed with them. -But he had no doubt that if he persisted in his refusal she would make up her -mind to write. -</p> - -<p> -“She does not wish me to go unless with a full conviction that she is right,” -said Fyne solemnly. -</p> - -<p> -“She’s very exacting,” I commented. And then I reflected that she was used to -it. “Would nothing less do for once?” -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t mean that I should give way—do you?” asked Fyne in a whisper of -alarmed suspicion. -</p> - -<p> -As this was exactly what I meant, I let his fright sink into him. He fidgeted. -If the word may be used of so solemn a personage, he wriggled. And when the -horrid suspicion had descended into his very heels, so to speak, he became very -still. He sat gazing stonily into space bounded by the yellow, burnt-up slopes -of the rising ground a couple of miles away. The face of the down showed the -white scar of the quarry where not more than sixteen hours before Fyne and I -had been groping in the dark with horrible apprehension of finding under our -hands the shattered body of a girl. For myself I had in addition the memory of -my meeting with her. She was certainly walking very near the edge—courting a -sinister solution. But, now, having by the most unexpected chance come upon a -man, she had found another way to escape from the world. Such world as was open -to her—without shelter, without bread, without honour. The best she could have -found in it would have been a precarious dole of pity diminishing as her years -increased. The appeal of the abandoned child Flora to the sympathies of the -Fynes had been irresistible. But now she had become a woman, and Mrs. Fyne was -presenting an implacable front to a particularly feminine transaction. I may -say triumphantly feminine. It is true that Mrs. Fyne did not want women to be -women. Her theory was that they should turn themselves into unscrupulous -sexless nuisances. An offended theorist dwelt in her bosom somewhere. In what -way she expected Flora de Barral to set about saving herself from a most -miserable existence I can’t conceive; but I verify believe that she would have -found it easier to forgive the girl an actual crime; say the rifling of the -Bournemouth old lady’s desk, for instance. And then—for Mrs. Fyne was very much -of a woman herself—her sense of proprietorship was very strong within her; and -though she had not much use for her brother, yet she did not like to see him -annexed by another woman. By a chit of a girl. And such a girl, too. Nothing is -truer than that, in this world, the luckless have no right to their -opportunities—as if misfortune were a legal disqualification. Fyne’s sentiments -(as they naturally would be in a man) had more stability. A good deal of his -sympathy survived. Indeed I heard him murmur “Ghastly nuisance,” but I knew it -was of the integrity of his domestic accord that he was thinking. With my eyes -on the dog lying curled up in sleep in the middle of the porch I suggested in a -subdued impersonal tone: “Yes. Why not let yourself be persuaded?” -</p> - -<p> -I never saw little Fyne less solemn. He hissed through his teeth in -unexpectedly figurative style that it would take a lot to persuade him to “push -under the head of a poor devil of a girl quite sufficiently plucky”—and -snorted. He was still gazing at the distant quarry, and I think he was affected -by that sight. I assured him that I was far from advising him to do anything so -cruel. I am convinced he had always doubted the soundness of my principles, -because he turned on me swiftly as though he had been on the watch for a lapse -from the straight path. -</p> - -<p> -“Then what do you mean? That I should pretend!” -</p> - -<p> -“No! What nonsense! It would be immoral. I may however tell you that if I had -to make a choice I would rather do something immoral than something cruel. What -I meant was that, not believing in the efficacy of the interference, the whole -question is reduced to your consenting to do what your wife wishes you to do. -That would be acting like a gentleman, surely. And acting unselfishly too, -because I can very well understand how distasteful it may be to you. Generally -speaking, an unselfish action is a moral action. I’ll tell you what. I’ll go -with you.” -</p> - -<p> -He turned round and stared at me with surprise and suspicion. “You would go -with me?” he repeated. -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t understand,” I said, amused at the incredulous disgust of his tone. -“I must run up to town, to-morrow morning. Let us go together. You have a set -of travelling chessmen.” -</p> - -<p> -His physiognomy, contracted by a variety of emotions, relaxed to a certain -extent at the idea of a game. I told him that as I had business at the Docks he -should have my company to the very ship. -</p> - -<p> -“We shall beguile the way to the wilds of the East by improving conversation,” -I encouraged him. -</p> - -<p> -“My brother-in-law is staying at an hotel—the Eastern Hotel,” he said, becoming -sombre again. “I haven’t the slightest idea where it is.” -</p> - -<p> -“I know the place. I shall leave you at the door with the comfortable -conviction that you are doing what’s right since it pleases a lady and cannot -do any harm to anybody whatever.” -</p> - -<p> -“You think so? No harm to anybody?” he repeated doubtfully. -</p> - -<p> -“I assure you it’s not the slightest use,” I said with all possible emphasis -which seemed only to increase the solemn discontent of his expression. -</p> - -<p> -“But in order that my going should be a perfectly candid proceeding I must -first convince my wife that it isn’t the slightest use,” he objected -portentously. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, you casuist!” I said. And I said nothing more because at that moment Mrs. -Fyne stepped out into the porch. We rose together at her appearance. Her clear, -colourless, unflinching glance enveloped us both critically. I sustained the -chill smilingly, but Fyne stooped at once to release the dog. He was some time -about it; then simultaneously with his recovery of upright position the animal -passed at one bound from profoundest slumber into most tumultuous activity. -Enveloped in the tornado of his inane scurryings and barkings I took Mrs. -Fyne’s hand extended to me woodenly and bowed over it with deference. She -walked down the path without a word; Fyne had preceded her and was waiting by -the open gate. They passed out and walked up the road surrounded by a low cloud -of dust raised by the dog gyrating madly about their two figures progressing -side by side with rectitude and propriety, and (I don’t know why) looking to me -as if they had annexed the whole country-side. Perhaps it was that they had -impressed me somehow with the sense of their superiority. What superiority? -Perhaps it consisted just in their limitations. It was obvious that neither of -them had carried away a high opinion of me. But what affected me most was the -indifference of the Fyne dog. He used to precipitate himself at full speed and -with a frightful final upward spring upon my waistcoat, at least once at each -of our meetings. He had neglected that ceremony this time notwithstanding my -correct and even conventional conduct in offering him a cake; it seemed to me -symbolic of my final separation from the Fyne household. And I remembered -against him how on a certain day he had abandoned poor Flora de Barral—who was -morbidly sensitive. -</p> - -<p> -I sat down in the porch and, maybe inspired by secret antagonism to the Fynes, -I said to myself deliberately that Captain Anthony must be a fine fellow. Yet -on the facts as I knew them he might have been a dangerous trifler or a -downright scoundrel. He had made a miserable, hopeless girl follow him -clandestinely to London. It is true that the girl had written since, only Mrs. -Fyne had been remarkably vague as to the contents. They were unsatisfactory. -They did not positively announce imminent nuptials as far as I could make it -out from her rather mysterious hints. But then her inexperience might have led -her astray. There was no fathoming the innocence of a woman like Mrs. Fyne who, -venturing as far as possible in theory, would know nothing of the real aspect -of things. It would have been comic if she were making all this fuss for -nothing. But I rejected this suspicion for the honour of human nature. -</p> - -<p> -I imagined to myself Captain Anthony as simple and romantic. It was much more -pleasant. Genius is not hereditary but temperament may be. And he was the son -of a poet with an admirable gift of individualising, of etherealizing the -common-place; of making touching, delicate, fascinating the most hopeless -conventions of the, so-called, refined existence. -</p> - -<p> -What I could not understand was Mrs. Fyne’s dog-in-the-manger attitude. -Sentimentally she needed that brother of hers so little! What could it matter -to her one way or another—setting aside common humanity which would suggest at -least a neutral attitude. Unless indeed it was the blind working of the law -that in our world of chances the luckless <i>must</i> be put in the wrong -somehow. -</p> - -<p> -And musing thus on the general inclination of our instincts towards injustice I -met unexpectedly, at the turn of the road, as it were, a shape of duplicity. It -might have been unconscious on Mrs. Fyne’s part, but her leading idea appeared -to me to be not to keep, not to preserve her brother, but to get rid of him -definitely. She did not hope to stop anything. She had too much sense for that. -Almost anyone out of an idiot asylum would have had enough sense for that. She -wanted the protest to be made, emphatically, with Fyne’s fullest concurrence in -order to make all intercourse for the future impossible. Such an action would -estrange the pair for ever from the Fynes. She understood her brother and the -girl too. Happy together, they would never forgive that outspoken hostility—and -should the marriage turn out badly . . . Well, it would be just the same. -Neither of them would be likely to bring their troubles to such a good prophet -of evil. -</p> - -<p> -Yes. That must have been her motive. The inspiration of a possibly unconscious -Machiavellism! Either she was afraid of having a sister-in-law to look after -during the husband’s long absences; or dreaded the more or less distant -eventuality of her brother being persuaded to leave the sea, the friendly -refuge of his unhappy youth, and to settle on shore, bringing to her very door -this undesirable, this embarrassing connection. She wanted to be done with -it—maybe simply from the fatigue of continuous effort in good or evil, which, -in the bulk of common mortals, accounts for so many surprising inconsistencies -of conduct. -</p> - -<p> -I don’t know that I had classed Mrs. Fyne, in my thoughts, amongst common -mortals. She was too quietly sure of herself for that. But little Fyne, as I -spied him next morning (out of the carriage window) speeding along the -platform, looked very much like a common, flustered mortal who has made a very -near thing of catching his train: the starting wild eyes, the tense and excited -face, the distracted gait, all the common symptoms were there, rendered more -impressive by his native solemnity which flapped about him like a disordered -garment. Had he—I asked myself with interest—resisted his wife to the very last -minute and then bolted up the road from the last conclusive argument, as though -it had been a loaded gun suddenly produced? I opened the carriage door, and a -vigorous porter shoved him in from behind just as the end of the rustic -platform went gliding swiftly from under his feet. He was very much out of -breath, and I waited with some curiosity for the moment he would recover his -power of speech. That moment came. He said “Good morning” with a slight gasp, -remained very still for another minute and then pulled out of his pocket the -travelling chessboard, and holding it in his hand, directed at me a glance of -inquiry. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Certainly,” I said, very much disappointed. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER SEVEN—ON THE PAVEMENT</h3> - -<p> -Fyne was not willing to talk; but as I had been already let into the secret, -the fair-minded little man recognized that I had some right to information if I -insisted on it. And I did insist, after the third game. We were yet some way -from the end of our journey. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, if you want to know,” was his somewhat impatient opening. And then he -talked rather volubly. First of all his wife had not given him to read the -letter received from Flora (I had suspected him of having it in his pocket), -but had told him all about the contents. It was not at all what it should have -been even if the girl had wished to affirm her right to disregard the feelings -of all the world. Her own had been trampled in the dirt out of all shape. -Extraordinary thing to say—I would admit, for a young girl of her age. The -whole tone of that letter was wrong, quite wrong. It was certainly not the -product of a—say, of a well-balanced mind. -</p> - -<p> -“If she were given some sort of footing in this world,” I said, “if only no -bigger than the palm of my hand, she would probably learn to keep a better -balance.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne ignored this little remark. His wife, he said, was not the sort of person -to be addressed mockingly on a serious subject. There was an unpleasant strain -of levity in that letter, extending even to the references to Captain Anthony -himself. Such a disposition was enough, his wife had pointed out to him, to -alarm one for the future, had all the circumstances of that preposterous -project been as satisfactory as in fact they were not. Other parts of the -letter seemed to have a challenging tone—as if daring them (the Fynes) to -approve her conduct. And at the same time implying that she did not care, that -it was for their own sakes that she hoped they would “go against the world—the -horrid world which had crushed poor papa.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne called upon me to admit that this was pretty cool—considering. And there -was another thing, too. It seems that for the last six months (she had been -assisting two ladies who kept a kindergarten school in Bayswater—a mere -pittance), Flora had insisted on devoting all her spare time to the study of -the trial. She had been looking up files of old newspapers, and working herself -up into a state of indignation with what she called the injustice and the -hypocrisy of the prosecution. Her father, Fyne reminded me, had made some -palpable hits in his answers in Court, and she had fastened on them -triumphantly. She had reached the conclusion of her father’s innocence, and had -been brooding over it. Mrs. Fyne had pointed out to him the danger of this. -</p> - -<p> -The train ran into the station and Fyne, jumping out directly it came to a -standstill, seemed glad to cut short the conversation. We walked in silence a -little way, boarded a bus, then walked again. I don’t suppose that since the -days of his childhood, when surely he was taken to see the Tower, he had been -once east of Temple Bar. He looked about him sullenly; and when I pointed out -in the distance the rounded front of the Eastern Hotel at the bifurcation of -two very broad, mean, shabby thoroughfares, rising like a grey stucco tower -above the lowly roofs of the dirty-yellow, two-storey houses, he only grunted -disapprovingly. -</p> - -<p> -“I wouldn’t lay too much stress on what you have been telling me,” I observed -quietly as we approached that unattractive building. “No man will believe a -girl who has just accepted his suit to be not well balanced,—you know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! Accepted his suit,” muttered Fyne, who seemed to have been very thoroughly -convinced indeed. “It may have been the other way about.” And then he added: “I -am going through with it.” -</p> - -<p> -I said that this was very praiseworthy but that a certain moderation of -statement . . . He waved his hand at me and mended his pace. I guessed that he -was anxious to get his mission over as quickly as possible. He barely gave -himself time to shake hands with me and made a rush at the narrow glass door -with the words Hotel Entrance on it. It swung to behind his back with no more -noise than the snap of a toothless jaw. -</p> - -<p> -The absurd temptation to remain and see what would come of it got over my -better judgment. I hung about irresolute, wondering how long an embassy of that -sort would take, and whether Fyne on coming out would consent to be -communicative. I feared he would be shocked at finding me there, would consider -my conduct incorrect, conceivably treat me with contempt. I walked off a few -paces. Perhaps it would be possible to read something on Fyne’s face as he came -out; and, if necessary, I could always eclipse myself discreetly through the -door of one of the bars. The ground floor of the Eastern Hotel was an unabashed -pub, with plate-glass fronts, a display of brass rails, and divided into many -compartments each having its own entrance. -</p> - -<p> -But of course all this was silly. The marriage, the love, the affairs of -Captain Anthony were none of my business. I was on the point of moving down the -street for good when my attention was attracted by a girl approaching the hotel -entrance from the west. She was dressed very modestly in black. It was the -white straw hat of a good form and trimmed with a bunch of pale roses which had -caught my eye. The whole figure seemed familiar. Of course! Flora de Barral. -She was making for the hotel, she was going in. And Fyne was with Captain -Anthony! To meet him could not be pleasant for her. I wished to save her from -the awkwardness, and as I hesitated what to do she looked up and our eyes -happened to meet just as she was turning off the pavement into the hotel -doorway. Instinctively I extended my arm. It was enough to make her stop. I -suppose she had some faint notion that she had seen me before somewhere. She -walked slowly forward, prudent and attentive, watching my faint smile. -</p> - -<p> -“Excuse me,” I said directly she had approached me near enough. “Perhaps you -would like to know that Mr. Fyne is upstairs with Captain Anthony at this -moment.” -</p> - -<p> -She uttered a faint “Ah! Mr. Fyne!” I could read in her eyes that she had -recognized me now. Her serious expression extinguished the imbecile grin of -which I was conscious. I raised my hat. She responded with a slow inclination -of the head while her luminous, mistrustful, maiden’s glance seemed to whisper, -“What is this one doing here?” -</p> - -<p> -“I came up to town with Fyne this morning,” I said in a businesslike tone. “I -have to see a friend in East India Dock. Fyne and I parted this moment at the -door here . . . ” The girl regarded me with darkening eyes . . . “Mrs. Fyne did -not come with her husband,” I went on, then hesitated before that white face so -still in the pearly shadow thrown down by the hat-brim. “But she sent him,” I -murmured by way of warning. -</p> - -<p> -Her eyelids fluttered slowly over the fixed stare. I imagine she was not much -disconcerted by this development. “I live a long way from here,” she whispered. -</p> - -<p> -I said perfunctorily, “Do you?” And we remained gazing at each other. The -uniform paleness of her complexion was not that of an anaemic girl. It had a -transparent vitality and at that particular moment the faintest possible rosy -tinge, the merest suspicion of colour; an equivalent, I suppose, in any other -girl to blushing like a peony while she told me that Captain Anthony had -arranged to show her the ship that morning. -</p> - -<p> -It was easy to understand that she did not want to meet Fyne. And when I -mentioned in a discreet murmur that he had come because of her letter she -glanced at the hotel door quickly, and moved off a few steps to a position -where she could watch the entrance without being seen. I followed her. At the -junction of the two thoroughfares she stopped in the thin traffic of the broad -pavement and turned to me with an air of challenge. “And so you know.” -</p> - -<p> -I told her that I had not seen the letter. I had only heard of it. She was a -little impatient. “I mean all about me.” -</p> - -<p> -Yes. I knew all about her. The distress of Mr. and Mrs. Fyne—especially of Mrs. -Fyne—was so great that they would have shared it with anybody almost—not -belonging to their circle of friends. I happened to be at hand—that was all. -</p> - -<p> -“You understand that I am not their friend. I am only a holiday acquaintance.” -</p> - -<p> -“She was not very much upset?” queried Flora de Barral, meaning, of course, -Mrs. Fyne. And I admitted that she was less so than her husband—and even less -than myself. Mrs. Fyne was a very self-possessed person which nothing could -startle out of her extreme theoretical position. She did not seem startled when -Fyne and I proposed going to the quarry. -</p> - -<p> -“You put that notion into their heads,” the girl said. -</p> - -<p> -I advanced that the notion was in their heads already. But it was much more -vividly in my head since I had seen her up there with my own eyes, tempting -Providence. -</p> - -<p> -She was looking at me with extreme attention, and murmured: -</p> - -<p> -“Is that what you called it to them? Tempting . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“No. I told them that you were making up your mind and I came along just then. -I told them that you were saved by me. My shout checked you . . . ” She moved -her head gently from right to left in negation . . . “No? Well, have it your -own way.” -</p> - -<p> -I thought to myself: She has found another issue. She wants to forget now. And -no wonder. She wants to persuade herself that she had never known such an ugly -and poignant minute in her life. “After all,” I conceded aloud, “things are not -always what they seem.” -</p> - -<p> -Her little head with its deep blue eyes, eyes of tenderness and anger under the -black arch of fine eyebrows was very still. The mouth looked very red in the -white face peeping from under the veil, the little pointed chin had in its form -something aggressive. Slight and even angular in her modest black dress she was -an appealing and—yes—she was a desirable little figure. -</p> - -<p> -Her lips moved very fast asking me: -</p> - -<p> -“And they believed you at once?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, they believed me at once. Mrs. Fyne’s word to us was “Go!” -</p> - -<p> -A white gleam between the red lips was so short that I remained uncertain -whether it was a smile or a ferocious baring of little even teeth. The rest of -the face preserved its innocent, tense and enigmatical expression. She spoke -rapidly. -</p> - -<p> -“No, it wasn’t your shout. I had been there some time before you saw me. And I -was not there to tempt Providence, as you call it. I went up there for—for what -you thought I was going to do. Yes. I climbed two fences. I did not mean to -leave anything to Providence. There seem to be people for whom Providence can -do nothing. I suppose you are shocked to hear me talk like that?” -</p> - -<p> -I shook my head. I was not shocked. What had kept her back all that time, till -I appeared on the scene below, she went on, was neither fear nor any other kind -of hesitation. One reaches a point, she said with appalling youthful -simplicity, where nothing that concerns one matters any longer. But something -did keep her back. I should have never guessed what it was. She herself -confessed that it seemed absurd to say. It was the Fyne dog. -</p> - -<p> -Flora de Barral paused, looking at me, with a peculiar expression and then went -on. You see, she imagined the dog had become extremely attached to her. She -took it into her head that he might fall over or jump down after her. She tried -to drive him away. She spoke sternly to him. It only made him more frisky. He -barked and jumped about her skirt in his usual, idiotic, high spirits. He -scampered away in circles between the pines charging upon her and leaping as -high as her waist. She commanded, “Go away. Go home.” She even picked up from -the ground a bit of a broken branch and threw it at him. At this his delight -knew no bounds; his rushes became faster, his yapping louder; he seemed to be -having the time of his life. She was convinced that the moment she threw -herself down he would spring over after her as if it were part of the game. She -was vexed almost to tears. She was touched too. And when he stood still at some -distance as if suddenly rooted to the ground wagging his tail slowly and -watching her intensely with his shining eyes another fear came to her. She -imagined herself gone and the creature sitting on the brink, its head thrown up -to the sky and howling for hours. This thought was not to be borne. Then my -shout reached her ears. -</p> - -<p> -She told me all this with simplicity. My voice had destroyed her poise—the -suicide poise of her mind. Every act of ours, the most criminal, the most mad -presupposes a balance of thought, feeling and will, like a correct attitude for -an effective stroke in a game. And I had destroyed it. She was no longer in -proper form for the act. She was not very much annoyed. Next day would do. She -would have to slip away without attracting the notice of the dog. She thought -of the necessity almost tenderly. She came down the path carrying her despair -with lucid calmness. But when she saw herself deserted by the dog, she had an -impulse to turn round, go up again and be done with it. Not even that animal -cared for her—in the end. -</p> - -<p> -“I really did think that he was attached to me. What did he want to pretend -for, like this? I thought nothing could hurt me any more. Oh yes. I would have -gone up, but I felt suddenly so tired. So tired. And then you were there. I -didn’t know what you would do. You might have tried to follow me and I didn’t -think I could run—not up hill—not then.” -</p> - -<p> -She had raised her white face a little, and it was queer to hear her say these -things. At that time of the morning there are comparatively few people out in -that part of the town. The broad interminable perspective of the East India -Dock Road, the great perspective of drab brick walls, of grey pavement, of -muddy roadway rumbling dismally with loaded carts and vans lost itself in the -distance, imposing and shabby in its spacious meanness of aspect, in its -immeasurable poverty of forms, of colouring, of life—under a harsh, unconcerned -sky dried by the wind to a clear blue. It had been raining during the night. -The sunshine itself seemed poor. From time to time a few bits of paper, a -little dust and straw whirled past us on the broad flat promontory of the -pavement before the rounded front of the hotel. -</p> - -<p> -Flora de Barral was silent for a while. I said: -</p> - -<p> -“And next day you thought better of it.” -</p> - -<p> -Again she raised her eyes to mine with that peculiar expression of informed -innocence; and again her white cheeks took on the faintest tinge of pink—the -merest shadow of a blush. -</p> - -<p> -“Next day,” she uttered distinctly, “I didn’t think. I remembered. That was -enough. I remembered what I should never have forgotten. Never. And Captain -Anthony arrived at the cottage in the evening.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah yes. Captain Anthony,” I murmured. And she repeated also in a murmur, “Yes! -Captain Anthony.” The faint flush of warm life left her face. I subdued my -voice still more and not looking at her: “You found him sympathetic?” I -ventured. -</p> - -<p> -Her long dark lashes went down a little with an air of calculated discretion. -At least so it seemed to me. And yet no one could say that I was inimical to -that girl. But there you are! Explain it as you may, in this world the -friendless, like the poor, are always a little suspect, as if honesty and -delicacy were only possible to the privileged few. -</p> - -<p> -“Why do you ask?” she said after a time, raising her eyes suddenly to mine in -an effect of candour which on the same principle (of the disinherited not being -to be trusted) might have been judged equivocal. -</p> - -<p> -“If you mean what right I have . . . ” She move slightly a hand in a worn brown -glove as much as to say she could not question anyone’s right against such an -outcast as herself. -</p> - -<p> -I ought to have been moved perhaps; but I only noted the total absence of -humility . . . “No right at all,” I continued, “but just interest. Mrs. -Fyne—it’s too difficult to explain how it came about—has talked to me of -you—well—extensively.” -</p> - -<p> -No doubt Mrs. Fyne had told me the truth, Flora said brusquely with an -unexpected hoarseness of tone. This very dress she was wearing had been given -her by Mrs. Fyne. Of course I looked at it. It could not have been a recent -gift. Close-fitting and black, with heliotrope silk facings under a figured -net, it looked far from new, just on this side of shabbiness; in fact, it -accentuated the slightness of her figure, it went well in its suggestion of -half mourning with the white face in which the unsmiling red lips alone seemed -warm with the rich blood of life and passion. -</p> - -<p> -Little Fyne was staying up there an unconscionable time. Was he arguing, -preaching, remonstrating? Had he discovered in himself a capacity and a taste -for that sort of thing? Or was he perhaps, in an intense dislike for the job, -beating about the bush and only puzzling Captain Anthony, the providential man, -who, if he expected the girl to appear at any moment, must have been on -tenterhooks all the time, and beside himself with impatience to see the back of -his brother-in-law. How was it that he had not got rid of Fyne long before in -any case? I don’t mean by actually throwing him out of the window, but in some -other resolute manner. -</p> - -<p> -Surely Fyne had not impressed him. That he was an impressionable man I could -not doubt. The presence of the girl there on the pavement before me proved this -up to the hilt—and, well, yes, touchingly enough. -</p> - -<p> -It so happened that in their wanderings to and fro our glances met. They met -and remained in contact more familiar than a hand-clasp, more communicative, -more expressive. There was something comic too in the whole situation, in the -poor girl and myself waiting together on the broad pavement at a corner -public-house for the issue of Fyne’s ridiculous mission. But the comic when it -is human becomes quickly painful. Yes, she was infinitely anxious. And I was -asking myself whether this poignant tension of her suspense depended—to put it -plainly—on hunger or love. -</p> - -<p> -The answer would have been of some interest to Captain Anthony. For my part, in -the presence of a young girl I always become convinced that the dreams of -sentiment—like the consoling mysteries of Faith—are invincible; that it is -never never reason which governs men and women. -</p> - -<p> -Yet what sentiment could there have been on her part? I remembered her tone -only a moment since when she said: “That evening Captain Anthony arrived at the -cottage.” And considering, too, what the arrival of Captain Anthony meant in -this connection, I wondered at the calmness with which she could mention that -fact. He arrived at the cottage. In the evening. I knew that late train. He -probably walked from the station. The evening would be well advanced. I could -almost see a dark indistinct figure opening the wicket gate of the garden. -Where was she? Did she see him enter? Was she somewhere near by and did she -hear without the slightest premonition his chance and fateful footsteps on the -flagged path leading to the cottage door? In the shadow of the night made more -cruelly sombre for her by the very shadow of death he must have appeared too -strange, too remote, too unknown to impress himself on her thought as a living -force—such a force as a man can bring to bear on a woman’s destiny. -</p> - -<p> -She glanced towards the hotel door again; I followed suit and then our eyes met -once more, this time intentionally. A tentative, uncertain intimacy was -springing up between us two. She said simply: “You are waiting for Mr. Fyne to -come out; are you?” -</p> - -<p> -I admitted to her that I was waiting to see Mr. Fyne come out. That was all. I -had nothing to say to him. -</p> - -<p> -“I have said yesterday all I had to say to him,” I added meaningly. “I have -said it to them both, in fact. I have also heard all they had to say.” -</p> - -<p> -“About me?” she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. The conversation was about you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder if they told you everything.” -</p> - -<p> -If she wondered I could do nothing else but wonder too. But I did not tell her -that. I only smiled. The material point was that Captain Anthony should be told -everything. But as to that I was very certain that the good sister would see to -it. Was there anything more to disclose—some other misery, some other deception -of which that girl had been a victim? It seemed hardly probable. It was not -even easy to imagine. What struck me most was her—I suppose I must call -it—composure. One could not tell whether she understood what she had done. One -wondered. She was not so much unreadable as blank; and I did not know whether -to admire her for it or dismiss her from my thoughts as a passive butt of -ferocious misfortune. -</p> - -<p> -Looking back at the occasion when we first got on speaking terms on the road by -the quarry, I had to admit that she presented some points of a problematic -appearance. I don’t know why I imagined Captain Anthony as the sort of man who -would not be likely to take the initiative; not perhaps from indifference but -from that peculiar timidity before women which often enough is found in -conjunction with chivalrous instincts, with a great need for affection and -great stability of feelings. Such men are easily moved. At the least -encouragement they go forward with the eagerness, with the recklessness of -starvation. This accounted for the suddenness of the affair. No! With all her -inexperience this girl could not have found any great difficulty in her -conquering enterprise. She must have begun it. And yet there she was, patient, -almost unmoved, almost pitiful, waiting outside like a beggar, without a right -to anything but compassion, for a promised dole. -</p> - -<p> -Every moment people were passing close by us, singly, in two and threes; the -inhabitants of that end of the town where life goes on unadorned by grace or -splendour; they passed us in their shabby garments, with sallow faces, haggard, -anxious or weary, or simply without expression, in an unsmiling sombre stream -not made up of lives but of mere unconsidered existences whose joys, struggles, -thoughts, sorrows and their very hopes were miserable, glamourless, and of no -account in the world. And when one thought of their reality to themselves one’s -heart became oppressed. But of all the individuals who passed by none appeared -to me for the moment so pathetic in unconscious patience as the girl standing -before me; none more difficult to understand. It is perhaps because I was -thinking of things which I could not ask her about. -</p> - -<p> -In fact we had nothing to say to each other; but we two, strangers as we really -were to each other, had dealt with the most intimate and final of subjects, the -subject of death. It had created a sort of bond between us. It made our silence -weighty and uneasy. I ought to have left her there and then; but, as I think -I’ve told you before, the fact of having shouted her away from the edge of a -precipice seemed somehow to have engaged my responsibility as to this other -leap. And so we had still an intimate subject between us to lend more weight -and more uneasiness to our silence. The subject of marriage. I use the word not -so much in reference to the ceremony itself (I had no doubt of this, Captain -Anthony being a decent fellow) or in view of the social institution in general, -as to which I have no opinion, but in regard to the human relation. The first -two views are not particularly interesting. The ceremony, I suppose, is -adequate; the institution, I dare say, is useful or it would not have endured. -But the human relation thus recognized is a mysterious thing in its origins, -character and consequences. Unfortunately you can’t buttonhole familiarly a -young girl as you would a young fellow. I don’t think that even another woman -could really do it. She would not be trusted. There is not between women that -fund of at least conditional loyalty which men may depend on in their dealings -with each other. I believe that any woman would rather trust a man. The -difficulty in such a delicate case was how to get on terms. -</p> - -<p> -So we held our peace in the odious uproar of that wide roadway thronged with -heavy carts. Great vans carrying enormous piled-up loads advanced swaying like -mountains. It was as if the whole world existed only for selling and buying and -those who had nothing to do with the movement of merchandise were of no -account. -</p> - -<p> -“You must be tired,” I said. One had to say something if only to assert oneself -against that wearisome, passionless and crushing uproar. She raised her eyes -for a moment. No, she was not. Not very. She had not walked all the way. She -came by train as far as Whitechapel Station and had only walked from there. -</p> - -<p> -She had had an ugly pilgrimage; but whether of love or of necessity who could -tell? And that precisely was what I should have liked to get at. This was not -however a question to be asked point-blank, and I could not think of any -effective circumlocution. It occurred to me too that she might conceivably know -nothing of it herself—I mean by reflection. That young woman had been obviously -considering death. She had gone the length of forming some conception of it. -But as to its companion fatality—love, she, I was certain, had never reflected -upon its meaning. -</p> - -<p> -With that man in the hotel, whom I did not know, and this girl standing before -me in the street I felt that it was an exceptional case. He had broken away -from his surroundings; she stood outside the pale. One aspect of conventions -which people who declaim against them lose sight of is that conventions make -both joy and suffering easier to bear in a becoming manner. But those two were -outside all conventions. They would be as untrammelled in a sense as the first -man and the first woman. The trouble was that I could not imagine anything -about Flora de Barral and the brother of Mrs. Fyne. Or, if you like, I could -imagine <i>anything</i> which comes practically to the same thing. Darkness and -chaos are first cousins. I should have liked to ask the girl for a word which -would give my imagination its line. But how was one to venture so far? I can be -rough sometimes but I am not naturally impertinent. I would have liked to ask -her for instance: “Do you know what you have done with yourself?” A question -like that. Anyhow it was time for one of us to say something. A question it -must be. And the question I asked was: “So he’s going to show you the ship?” -</p> - -<p> -She seemed glad I had spoken at last and glad of the opportunity to speak -herself. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. He said he would—this morning. Did you say you did not know Captain -Anthony?” -</p> - -<p> -“No. I don’t know him. Is he anything like his sister?” -</p> - -<p> -She looked startled and murmured “Sister!” in a puzzled tone which astonished -me. “Oh! Mrs. Fyne,” she exclaimed, recollecting herself, and avoiding my eyes -while I looked at her curiously. -</p> - -<p> -What an extraordinary detachment! And all the time the stream of shabby people -was hastening by us, with the continuous dreary shuffling of weary footsteps on -the flagstones. The sunshine falling on the grime of surfaces, on the poverty -of tones and forms seemed of an inferior quality, its joy faded, its brilliance -tarnished and dusty. I had to raise my voice in the dull vibrating noise of the -roadway. -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t mean to say you have forgotten the connection?” -</p> - -<p> -She cried readily enough: “I wasn’t thinking.” And then, while I wondered what -could have been the images occupying her brain at this time, she asked me: “You -didn’t see my letter to Mrs. Fyne—did you?” -</p> - -<p> -“No. I didn’t,” I shouted. Just then the racket was distracting, a pair-horse -trolly lightly loaded with loose rods of iron passing slowly very near us. “I -wasn’t trusted so far.” And remembering Mrs. Fyne’s hints that the girl was -unbalanced, I added: “Was it an unreserved confession you wrote?” -</p> - -<p> -She did not answer me for a time, and as I waited I thought that there’s -nothing like a confession to make one look mad; and that of all confessions a -written one is the most detrimental all round. Never confess! Never, never! An -untimely joke is a source of bitter regret always. Sometimes it may ruin a man; -not because it is a joke, but because it is untimely. And a confession of -whatever sort is always untimely. The only thing which makes it supportable for -a while is curiosity. You smile? Ah, but it is so, or else people would be sent -to the rightabout at the second sentence. How many sympathetic souls can you -reckon on in the world? One in ten, one in a hundred—in a thousand—in ten -thousand? Ah! What a sell these confessions are! What a horrible sell! You seek -sympathy, and all you get is the most evanescent sense of relief—if you get -that much. For a confession, whatever it may be, stirs the secret depths of the -hearer’s character. Often depths that he himself is but dimly aware of. And so -the righteous triumph secretly, the lucky are amused, the strong are disgusted, -the weak either upset or irritated with you according to the measure of their -sincerity with themselves. And all of them in their hearts brand you for either -mad or impudent . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -I had seldom seen Marlow so vehement, so pessimistic, so earnestly cynical -before. I cut his declamation short by asking what answer Flora de Barral had -given to his question. “Did the poor girl admit firing off her confidences at -Mrs. Fyne—eight pages of close writing—that sort of thing?” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow shook his head. -</p> - -<p> -“She did not tell me. I accepted her silence, as a kind of answer and remarked -that it would have been better if she had simply announced the fact to Mrs. -Fyne at the cottage. “Why didn’t you do it?” I asked point-blank. -</p> - -<p> -She said: “I am not a very plucky girl.” She looked up at me and added -meaningly: “And <i>you</i> know it. And you know why.” -</p> - -<p> -I must remark that she seemed to have become very subdued since our first -meeting at the quarry. Almost a different person from the defiant, angry and -despairing girl with quivering lips and resentful glances. -</p> - -<p> -“I thought it was very sensible of you to get away from that sheer drop,” I -said. -</p> - -<p> -She looked up with something of that old expression. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s not what I mean. I see you will have it that you saved my life. Nothing -of the kind. I was concerned for that vile little beast of a dog. No! It was -the idea of—of doing away with myself which was cowardly. That’s what I meant -by saying I am not a very plucky girl.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh!” I retorted airily. “That little dog. He isn’t really a bad little dog.” -But she lowered her eyelids and went on: -</p> - -<p> -“I was so miserable that I could think only of myself. This was mean. It was -cruel too. And besides I had <i>not</i> given it up—not then.” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Marlow changed his tone. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know much of the psychology of self-destruction. It’s a sort of -subject one has few opportunities to study closely. I knew a man once who came -to my rooms one evening, and while smoking a cigar confessed to me moodily that -he was trying to discover some graceful way of retiring out of existence. I -didn’t study his case, but I had a glimpse of him the other day at a cricket -match, with some women, having a good time. That seems a fairly reasonable -attitude. Considered as a sin, it is a case for repentance before the throne of -a merciful God. But I imagine that Flora de Barral’s religion under the care of -the distinguished governess could have been nothing but outward formality. -Remorse in the sense of gnawing shame and unavailing regret is only -understandable to me when some wrong had been done to a fellow-creature. But -why she, that girl who existed on sufferance, so to speak—why she should writhe -inwardly with remorse because she had once thought of getting rid of a life -which was nothing in every respect but a curse—that I could not understand. I -thought it was very likely some obscure influence of common forms of speech, -some traditional or inherited feeling—a vague notion that suicide is a legal -crime; words of old moralists and preachers which remain in the air and help to -form all the authorized moral conventions. Yes, I was surprised at her remorse. -But lowering her glance unexpectedly till her dark eye-lashes seemed to rest -against her white cheeks she presented a perfectly demure aspect. It was so -attractive that I could not help a faint smile. That Flora de Barral should -ever, in any aspect, have the power to evoke a smile was the very last thing I -should have believed. She went on after a slight hesitation: -</p> - -<p> -“One day I started for there, for that place.” -</p> - -<p> -Look at the influence of a mere play of physiognomy! If you remember what we -were talking about you will hardly believe that I caught myself grinning down -at that demure little girl. I must say too that I felt more friendly to her at -the moment than ever before. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, you did? To take that jump? You are a determined young person. Well, what -happened that time?” -</p> - -<p> -An almost imperceptible alteration in her bearing; a slight droop of her head -perhaps—a mere nothing—made her look more demure than ever. -</p> - -<p> -“I had left the cottage,” she began a little hurriedly. “I was walking along -the road—you know, <i>the</i> road. I had made up my mind I was not coming back -this time.” -</p> - -<p> -I won’t deny that these words spoken from under the brim of her hat (oh yes, -certainly, her head was down—she had put it down) gave me a thrill; for indeed -I had never doubted her sincerity. It could never have been a make-believe -despair. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” I whispered. “You were going along the road.” -</p> - -<p> -“When . . . ” Again she hesitated with an effect of innocent shyness worlds -asunder from tragic issues; then glided on . . . “When suddenly Captain Anthony -came through a gate out of a field.” -</p> - -<p> -I coughed down the beginning of a most improper fit of laughter, and felt -ashamed of myself. Her eyes raised for a moment seemed full of innocent -suffering and unexpressed menace in the depths of the dilated pupils within the -rings of sombre blue. It was—how shall I say it?—a night effect when you seem -to see vague shapes and don’t know what reality you may come upon at any time. -Then she lowered her eyelids again, shutting all mysteriousness out of the -situation except for the sobering memory of that glance, nightlike in the -sunshine, expressively still in the brutal unrest of the street. -</p> - -<p> -“So Captain Anthony joined you—did he?” -</p> - -<p> -“He opened a field-gate and walked out on the road. He crossed to my side and -went on with me. He had his pipe in his hand. He said: ‘Are you going far this -morning?’” -</p> - -<p> -These words (I was watching her white face as she spoke) gave me a slight -shudder. She remained demure, almost prim. And I remarked: -</p> - -<p> -“You have been talking together before, of course.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not more than twenty words altogether since he arrived,” she declared without -emphasis. “That day he had said ‘Good morning’ to me when we met at breakfast -two hours before. And I said good morning to him. I did not see him afterwards -till he came out on the road.” -</p> - -<p> -I thought to myself that this was not accidental. He had been observing her. I -felt certain also that he had not been asking any questions of Mrs. Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -“I wouldn’t look at him,” said Flora de Barral. “I had done with looking at -people. He said to me: ‘My sister does not put herself out much for us. We had -better keep each other company. I have read every book there is in that -cottage.’ I walked on. He did not leave me. I thought he ought to. But he -didn’t. He didn’t seem to notice that I would not talk to him.” -</p> - -<p> -She was now perfectly still. The wretched little parasol hung down against her -dress from her joined hands. I was rigid with attention. It isn’t every day -that one culls such a volunteered tale on a girl’s lips. The ugly street-noises -swelling up for a moment covered the next few words she said. It was vexing. -The next word I heard was “worried.” -</p> - -<p> -“It worried you to have him there, walking by your side.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Just that,” she went on with downcast eyes. There was something prettily -comical in her attitude and her tone, while I pictured to myself a poor -white-faced girl walking to her death with an unconscious man striding by her -side. Unconscious? I don’t know. First of all, I felt certain that this was no -chance meeting. Something had happened before. Was he a man for a -<i>coup-de-foudre</i>, the lightning stroke of love? I don’t think so. That -sort of susceptibility is luckily rare. A world of inflammable lovers of the -Romeo and Juliet type would very soon end in barbarism and misery. But it is a -fact that in every man (not in every woman) there lives a lover; a lover who is -called out in all his potentialities often by the most insignificant little -things—as long as they come at the psychological moment: the glimpse of a face -at an unusual angle, an evanescent attitude, the curve of a cheek often looked -at before, perhaps, but then, at the moment, charged with astonishing -significance. These are great mysteries, of course. Magic signs. -</p> - -<p> -I don’t know in what the sign consisted in this case. It might have been her -pallor (it wasn’t pasty nor yet papery) that white face with eyes like blue -gleams of fire and lips like red coals. In certain lights, in certain poises of -head it suggested tragic sorrow. Or it might have been her wavy hair. Or even -just that pointed chin stuck out a little, resentful and not particularly -distinguished, doing away with the mysterious aloofness of her fragile -presence. But any way at a given moment Anthony must have suddenly <i>seen</i> -the girl. And then, that something had happened to him. Perhaps nothing more -than the thought coming into his head that this was “a possible woman.” -</p> - -<p> -Followed this waylaying! Its resolute character makes me think it was the -chin’s doing; that “common mortal” touch which stands in such good stead to -some women. Because men, I mean really masculine men, those whose generations -have evolved an ideal woman, are often very timid. Who wouldn’t be before the -ideal? It’s your sentimental trifler, who has just missed being nothing at all, -who is enterprising, simply because it is easy to appear enterprising when one -does not mean to put one’s belief to the test. -</p> - -<p> -Well, whatever it was that encouraged him, Captain Anthony stuck to Flora de -Barral in a manner which in a timid man might have been called heroic if it had -not been so simple. Whether policy, diplomacy, simplicity, or just inspiration, -he kept up his talk, rather deliberate, with very few pauses. Then suddenly as -if recollecting himself: -</p> - -<p> -“It’s funny. I don’t think you are annoyed with me for giving you my company -unasked. But why don’t you say something?” -</p> - -<p> -I asked Miss de Barral what answer she made to this query. -</p> - -<p> -“I made no answer,” she said in that even, unemotional low voice which seemed -to be her voice for delicate confidences. “I walked on. He did not seem to -mind. We came to the foot of the quarry where the road winds up hill, past the -place where you were sitting by the roadside that day. I began to wonder what I -should do. After we reached the top Captain Anthony said that he had not been -for a walk with a lady for years and years—almost since he was a boy. We had -then come to where I ought to have turned off and struck across a field. I -thought of making a run of it. But he would have caught me up. I knew he would; -and, of course, he would not have allowed me. I couldn’t give him the slip.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why didn’t you ask him to leave you?” I inquired curiously. -</p> - -<p> -“He would not have taken any notice,” she went on steadily. “And what could I -have done then? I could not have started quarrelling with him—could I? I hadn’t -enough energy to get angry. I felt very tired suddenly. I just stumbled on -straight along the road. Captain Anthony told me that the family—some relations -of his mother—he used to know in Liverpool was broken up now, and he had never -made any friends since. All gone their different ways. All the girls married. -Nice girls they were and very friendly to him when he was but little more than -a boy. He repeated: ‘Very nice, cheery, clever girls.’ I sat down on a bank -against a hedge and began to cry.” -</p> - -<p> -“You must have astonished him not a little,” I observed. -</p> - -<p> -Anthony, it seems, remained on the road looking down at her. He did not offer -to approach her, neither did he make any other movement or gesture. Flora de -Barral told me all this. She could see him through her tears, blurred to a mere -shadow on the white road, and then again becoming more distinct, but always -absolutely still and as if lost in thought before a strange phenomenon which -demanded the closest possible attention. -</p> - -<p> -Flora learned later that he had never seen a woman cry; not in that way, at -least. He was impressed and interested by the mysteriousness of the effect. She -was very conscious of being looked at, but was not able to stop herself crying. -In fact, she was not capable of any effort. Suddenly he advanced two steps, -stooped, caught hold of her hands lying on her lap and pulled her up to her -feet; she found herself standing close to him almost before she realized what -he had done. Some people were coming briskly along the road and Captain Anthony -muttered: “You don’t want to be stared at. What about that stile over there? -Can we go back across the fields?” -</p> - -<p> -She snatched her hands out of his grasp (it seems he had omitted to let them -go), marched away from him and got over the stile. It was a big field sprinkled -profusely with white sheep. A trodden path crossed it diagonally. After she had -gone more than half way she turned her head for the first time. Keeping five -feet or so behind, Captain Anthony was following her with an air of extreme -interest. Interest or eagerness. At any rate she caught an expression on his -face which frightened her. But not enough to make her run. And indeed it would -have had to be something incredibly awful to scare into a run a girl who had -come to the end of her courage to live. -</p> - -<p> -As if encouraged by this glance over the shoulder Captain Anthony came up -boldly, and now that he was by her side, she felt his nearness intimately, like -a touch. She tried to disregard this sensation. But she was not angry with him -now. It wasn’t worth while. She was thankful that he had the sense not to ask -questions as to this crying. Of course he didn’t ask because he didn’t care. No -one in the world cared for her, neither those who pretended nor yet those who -did not pretend. She preferred the latter. -</p> - -<p> -Captain Anthony opened for her a gate into another field; when they got through -he kept walking abreast, elbow to elbow almost. His voice growled pleasantly in -her very ear. Staying in this dull place was enough to give anyone the blues. -His sister scribbled all day. It was positively unkind. He alluded to his -nieces as rude, selfish monkeys, without either feelings or manners. And he -went on to talk about his ship being laid up for a month and dismantled for -repairs. The worst was that on arriving in London he found he couldn’t get the -rooms he was used to, where they made him as comfortable as such a confirmed -sea-dog as himself could be anywhere on shore. -</p> - -<p> -In the effort to subdue by dint of talking and to keep in check the mysterious, -the profound attraction he felt already for that delicate being of flesh and -blood, with pale cheeks, with darkened eyelids and eyes scalded with hot tears, -he went on speaking of himself as a confirmed enemy of life on shore—a perfect -terror to a simple man, what with the fads and proprieties and the ceremonies -and affectations. He hated all that. He wasn’t fit for it. There was no rest -and peace and security but on the sea. -</p> - -<p> -This gave one a view of Captain Anthony as a hermit withdrawn from a wicked -world. It was amusingly unexpected to me and nothing more. But it must have -appealed straight to that bruised and battered young soul. Still shrinking from -his nearness she had ended by listening to him with avidity. His deep murmuring -voice soothed her. And she thought suddenly that there was peace and rest in -the grave too. -</p> - -<p> -She heard him say: “Look at my sister. She isn’t a bad woman by any means. She -asks me here because it’s right and proper, I suppose, but she has no use for -me. There you have your shore people. I quite understand anybody crying. I -would have been gone already, only, truth to say, I haven’t any friends to go -to.” He added brusquely: “And you?” -</p> - -<p> -She made a slight negative sign. He must have been observing her, putting two -and two together. After a pause he said simply: “When I first came here I -thought you were governess to these girls. My sister didn’t say a word about -you to me.” -</p> - -<p> -Then Flora spoke for the first time. -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Fyne is my best friend.” -</p> - -<p> -“So she is mine,” he said without the slightest irony or bitterness, but added -with conviction: “That shows you what life ashore is. Much better be out of -it.” -</p> - -<p> -As they were approaching the cottage he was heard again as though a long silent -walk had not intervened: “But anyhow I shan’t ask her anything about you.” -</p> - -<p> -He stopped short and she went on alone. His last words had impressed her. -Everything he had said seemed somehow to have a special meaning under its -obvious conversational sense. Till she went in at the door of the cottage she -felt his eyes resting on her. -</p> - -<p> -That is it. He had made himself felt. That girl was, one may say, washing about -with slack limbs in the ugly surf of life with no opportunity to strike out for -herself, when suddenly she had been made to feel that there was somebody beside -her in the bitter water. A most considerable moral event for her; whether she -was aware of it or not. They met again at the one o’clock dinner. I am inclined -to think that, being a healthy girl under her frail appearance, and fast -walking and what I may call relief-crying (there are many kinds of crying) -making one hungry, she made a good meal. It was Captain Anthony who had no -appetite. His sister commented on it in a curt, businesslike manner, and the -eldest of his delightful nieces said mockingly: “You have been taking too much -exercise this morning, Uncle Roderick.” The mild Uncle Roderick turned upon her -with a “What do you know about it, young lady?” so charged with suppressed -savagery that the whole round table gave one gasp and went dumb for the rest of -the meal. He took no notice whatever of Flora de Barral. I don’t think it was -from prudence or any calculated motive. I believe he was so full of her aspects -that he did not want to look in her direction when there were other people to -hamper his imagination. -</p> - -<p> -You understand I am piecing here bits of disconnected statements. Next day -Flora saw him leaning over the field-gate. When she told me this, I didn’t of -course ask her how it was she was there. Probably she could not have told me -how it was she was there. The difficulty here is to keep steadily in view the -then conditions of her existence, a combination of dreariness and horror. -</p> - -<p> -That hermit-like but not exactly misanthropic sailor was leaning over the gate -moodily. When he saw the white-faced restless Flora drifting like a lost thing -along the road he put his pipe in his pocket and called out “Good morning, Miss -Smith” in a tone of amazing happiness. She, with one foot in life and the other -in a nightmare, was at the same time inert and unstable, and very much at the -mercy of sudden impulses. She swerved, came distractedly right up to the gate -and looking straight into his eyes: “I am not Miss Smith. That’s not my name. -Don’t call me by it.” -</p> - -<p> -She was shaking as if in a passion. His eyes expressed nothing; he only -unlatched the gate in silence, grasped her arm and drew her in. Then closing it -with a kick— -</p> - -<p> -“Not your name? That’s all one to me. Your name’s the least thing about you I -care for.” He was leading her firmly away from the gate though she resisted -slightly. There was a sort of joy in his eyes which frightened her. “You are -not a princess in disguise,” he said with an unexpected laugh she found -blood-curdling. “And that’s all I care for. You had better understand that I am -not blind and not a fool. And then it’s plain for even a fool to see that -things have been going hard with you. You are on a lee shore and eating your -heart out with worry.” -</p> - -<p> -What seemed most awful to her was the elated light in his eyes, the rapacious -smile that would come and go on his lips as if he were gloating over her -misery. But her misery was his opportunity and he rejoiced while the tenderest -pity seemed to flood his whole being. He pointed out to her that she knew who -he was. He was Mrs. Fyne’s brother. And, well, if his sister was the best -friend she had in the world, then, by Jove, it was about time somebody came -along to look after her a little. -</p> - -<p> -Flora had tried more than once to free herself, but he tightened his grasp of -her arm each time and even shook it a little without ceasing to speak. The -nearness of his face intimidated her. He seemed striving to look her through. -It was obvious the world had been using her ill. And even as he spoke with -indignation the very marks and stamp of this ill-usage of which he was so -certain seemed to add to the inexplicable attraction he felt for her person. It -was not pity alone, I take it. It was something more spontaneous, perverse and -exciting. It gave him the feeling that if only he could get hold of her, no -woman would belong to him so completely as this woman. -</p> - -<p> -“Whatever your troubles,” he said, “I am the man to take you away from them; -that is, if you are not afraid. You told me you had no friends. Neither have I. -Nobody ever cared for me as far as I can remember. Perhaps you could. Yes, I -live on the sea. But who would you be parting from? No one. You have no one -belonging to you.” -</p> - -<p> -At this point she broke away from him and ran. He did not pursue her. The tall -hedges tossing in the wind, the wide fields, the clouds driving over the sky -and the sky itself wheeled about her in masses of green and white and blue as -if the world were breaking up silently in a whirl, and her foot at the next -step were bound to find the void. She reached the gate all right, got out, and, -once on the road, discovered that she had not the courage to look back. The -rest of that day she spent with the Fyne girls who gave her to understand that -she was a slow and unprofitable person. Long after tea, nearly at dusk, Captain -Anthony (the son of the poet) appeared suddenly before her in the little garden -in front of the cottage. They were alone for the moment. The wind had dropped. -In the calm evening air the voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls strolling -aimlessly on the road could be heard. He said to her severely: -</p> - -<p> -“You have understood?” -</p> - -<p> -She looked at him in silence. -</p> - -<p> -“That I love you,” he finished. -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head the least bit. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you believe me?” he asked in a low, infuriated voice. -</p> - -<p> -“Nobody would love me,” she answered in a very quiet tone. “Nobody could.” -</p> - -<p> -He was dumb for a time, astonished beyond measure, as he well might have been. -He doubted his ears. He was outraged. -</p> - -<p> -“Eh? What? Can’t love you? What do you know about it? It’s my affair, isn’t it? -You dare say <i>that</i> to a man who has just told you! You must be mad!” -</p> - -<p> -“Very nearly,” she said with the accent of pent-up sincerity, and even relieved -because she was able to say something which she felt was true. For the last few -days she had felt herself several times near that madness which is but an -intolerable lucidity of apprehension. -</p> - -<p> -The clear voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls were coming nearer, sounding -affected in the peace of the passion-laden earth. He began storming at her -hastily. -</p> - -<p> -“Nonsense! Nobody can . . . Indeed! Pah! You’ll have to be shown that somebody -can. I can. Nobody . . . ” He made a contemptuous hissing noise. “More likely -<i>you</i> can’t. They have done something to you. Something’s crushed your -pluck. You can’t face a man—that’s what it is. What made you like this? Where -do you come from? You have been put upon. The scoundrels—whoever they are, men -or women, seem to have robbed you of your very name. You say you are not Miss -Smith. Who are you, then?” -</p> - -<p> -She did not answer. He muttered, “Not that I care,” and fell silent, because -the fatuous self-confident chatter of the Fyne girls could be heard at the very -gate. But they were not going to bed yet. They passed on. He waited a little in -silence and immobility, then stamped his foot and lost control of himself. He -growled at her in a savage passion. She felt certain that he was threatening -her and calling her names. She was no stranger to abuse, as we know, but there -seemed to be a particular kind of ferocity in this which was new to her. She -began to tremble. The especially terrifying thing was that she could not make -out the nature of these awful menaces and names. Not a word. Yet it was not the -shrinking anguish of her other experiences of angry scenes. She made a mighty -effort, though her knees were knocking together, and in an expiring voice -demanded that he should let her go indoors. “Don’t stop me. It’s no use. It’s -no use,” she repeated faintly, feeling an invincible obstinacy rising within -her, yet without anger against that raging man. -</p> - -<p> -He became articulate suddenly, and, without raising his voice, perfectly -audible. -</p> - -<p> -“No use! No use! You dare stand here and tell me that—you white-faced wisp, you -wreath of mist, you little ghost of all the sorrow in the world. You dare! -Haven’t I been looking at you? You are all eyes. What makes your cheeks always -so white as if you had seen something . . . Don’t speak. I love it . . . No -use! And you really think that I can now go to sea for a year or more, to the -other side of the world somewhere, leaving you behind. Why! You would vanish . -. . what little there is of you. Some rough wind will blow you away altogether. -You have no holding ground on earth. Well, then trust yourself to me—to the -sea—which is deep like your eyes.” -</p> - -<p> -She said: “Impossible.” He kept quiet for a while, then asked in a totally -changed tone, a tone of gloomy curiosity: -</p> - -<p> -“You can’t stand me then? Is that it?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” she said, more steady herself. “I am not thinking of you at all.” -</p> - -<p> -The inane voices of the Fyne girls were heard over the sombre fields calling to -each other, thin and clear. He muttered: “You could try to. Unless you are -thinking of somebody else.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. I am thinking of somebody else, of someone who has nobody to think of him -but me.” -</p> - -<p> -His shadowy form stepped out of her way, and suddenly leaned sideways against -the wooden support of the porch. And as she stood still, surprised by this -staggering movement, his voice spoke up in a tone quite strange to her. -</p> - -<p> -“Go in then. Go out of my sight—I thought you said nobody could love you.” -</p> - -<p> -She was passing him when suddenly he struck her as so forlorn that she was -inspired to say: “No one has ever loved me—not in that way—if that’s what you -mean. Nobody would.” -</p> - -<p> -He detached himself brusquely from the post, and she did not shrink; but Mrs. -Fyne and the girls were already at the gate. -</p> - -<p> -All he understood was that everything was not over yet. There was no time to -lose; Mrs. Fyne and the girls had come in at the gate. He whispered “Wait” with -such authority (he was the son of Carleon Anthony, the domestic autocrat) that -it did arrest her for a moment, long enough to hear him say that he could not -be left like this to puzzle over her nonsense all night. She was to slip down -again into the garden later on, as soon as she could do so without being heard. -He would be there waiting for her till—till daylight. She didn’t think he could -go to sleep, did she? And she had better come, or—he broke off on an unfinished -threat. -</p> - -<p> -She vanished into the unlighted cottage just as Mrs. Fyne came up to the porch. -Nervous, holding her breath in the darkness of the living-room, she heard her -best friend say: “You ought to have joined us, Roderick.” And then: “Have you -seen Miss Smith anywhere?” -</p> - -<p> -Flora shuddered, expecting Anthony to break out into betraying imprecations on -Miss Smith’s head, and cause a painful and humiliating explanation. She -imagined him full of his mysterious ferocity. To her great surprise, Anthony’s -voice sounded very much as usual, with perhaps a slight tinge of grimness. -“Miss Smith! No. I’ve seen no Miss Smith.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fyne seemed satisfied—and not much concerned really. -</p> - -<p> -Flora, relieved, got clear away to her room upstairs, and shutting her door -quietly, dropped into a chair. She was used to reproaches, abuse, to all sorts -of wicked ill usage—short of actual beating on her body. Otherwise inexplicable -angers had cut and slashed and trampled down her youth without mercy—and -mainly, it appeared, because she was the financier de Barral’s daughter and -also condemned to a degrading sort of poverty through the action of treacherous -men who had turned upon her father in his hour of need. And she thought with -the tenderest possible affection of that upright figure buttoned up in a long -frock-coat, soft-voiced and having but little to say to his girl. She seemed to -feel his hand closed round hers. On his flying visits to Brighton he would -always walk hand in hand with her. People stared covertly at them; the band was -playing; and there was the sea—the blue gaiety of the sea. They were quietly -happy together . . . It was all over! -</p> - -<p> -An immense anguish of the present wrung her heart, and she nearly cried aloud. -That dread of what was before her which had been eating up her courage slowly -in the course of odious years, flamed up into an access of panic, that sort of -headlong panic which had already driven her out twice to the top of the -cliff-like quarry. She jumped up saying to herself: “Why not now? At once! Yes. -I’ll do it now—in the dark!” The very horror of it seemed to give her -additional resolution. -</p> - -<p> -She came down the staircase quietly, and only on the point of opening the door -and because of the discovery that it was unfastened, she remembered Captain -Anthony’s threat to stay in the garden all night. She hesitated. She did not -understand the mood of that man clearly. He was violent. But she had gone -beyond the point where things matter. What would he think of her coming down to -him—as he would naturally suppose. And even that didn’t matter. He could not -despise her more than she despised herself. She must have been light-headed -because the thought came into her mind that should he get into ungovernable -fury from disappointment, and perchance strangle her, it would be as good a way -to be done with it as any. -</p> - -<p> -“You had that thought,” I exclaimed in wonder. -</p> - -<p> -With downcast eyes and speaking with an almost painstaking precision (her very -lips, her red lips, seemed to move just enough to be heard and no more), she -said that, yes, the thought came into her head. This makes one shudder at the -mysterious ways girls acquire knowledge. For this was a thought, wild enough, I -admit, but which could only have come from the depths of that sort of -experience which she had not had, and went far beyond a young girl’s possible -conception of the strongest and most veiled of human emotions. -</p> - -<p> -“He was there, of course?” I said. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, he was there.” She saw him on the path directly she stepped outside the -porch. He was very still. It was as though he had been standing there with his -face to the door for hours. -</p> - -<p> -Shaken up by the changing moods of passion and tenderness, he must have been -ready for any extravagance of conduct. Knowing the profound silence each night -brought to that nook of the country, I could imagine them having the feeling of -being the only two people on the wide earth. A row of six or seven lofty elms -just across the road opposite the cottage made the night more obscure in that -little garden. If these two could just make out each other that was all. -</p> - -<p> -“Well! And were you very much terrified?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -She made me wait a little before she said, raising her eyes: “He was gentleness -itself.” -</p> - -<p> -I noticed three abominable, drink-sodden loafers, sallow and dirty, who had -come to range themselves in a row within ten feet of us against the front of -the public-house. They stared at Flora de Barral’s back with unseeing, mournful -fixity. -</p> - -<p> -“Let’s move this way a little,” I proposed. -</p> - -<p> -She turned at once and we made a few paces; not too far to take us out of sight -of the hotel door, but very nearly. I could just keep my eyes on it. After all, -I had not been so very long with the girl. If you were to disentangle the words -we actually exchanged from my comments you would see that they were not so very -many, including everything she had so unexpectedly told me of her story. No, -not so very many. And now it seemed as though there would be no more. No! I -could expect no more. The confidence was wonderful enough in its nature as far -as it went, and perhaps not to have been expected from any other girl under the -sun. And I felt a little ashamed. The origin of our intimacy was too gruesome. -It was as if listening to her I had taken advantage of having seen her poor -bewildered, scared soul without its veils. But I was curious, too; or, to -render myself justice without false modesty—I was anxious; anxious to know a -little more. -</p> - -<p> -I felt like a blackmailer all the same when I made my attempt with a -light-hearted remark. -</p> - -<p> -“And so you gave up that walk you proposed to take?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I gave up the walk,” she said slowly before raising her downcast eyes. -When she did so it was with an extraordinary effect. It was like catching sight -of a piece of blue sky, of a stretch of open water. And for a moment I -understood the desire of that man to whom the sea and sky of his solitary life -had appeared suddenly incomplete without that glance which seemed to belong to -them both. He was not for nothing the son of a poet. I looked into those -unabashed eyes while the girl went on, her demure appearance and precise tone -changed to a very earnest expression. Woman is various indeed. -</p> - -<p> -“But I want you to understand, Mr. . . . ” she had actually to think of my name -. . . “Mr. Marlow, that I have written to Mrs. Fyne that I haven’t been—that I -have done nothing to make Captain Anthony behave to me as he had behaved. I -haven’t. I haven’t. It isn’t my doing. It isn’t my fault—if she likes to put it -in that way. But she, with her ideas, ought to understand that I couldn’t, that -I couldn’t . . . I know she hates me now. I think she never liked me. I think -nobody ever cared for me. I was told once nobody could care for me; and I think -it is true. At any rate I can’t forget it.” -</p> - -<p> -Her abominable experience with the governess had implanted in her unlucky -breast a lasting doubt, an ineradicable suspicion of herself and of others. I -said: -</p> - -<p> -“Remember, Miss de Barral, that to be fair you must trust a man altogether—or -not at all.” -</p> - -<p> -She dropped her eyes suddenly. I thought I heard a faint sigh. I tried to take -a light tone again, and yet it seemed impossible to get off the ground which -gave me my standing with her. -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Fyne is absurd. She’s an excellent woman, but really you could not be -expected to throw away your chance of life simply that she might cherish a good -opinion of your memory. That would be excessive.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was not of my life that I was thinking while Captain Anthony was—was -speaking to me,” said Flora de Barral with an effort. -</p> - -<p> -I told her that she was wrong then. She ought to have been thinking of her -life, and not only of her life but of the life of the man who was speaking to -her too. She let me finish, then shook her head impatiently. -</p> - -<p> -“I mean—death.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” I said, “when he stood before you there, outside the cottage, he really -stood between you and that. I have it out of your own mouth. You can’t deny -it.” -</p> - -<p> -“If you will have it that he saved my life, then he has got it. It was not for -me. Oh no! It was not for me that I—It was not fear! There!” She finished -petulantly: “And you may just as well know it.” -</p> - -<p> -She hung her head and swung the parasol slightly to and fro. I thought a -little. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you know French, Miss de Barral?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -She made a sign with her head that she did, but without showing any surprise at -the question and without ceasing to swing her parasol. -</p> - -<p> -“Well then, somehow or other I have the notion that Captain Anthony is what the -French call <i>un galant homme</i>. I should like to think he is being treated -as he deserves.” -</p> - -<p> -The form of her lips (I could see them under the brim of her hat) was suddenly -altered into a line of seriousness. The parasol stopped swinging. -</p> - -<p> -“I have given him what he wanted—that’s myself,” she said without a tremor and -with a striking dignity of tone. -</p> - -<p> -Impressed by the manner and the directness of the words, I hesitated for a -moment what to say. Then made up my mind to clear up the point. -</p> - -<p> -“And you have got what you wanted? Is that it?” -</p> - -<p> -The daughter of the egregious financier de Barral did not answer at once this -question going to the heart of things. Then raising her head and gazing -wistfully across the street noisy with the endless transit of innumerable -bargains, she said with intense gravity: -</p> - -<p> -“He has been most generous.” -</p> - -<p> -I was pleased to hear these words. Not that I doubted the infatuation of -Roderick Anthony, but I was pleased to hear something which proved that she was -sensible and open to the sentiment of gratitude which in this case was -significant. In the face of man’s desire a girl is excusable if she thinks -herself priceless. I mean a girl of our civilization which has established a -dithyrambic phraseology for the expression of love. A man in love will accept -any convention exalting the object of his passion and in this indirect way his -passion itself. In what way the captain of the ship <i>Ferndale</i> gave proofs -of lover-like lavishness I could not guess very well. But I was glad she was -appreciative. It is lucky that small things please women. And it is not silly -of them to be thus pleased. It is in small things that the deepest loyalty, -that which they need most, the loyalty of the passing moment, is best -expressed. -</p> - -<p> -She had remained thoughtful, letting her deep motionless eyes rest on the -streaming jumble of traffic. Suddenly she said: -</p> - -<p> -“And I wanted to ask you . . . I was really glad when I saw you actually here. -Who would have expected you here, at this spot, before this hotel! I certainly -never . . . You see it meant a lot to me. You are the only person who knows . . -. who knows for certain . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Knows what?” I said, not discovering at first what she had in her mind. Then I -saw it. “Why can’t you leave that alone?” I remonstrated, rather annoyed at the -invidious position she was forcing on me in a sense. “It’s true that I was the -only person to see,” I added. “But, as it happens, after your mysterious -disappearance I told the Fynes the story of our meeting.” -</p> - -<p> -Her eyes raised to mine had an expression of dreamy, unfathomable candour, if I -dare say so. And if you wonder what I mean I can only say that I have seen the -sea wear such an expression on one or two occasions shortly before sunrise on a -calm, fresh day. She said as if meditating aloud that she supposed the Fynes -were not likely to talk about that. She couldn’t imagine any connection in -which . . . Why should they? -</p> - -<p> -As her tone had become interrogatory I assented. “To be sure. There’s no reason -whatever—” thinking to myself that they would be more likely indeed to keep -quiet about it. They had other things to talk of. And then remembering little -Fyne stuck upstairs for an unconscionable time, enough to blurt out everything -he ever knew in his life, I reflected that he would assume naturally that -Captain Anthony had nothing to learn from him about Flora de Barral. It had -been up to now my assumption too. I saw my mistake. The sincerest of women will -make no unnecessary confidences to a man. And this is as it should be. -</p> - -<p> -“No—no!” I said reassuringly. “It’s most unlikely. Are you much concerned?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you see, when I came down,” she said again in that precise demure tone, -“when I came down—into the garden Captain Anthony misunderstood—” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course he would. Men are so conceited,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -I saw it well enough that he must have thought she had come down to him. What -else could he have thought? And then he had been “gentleness itself.” A new -experience for that poor, delicate, and yet so resisting creature. Gentleness -in passion! What could have been more seductive to the scared, starved heart of -that girl? Perhaps had he been violent, she might have told him that what she -came down to keep was the tryst of death—not of love. It occurred to me as I -looked at her, young, fragile in aspect, and intensely alive in her quietness, -that perhaps she did not know herself then what sort of tryst she was coming -down to keep. -</p> - -<p> -She smiled faintly, almost awkwardly as if she were totally unused to smiling, -at my cheap jocularity. Then she said with that forced precision, a sort of -conscious primness: -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t want him to know.” -</p> - -<p> -I approved heartily. Quite right. Much better. Let him ever remain under his -misapprehension which was so much more flattering for him. -</p> - -<p> -I tried to keep it in the tone of comedy; but she was, I believe, too simple to -understand my intention. She went on, looking down. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! You think so? When I saw you I didn’t know why you were here. I was glad -when you spoke to me because this is exactly what I wanted to ask you for. I -wanted to ask you if you ever meet Captain Anthony—by any chance—anywhere—you -are a sailor too, are you not?—that you would never mention—never—that—that you -had seen me over there.” -</p> - -<p> -“My dear young lady,” I cried, horror-struck at the supposition. “Why should I? -What makes you think I should dream of . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -She had raised her head at my vehemence. She did not understand it. The world -had treated her so dishonourably that she had no notion even of what mere -decency of feeling is like. It was not her fault. Indeed, I don’t know why she -should have put her trust in anybody’s promises. -</p> - -<p> -But I thought it would be better to promise. So I assured her that she could -depend on my absolute silence. -</p> - -<p> -“I am not likely to ever set eyes on Captain Anthony,” I added with -conviction—as a further guarantee. -</p> - -<p> -She accepted my assurance in silence, without a sign. Her gravity had in it -something acute, perhaps because of that chin. While we were still looking at -each other she declared: -</p> - -<p> -“There’s no deception in it really. I want you to believe that if I am here, -like this, to-day, it is not from fear. It is not!” -</p> - -<p> -“I quite understand,” I said. But her firm yet self-conscious gaze became -doubtful. “I do,” I insisted. “I understand perfectly that it was not of death -that you were afraid.” -</p> - -<p> -She lowered her eyes slowly, and I went on: -</p> - -<p> -“As to life, that’s another thing. And I don’t know that one ought to blame you -very much—though it seemed rather an excessive step. I wonder now if it isn’t -the ugliness rather than the pain of the struggle which . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -She shuddered visibly: “But I do blame myself,” she exclaimed with feeling. “I -am ashamed.” And, dropping her head, she looked in a moment the very picture of -remorse and shame. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you will be going away from all its horrors,” I said. “And surely you -are not afraid of the sea. You are a sailor’s granddaughter, I understand.” -</p> - -<p> -She sighed deeply. She remembered her grandfather only a little. He was a -clean-shaven man with a ruddy complexion and long, perfectly white hair. He -used to take her on his knee, and putting his face near hers, talk to her in -loving whispers. If only he were alive now . . . ! -</p> - -<p> -She remained silent for a while. -</p> - -<p> -“Aren’t you anxious to see the ship?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -She lowered her head still more so that I could not see anything of her face. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know,” she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -I had already the suspicion that she did not know her own feelings. All this -work of the merest chance had been so unexpected, so sudden. And she had -nothing to fall back upon, no experience but such as to shake her belief in -every human being. She was dreadfully and pitifully forlorn. It was almost in -order to comfort my own depression that I remarked cheerfully: -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I know of somebody who must be growing extremely anxious to see you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am before my time,” she confessed simply, rousing herself. “I had nothing to -do. So I came out.” -</p> - -<p> -I had the sudden vision of a shabby, lonely little room at the other end of the -town. It had grown intolerable to her restlessness. The mere thought of it -oppressed her. Flora de Barral was looking frankly at her chance confidant, -</p> - -<p> -“And I came this way,” she went on. “I appointed the time myself yesterday, but -Captain Anthony would not have minded. He told me he was going to look over -some business papers till I came.” -</p> - -<p> -The idea of the son of the poet, the rescuer of the most forlorn damsel of -modern times, the man of violence, gentleness and generosity, sitting up to his -neck in ship’s accounts amused me. “I am sure he would not have minded,” I -said, smiling. But the girl’s stare was sombre, her thin white face seemed -pathetically careworn. -</p> - -<p> -“I can hardly believe yet,” she murmured anxiously. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s quite real. Never fear,” I said encouragingly, but had to change my tone -at once. “You had better go down that way a little,” I directed her abruptly. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -I had seen Fyne come striding out of the hotel door. The intelligent girl, -without staying to ask questions, walked away from me quietly down one street -while I hurried on to meet Fyne coming up the other at his efficient pedestrian -gait. My object was to stop him getting as far as the corner. He must have been -thinking too hard to be aware of his surroundings. I put myself in his way, and -he nearly walked into me. -</p> - -<p> -“Hallo!” I said. -</p> - -<p> -His surprise was extreme. “You here! You don’t mean to say you have been -waiting for me?” -</p> - -<p> -I said negligently that I had been detained by unexpected business in the -neighbourhood, and thus happened to catch sight of him coming out. -</p> - -<p> -He stared at me with solemn distraction, obviously thinking of something else. -I suggested that he had better take the next city-ward tramcar. He was -inattentive, and I perceived that he was profoundly perturbed. As Miss de -Barral (she had moved out of sight) could not possibly approach the hotel door -as long as we remained where we were I proposed that we should wait for the car -on the other side of the street. He obeyed rather the slight touch on his arm -than my words, and while we were crossing the wide roadway in the midst of the -lumbering wheeled traffic, he exclaimed in his deep tone, “I don’t know which -of these two is more mad than the other!” -</p> - -<p> -“Really!” I said, pulling him forward from under the noses of two enormous -sleepy-headed cart-horses. He skipped wildly out of the way and up on the -curbstone with a purely instinctive precision; his mind had nothing to do with -his movements. In the middle of his leap, and while in the act of sailing -gravely through the air, he continued to relieve his outraged feelings. -</p> - -<p> -“You would never believe! They <i>are</i> mad!” -</p> - -<p> -I took care to place myself in such a position that to face me he had to turn -his back on the hotel across the road. I believe he was glad I was there to -talk to. But I thought there was some misapprehension in the first statement he -shot out at me without loss of time, that Captain Anthony had been glad to see -him. It was indeed difficult to believe that, directly he opened the door, his -wife’s “sailor-brother” had positively shouted: “Oh, it’s you! The very man I -wanted to see.” -</p> - -<p> -“I found him sitting there,” went on Fyne impressively in his effortless, grave -chest voice, “drafting his will.” -</p> - -<p> -This was unexpected, but I preserved a noncommittal attitude, knowing full well -that our actions in themselves are neither mad nor sane. But I did not see what -there was to be excited about. And Fyne was distinctly excited. I understood it -better when I learned that the captain of the <i>Ferndale</i> wanted little -Fyne to be one of the trustees. He was leaving everything to his wife. -Naturally, a request which involved him into sanctioning in a way a proceeding -which he had been sent by his wife to oppose, must have appeared sufficiently -mad to Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -“Me! Me, of all people in the world!” he repeated portentously. But I could see -that he was frightened. Such want of tact! -</p> - -<p> -“He knew I came from his sister. You don’t put a man into such an awkward -position,” complained Fyne. “It made me speak much more strongly against all -this very painful business than I would have had the heart to do otherwise.” -</p> - -<p> -I pointed out to him concisely, and keeping my eyes on the door of the hotel, -that he and his wife were the only bond with the land Captain Anthony had. Who -else could he have asked? -</p> - -<p> -“I explained to him that he was breaking this bond,” declared Fyne solemnly. -“Breaking it once for all. And for what—for what?” -</p> - -<p> -He glared at me. I could perhaps have given him an inkling for what, but I said -nothing. He started again: -</p> - -<p> -“My wife assures me that the girl does not love him a bit. She goes by that -letter she received from her. There is a passage in it where she practically -admits that she was quite unscrupulous in accepting this offer of marriage, but -says to my wife that she supposes she, my wife, will not blame her—as it was in -self-defence. My wife has her own ideas, but this is an outrageous -misapprehension of her views. Outrageous.” -</p> - -<p> -The good little man paused and then added weightily: -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t tell that to my brother-in-law—I mean, my wife’s views.” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” I said. “What would have been the good?” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s positive infatuation,” agreed little Fyne, in the tone as though he had -made an awful discovery. “I have never seen anything so hopeless and -inexplicable in my life. I—I felt quite frightened and sorry,” he added, while -I looked at him curiously asking myself whether this excellent civil servant -and notable pedestrian had felt the breath of a great and fatal love-spell -passing him by in the room of that East-end hotel. He did look for a moment as -though he had seen a ghost, an other-world thing. But that look vanished -instantaneously, and he nodded at me with mere exasperation at something quite -of this world—whatever it was. “It’s a bad business. My brother-in-law knows -nothing of women,” he cried with an air of profound, experienced wisdom. -</p> - -<p> -What he imagined he knew of women himself I can’t tell. I did not know anything -of the opportunities he might have had. But this is a subject which, if -approached with undue solemnity, is apt to elude one’s grasp entirely. No doubt -Fyne knew something of a woman who was Captain Anthony’s sister. But that, -admittedly, had been a very solemn study. I smiled at him gently, and as if -encouraged or provoked, he completed his thought rather explosively. -</p> - -<p> -“And that girl understands nothing . . . It’s sheer lunacy.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know,” I said, “whether the circumstances of isolation at sea would be -any alleviation to the danger. But it’s certain that they shall have the -opportunity to learn everything about each other in a lonely -<i>tête-à-tête</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“But dash it all,” he cried in hollow accents which at the same time had the -tone of bitter irony—I had never before heard a sound so quaintly ugly and -almost horrible—“You forget Mr. Smith.” -</p> - -<p> -“What Mr. Smith?” I asked innocently. -</p> - -<p> -Fyne made an extraordinary simiesque grimace. I believe it was quite -involuntary, but you know that a grave, much-lined, shaven countenance when -distorted in an unusual way is extremely apelike. It was a surprising sight, -and rendered me not only speechless but stopped the progress of my thought -completely. I must have presented a remarkably imbecile appearance. -</p> - -<p> -“My brother-in-law considered it amusing to chaff me about us introducing the -girl as Miss Smith,” said Fyne, going surly in a moment. “He said that perhaps -if he had heard her real name from the first it might have restrained him. As -it was, he made the discovery too late. Asked me to tell Zoe this together with -a lot more nonsense.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne gave me the impression of having escaped from a man inspired by a grimly -playful ebullition of high spirits. It must have been most distasteful to him; -and his solemnity got damaged somehow in the process, I perceived. There were -holes in it through which I could see a new, an unknown Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -“You wouldn’t believe it,” he went on, “but she looks upon her father -exclusively as a victim. I don’t know,” he burst out suddenly through an -enormous rent in his solemnity, “if she thinks him absolutely a saint, but she -certainly imagines him to be a martyr.” -</p> - -<p> -It is one of the advantages of that magnificent invention, the prison, that you -may forget people which are put there as though they were dead. One needn’t -worry about them. Nothing can happen to them that you can help. They can do -nothing which might possibly matter to anybody. They come out of it, though, -but that seems hardly an advantage to themselves or anyone else. I had -completely forgotten the financier de Barral. The girl for me was an orphan, -but now I perceived suddenly the force of Fyne’s qualifying statement, “to a -certain extent.” It would have been infinitely more kind all round for the law -to have shot, beheaded, strangled, or otherwise destroyed this absurd de -Barral, who was a danger to a moral world inhabited by a credulous multitude -not fit to take care of itself. But I observed to Fyne that, however insane was -the view she held, one could not declare the girl mad on that account. -</p> - -<p> -“So she thinks of her father—does she? I suppose she would appear to us saner -if she thought only of herself.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am positive,” Fyne said earnestly, “that she went and made desperate eyes at -Anthony . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh come!” I interrupted. “You haven’t seen her make eyes. You don’t know the -colour of her eyes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well! It don’t matter. But it could hardly have come to that if she -hadn’t . . . It’s all one, though. I tell you she has led him on, or accepted -him, if you like, simply because she was thinking of her father. She doesn’t -care a bit about Anthony, I believe. She cares for no one. Never cared for -anyone. Ask Zoe. For myself I don’t blame her,” added Fyne, giving me another -view of unsuspected things through the rags and tatters of his damaged -solemnity. “No! by heavens, I don’t blame her—the poor devil.” -</p> - -<p> -I agreed with him silently. I suppose affections are, in a sense, to be -learned. If there exists a native spark of love in all of us, it must be fanned -while we are young. Hers, if she ever had it, had been drenched in as ugly a -lot of corrosive liquid as could be imagined. But I was surprised at Fyne -obscurely feeling this. -</p> - -<p> -“She loves no one except that preposterous advertising shark,” he pursued -venomously, but in a more deliberate manner. “And Anthony knows it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Does he?” I said doubtfully. -</p> - -<p> -“She’s quite capable of having told him herself,” affirmed Fyne, with amazing -insight. “But whether or no, <i>I’ve</i> told him.” -</p> - -<p> -“You did? From Mrs. Fyne, of course.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne only blinked owlishly at this piece of my insight. -</p> - -<p> -“And how did Captain Anthony receive this interesting information?” I asked -further. -</p> - -<p> -“Most improperly,” said Fyne, who really was in a state in which he didn’t mind -what he blurted out. “He isn’t himself. He begged me to tell his sister that he -offered no remarks on her conduct. Very improper and inconsequent. He said . . -. I was tired of this wrangling. I told him I made allowances for the state of -excitement he was in.” -</p> - -<p> -“You know, Fyne,” I said, “a man in jail seems to me such an incredible, cruel, -nightmarish sort of thing that I can hardly believe in his existence. Certainly -not in relation to any other existences.” -</p> - -<p> -“But dash it all,” cried Fyne, “he isn’t shut up for life. They are going to -let him out. He’s coming out! That’s the whole trouble. What is he coming out -to, I want to know? It seems a more cruel business than the shutting him up -was. This has been the worry for weeks. Do you see now?” -</p> - -<p> -I saw, all sorts of things! Immediately before me I saw the excitement of -little Fyne—mere food for wonder. Further off, in a sort of gloom and beyond -the light of day and the movement of the street, I saw the figure of a man, -stiff like a ramrod, moving with small steps, a slight girlish figure by his -side. And the gloom was like the gloom of villainous slums, of misery, of -wretchedness, of a starved and degraded existence. It was a relief that I could -see only their shabby hopeless backs. He was an awful ghost. But indeed to call -him a ghost was only a refinement of polite speech, and a manner of concealing -one’s terror of such things. Prisons are wonderful contrivances. Shut—open. -Very neat. Shut—open. And out comes some sort of corpse, to wander awfully in a -world in which it has no possible connections and carrying with it the -appalling tainted atmosphere of its silent abode. Marvellous arrangement. It -works automatically, and, when you look at it, the perfection makes you sick; -which for a mere mechanism is no mean triumph. Sick and scared. It had nearly -scared that poor girl to her death. Fancy having to take such a thing by the -hand! Now I understood the remorseful strain I had detected in her speeches. -</p> - -<p> -“By Jove!” I said. “They are about to let him out! I never thought of that.” -</p> - -<p> -Fyne was contemptuous either of me or of things at large. -</p> - -<p> -“You didn’t suppose he was to be kept in jail for life?” -</p> - -<p> -At that moment I caught sight of Flora de Barral at the junction of the two -streets. Then some vehicles following each other in quick succession hid from -my sight the black slight figure with just a touch of colour in her hat. She -was walking slowly; and it might have been caution or reluctance. While -listening to Fyne I stared hard past his shoulder trying to catch sight of her -again. He was going on with positive heat, the rags of his solemnity dropping -off him at every second sentence. -</p> - -<p> -That was just it. His wife and he had been perfectly aware of it. Of course the -girl never talked of her father with Mrs. Fyne. I suppose with her theory of -innocence she found it difficult. But she must have been thinking of it day and -night. What to do with him? Where to go? How to keep body and soul together? He -had never made any friends. The only relations were the atrocious East-end -cousins. We know what they were. Nothing but wretchedness, whichever way she -turned in an unjust and prejudiced world. And to look at him helplessly she -felt would be too much for her. -</p> - -<p> -I won’t say I was thinking these thoughts. It was not necessary. This complete -knowledge was in my head while I stared hard across the wide road, so hard that -I failed to hear little Fyne till he raised his deep voice indignantly. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t blame the girl,” he was saying. “He is infatuated with her. Anybody -can see that. Why she should have got such a hold on him I can’t understand. -She said “Yes” to him only for the sake of that fatuous, swindling father of -hers. It’s perfectly plain if one thinks it over a moment. One needn’t even -think of it. We have it under her own hand. In that letter to my wife she says -she has acted unscrupulously. She has owned up, then, for what else can it -mean, I should like to know. And so they are to be married before that old -idiot comes out . . . He will be surprised,” commented Fyne suddenly in a -strangely malignant tone. “He shall be met at the jail door by a Mrs. Anthony, -a Mrs. Captain Anthony. Very pleasant for Zoe. And for all I know, my -brother-in-law means to turn up dutifully too. A little family event. It’s -extremely pleasant to think of. Delightful. A charming family party. We three -against the world—and all that sort of thing. And what for. For a girl that -doesn’t care twopence for him.” -</p> - -<p> -The demon of bitterness had entered into little Fyne. He amazed me as though he -had changed his skin from white to black. It was quite as wonderful. And he -kept it up, too. -</p> - -<p> -“Luckily there are some advantages in the—the profession of a sailor. As long -as they defy the world away at sea somewhere eighteen thousand miles from here, -I don’t mind so much. I wonder what that interesting old party will say. He -will have another surprise. They mean to drag him along with them on board the -ship straight away. Rescue work. Just think of Roderick Anthony, the son of a -gentleman, after all . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -He gave me a little shock. I thought he was going to say the “son of the poet” -as usual; but his mind was not running on such vanities now. His unspoken -thought must have gone on “and uncle of my girls.” I suspect that he had been -roughly handled by Captain Anthony up there, and the resentment gave a -tremendous fillip to the slow play of his wits. Those men of sober fancy, when -anything rouses their imaginative faculty, are very thorough. “Just think!” he -cried. “The three of them crowded into a four-wheeler, and Anthony sitting -deferentially opposite that astonished old jail-bird!” -</p> - -<p> -The good little man laughed. An improper sound it was to come from his manly -chest; and what made it worse was the thought that for the least thing, by a -mere hair’s breadth, he might have taken this affair sentimentally. But clearly -Anthony was no diplomatist. His brother-in-law must have appeared to him, to -use the language of shore people, a perfect philistine with a heart like a -flint. What Fyne precisely meant by “wrangling” I don’t know, but I had no -doubt that these two had “wrangled” to a profoundly disturbing extent. How much -the other was affected I could not even imagine; but the man before me was -quite amazingly upset. -</p> - -<p> -“In a four-wheeler! Take him on board!” I muttered, startled by the change in -Fyne. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s the plan—nothing less. If I am to believe what I have been told, his -feet will scarcely touch the ground between the prison-gates and the deck of -that ship.” -</p> - -<p> -The transformed Fyne spoke in a forcibly lowered tone which I heard without -difficulty. The rumbling, composite noises of the street were hushed for a -moment, during one of these sudden breaks in the traffic as if the stream of -commerce had dried up at its source. Having an unobstructed view past Fyne’s -shoulder, I was astonished to see that the girl was still there. I thought she -had gone up long before. But there was her black slender figure, her white face -under the roses of her hat. She stood on the edge of the pavement as people -stand on the bank of a stream, very still, as if waiting—or as if unconscious -of where she was. The three dismal, sodden loafers (I could see them too; they -hadn’t budged an inch) seemed to me to be watching her. Which was horrible. -</p> - -<p> -Meantime Fyne was telling me rather remarkable things—for him. He declared -first it was a mercy in a sense. Then he asked me if it were not real madness, -to saddle one’s existence with such a perpetual reminder. The daily existence. -The isolated sea-bound existence. To bring such an additional strain into the -solitude already trying enough for two people was the craziest thing. -Undesirable relations were bad enough on shore. One could cut them or at least -forget their existence now and then. He himself was preparing to forget his -brother-in-law’s existence as much as possible. -</p> - -<p> -That was the general sense of his remarks, not his exact words. I thought that -his wife’s brother’s existence had never been very embarrassing to him but that -now of course he would have to abstain from his allusions to the “son of the -poet—you know.” I said “yes, yes” in the pauses because I did not want him to -turn round; and all the time I was watching the girl intently. I thought I knew -now what she meant with her—“He was most generous.” Yes. Generosity of -character may carry a man through any situation. But why didn’t she go then to -her generous man? Why stand there as if clinging to this solid earth which she -surely hated as one must hate the place where one has been tormented, hopeless, -unhappy? Suddenly she stirred. Was she going to cross over? No. She turned and -began to walk slowly close to the curbstone, reminding me of the time when I -discovered her walking near the edge of a ninety-foot sheer drop. It was the -same impression, the same carriage, straight, slim, with rigid head and the two -hands hanging lightly clasped in front—only now a small sunshade was dangling -from them. I saw something fateful in that deliberate pacing towards the -inconspicuous door with the words <i>Hotel Entrance</i> on the glass panels. -</p> - -<p> -She was abreast of it now and I thought that she would stop again; but no! She -swerved rigidly—at the moment there was no one near her; she had that bit of -pavement to herself—with inanimate slowness as if moved by something outside -herself. -</p> - -<p> -“A confounded convict,” Fyne burst out. -</p> - -<p> -With the sound of that word offending my ears I saw the girl extend her arm, -push the door open a little way and glide in. I saw plainly that movement, the -hand put out in advance with the gesture of a sleep-walker. -</p> - -<p> -She had vanished, her black figure had melted in the darkness of the open door. -For some time Fyne said nothing; and I thought of the girl going upstairs, -appearing before the man. Were they looking at each other in silence and -feeling they were alone in the world as lovers should at the moment of meeting? -But that fine forgetfulness was surely impossible to Anthony the seaman -directly after the wrangling interview with Fyne the emissary of an order of -things which stops at the edge of the sea. How much he was disturbed I couldn’t -tell because I did not know what that impetuous lover had had to listen to. -</p> - -<p> -“Going to take the old fellow to sea with them,” I said. “Well I really don’t -see what else they could have done with him. You told your brother-in-law what -you thought of it? I wonder how he took it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very improperly,” repeated Fyne. “His manner was offensive, derisive, from the -first. I don’t mean he was actually rude in words. Hang it all, I am not a -contemptible ass. But he was exulting at having got hold of a miserable girl.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is pretty certain that she will be much less poor and miserable,” I -murmured. -</p> - -<p> -It looked as if the exultation of Captain Anthony had got on Fyne’s nerves. “I -told the fellow very plainly that he was abominably selfish in this,” he -affirmed unexpectedly. -</p> - -<p> -“You did! Selfish!” I said rather taken aback. “But what if the girl thought -that, on the contrary, he was most generous.” -</p> - -<p> -“What do you know about it,” growled Fyne. The rents and slashes of his -solemnity were closing up gradually but it was going to be a surly solemnity. -“Generosity! I am disposed to give it another name. No. Not folly,” he shot out -at me as though I had meant to interrupt him. “Still another. Something worse. -I need not tell you what it is,” he added with grim meaning. -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly. You needn’t—unless you like,” I said blankly. Little Fyne had never -interested me so much since the beginning of the de Barral-Anthony affair when -I first perceived possibilities in him. The possibilities of dull men are -exciting because when they happen they suggest legendary cases of “possession,” -not exactly by the devil but, anyhow, by a strange spirit. -</p> - -<p> -“I told him it was a shame,” said Fyne. “Even if the girl did make eyes at -him—but I think with you that she did not. Yes! A shame to take advantage of a -girl’s—a distresses girl that does not love him in the least.” -</p> - -<p> -“You think it’s so bad as that?” I said. “Because you know I don’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“What can you think about it,” he retorted on me with a solemn stare. “I go by -her letter to my wife.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! that famous letter. But you haven’t actually read it,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -“No, but my wife told me. Of course it was a most improper sort of letter to -write considering the circumstances. It pained Mrs. Fyne to discover how -thoroughly she had been misunderstood. But what is written is not all. It’s -what my wife could read between the lines. She says that the girl is really -terrified at heart.” -</p> - -<p> -“She had not much in life to give her any very special courage for it, or any -great confidence in mankind. That’s very true. But this seems an exaggeration.” -</p> - -<p> -“I should like to know what reasons you have to say that,” asked Fyne with -offended solemnity. “I really don’t see any. But I had sufficient authority to -tell my brother-in-law that if he thought he was going to do something -chivalrous and fine he was mistaken. I can see very well that he will do -everything she asks him to do—but, all the same, it is rather a pitiless -transaction.” -</p> - -<p> -For a moment I felt it might be so. Fyne caught sight of an approaching -tram-car and stepped out on the road to meet it. “Have you a more compassionate -scheme ready?” I called after him. He made no answer, clambered on to the rear -platform, and only then looked back. We exchanged a perfunctory wave of the -hand. We also looked at each other, he rather angrily, I fancy, and I with -wonder. I may also mention that it was for the last time. From that day I never -set eyes on the Fynes. As usual the unexpected happened to me. It had nothing -to do with Flora de Barral. The fact is that I went away. My call was not like -her call. Mine was not urged on me with passionate vehemence or tender -gentleness made all the finer and more compelling by the allurements of -generosity which is a virtue as mysterious as any other but having a glamour of -its own. No, it was just a prosaic offer of employment on rather good terms -which, with a sudden sense of having wasted my time on shore long enough, I -accepted without misgivings. And once started out of my indolence I went, as my -habit was, very, very far away and for a long, long time. Which is another -proof of my indolence. How far Flora went I can’t say. But I will tell you my -idea: my idea is that she went as far as she was able—as far as she could bear -it—as far as she had to . . . ” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>PART II—THE KNIGHT</h2> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER ONE—THE FERNDALE</h3> - -<p> -I have said that the story of Flora de Barral was imparted to me in stages. At -this stage I did not see Marlow for some time. At last, one evening rather -early, very soon after dinner, he turned up in my rooms. -</p> - -<p> -I had been waiting for his call primed with a remark which had not occurred to -me till after he had gone away. -</p> - -<p> -“I say,” I tackled him at once, “how can you be certain that Flora de Barral -ever went to sea? After all, the wife of the captain of the <i>Ferndale</i>—” -the lady that mustn’t be disturbed “of the old ship-keeper—may not have been -Flora.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I do know,” he said, “if only because I have been keeping in touch with -Mr. Powell.” -</p> - -<p> -“You have!” I cried. “This is the first I hear of it. And since when?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, since the first day. You went up to town leaving me in the inn. I slept -ashore. In the morning Mr. Powell came in for breakfast; and after the first -awkwardness of meeting a man you have been yarning with over-night had worn -off, we discovered a liking for each other.” -</p> - -<p> -As I had discovered the fact of their mutual liking before either of them, I -was not surprised. -</p> - -<p> -“And so you kept in touch,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -“It was not so very difficult. As he was always knocking about the river I -hired Dingle’s sloop-rigged three-tonner to be more on an equality. Powell was -friendly but elusive. I don’t think he ever wanted to avoid me. But it is a -fact that he used to disappear out of the river in a very mysterious manner -sometimes. A man may land anywhere and bolt inland—but what about his five-ton -cutter? You can’t carry that in your hand like a suit-case. -</p> - -<p> -“Then as suddenly he would reappear in the river, after one had given him up. I -did not like to be beaten. That’s why I hired Dingle’s decked boat. There was -just the accommodation in her to sleep a man and a dog. But I had no dog-friend -to invite. Fyne’s dog who saved Flora de Barral’s life is the last dog-friend I -had. I was rather lonely cruising about; but that, too, on the river has its -charm, sometimes. I chased the mystery of the vanishing Powell dreamily, -looking about me at the ships, thinking of the girl Flora, of life’s -chances—and, do you know, it was very simple.” -</p> - -<p> -“What was very simple?” I asked innocently. -</p> - -<p> -“The mystery.” -</p> - -<p> -“They generally are that,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -Marlow eyed me for a moment in a peculiar manner. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I have discovered the mystery of Powell’s disappearances. The fellow -used to run into one of these narrow tidal creeks on the Essex shore. These -creeks are so inconspicuous that till I had studied the chart pretty carefully -I did not know of their existence. One afternoon, I made Powell’s boat out, -heading into the shore. By the time I got close to the mud-flat his craft had -disappeared inland. But I could see the mouth of the creek by then. The tide -being on the turn I took the risk of getting stuck in the mud suddenly and -headed in. All I had to guide me was the top of the roof of some sort of small -building. I got in more by good luck than by good management. The sun had set -some time before; my boat glided in a sort of winding ditch between two low -grassy banks; on both sides of me was the flatness of the Essex marsh, -perfectly still. All I saw moving was a heron; he was flying low, and -disappeared in the murk. Before I had gone half a mile, I was up with the -building the roof of which I had seen from the river. It looked like a small -barn. A row of piles driven into the soft bank in front of it and supporting a -few planks made a sort of wharf. All this was black in the falling dusk, and I -could just distinguish the whitish ruts of a cart-track stretching over the -marsh towards the higher land, far away. Not a sound was to be heard. Against -the low streak of light in the sky I could see the mast of Powell’s cutter -moored to the bank some twenty yards, no more, beyond that black barn or -whatever it was. I hailed him with a loud shout. Got no answer. After making -fast my boat just astern, I walked along the bank to have a look at Powell’s. -Being so much bigger than mine she was aground already. Her sails were furled; -the slide of her scuttle hatch was closed and padlocked. Powell was gone. He -had walked off into that dark, still marsh somewhere. I had not seen a single -house anywhere near; there did not seem to be any human habitation for miles; -and now as darkness fell denser over the land I couldn’t see the glimmer of a -single light. However, I supposed that there must be some village or hamlet not -very far away; or only one of these mysterious little inns one comes upon -sometimes in most unexpected and lonely places. -</p> - -<p> -“The stillness was oppressive. I went back to my boat, made some coffee over a -spirit-lamp, devoured a few biscuits, and stretched myself aft, to smoke and -gaze at the stars. The earth was a mere shadow, formless and silent, and empty, -till a bullock turned up from somewhere, quite shadowy too. He came smartly to -the very edge of the bank as though he meant to step on board, stretched his -muzzle right over my boat, blew heavily once, and walked off contemptuously -into the darkness from which he had come. I had not expected a call from a -bullock, though a moment’s thought would have shown me that there must be lots -of cattle and sheep on that marsh. Then everything became still as before. I -might have imagined myself arrived on a desert island. In fact, as I reclined -smoking a sense of absolute loneliness grew on me. And just as it had become -intense, very abruptly and without any preliminary sound I heard firm, quick -footsteps on the little wharf. Somebody coming along the cart-track had just -stepped at a swinging gait on to the planks. That somebody could only have been -Mr. Powell. Suddenly he stopped short, having made out that there were two -masts alongside the bank where he had left only one. Then he came on silent on -the grass. When I spoke to him he was astonished. -</p> - -<p> -“Who would have thought of seeing you here!” he exclaimed, after returning my -good evening. -</p> - -<p> -“I told him I had run in for company. It was rigorously true.” -</p> - -<p> -“You knew I was here?” he exclaimed. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course,” I said. “I tell you I came in for company.” -</p> - -<p> -“He is a really good fellow,” went on Marlow. “And his capacity for -astonishment is quickly exhausted, it seems. It was in the most matter-of-fact -manner that he said, ‘Come on board of me, then; I have here enough supper for -two.’ He was holding a bulky parcel in the crook of his arm. I did not wait to -be asked twice, as you may guess. His cutter has a very neat little cabin, -quite big enough for two men not only to sleep but to sit and smoke in. We left -the scuttle wide open, of course. As to his provisions for supper, they were -not of a luxurious kind. He complained that the shops in the village were -miserable. There was a big village within a mile and a half. It struck me he -had been very long doing his shopping; but naturally I made no remark. I didn’t -want to talk at all except for the purpose of setting him going.” -</p> - -<p> -“And did you set him going?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -“I did,” said Marlow, composing his features into an impenetrable expression -which somehow assured me of his success better than an air of triumph could -have done. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“You made him talk?” I said after a silence. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I made him . . . about himself.” -</p> - -<p> -“And to the point?” -</p> - -<p> -“If you mean by this,” said Marlow, “that it was about the voyage of the -<i>Ferndale</i>, then again, yes. I brought him to talk about that voyage, -which, by the by, was not the first voyage of Flora de Barral. The man himself, -as I told you, is simple, and his faculty of wonder not very great. He’s one of -those people who form no theories about facts. Straightforward people seldom -do. Neither have they much penetration. But in this case it did not matter. -I—we—have already the inner knowledge. We know the history of Flora de Barral. -We know something of Captain Anthony. We have the secret of the situation. The -man was intoxicated with the pity and tenderness of his part. Oh yes! -Intoxicated is not too strong a word; for you know that love and desire take -many disguises. I believe that the girl had been frank with him, with the -frankness of women to whom perfect frankness is impossible, because so much of -their safety depends on judicious reticences. I am not indulging in cheap -sneers. There is necessity in these things. And moreover she could not have -spoken with a certain voice in the face of his impetuosity, because she did not -have time to understand either the state of her feelings, or the precise nature -of what she was doing. -</p> - -<p> -Had she spoken ever so clearly he was, I take it, too elated to hear her -distinctly. I don’t mean to imply that he was a fool. Oh dear no! But he had no -training in the usual conventions, and we must remember that he had no -experience whatever of women. He could only have an ideal conception of his -position. An ideal is often but a flaming vision of reality. -</p> - -<p> -To him enters Fyne, wound up, if I may express myself so irreverently, wound up -to a high pitch by his wife’s interpretation of the girl’s letter. He enters -with his talk of meanness and cruelty, like a bucket of water on the flame. -Clearly a shock. But the effects of a bucket of water are diverse. They depend -on the kind of flame. A mere blaze of dry straw, of course . . . but there can -be no question of straw there. Anthony of the <i>Ferndale</i> was not, could -not have been, a straw-stuffed specimen of a man. There are flames a bucket of -water sends leaping sky-high. -</p> - -<p> -We may well wonder what happened when, after Fyne had left him, the hesitating -girl went up at last and opened the door of that room where our man, I am -certain, was not extinguished. Oh no! Nor cold; whatever else he might have -been. -</p> - -<p> -It is conceivable he might have cried at her in the first moment of -humiliation, of exasperation, “Oh, it’s you! Why are you here? If I am so -odious to you that you must write to my sister to say so, I give you back your -word.” But then, don’t you see, it could not have been that. I have the -practical certitude that soon afterwards they went together in a hansom to see -the ship—as agreed. That was my reason for saying that Flora de Barral did go -to sea . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. It seems conclusive,” I agreed. “But even without that—if, as you seem to -think, the very desolation of that girlish figure had a sort of perversely -seductive charm, making its way through his compassion to his senses (and -everything is possible)—then such words could not have been spoken.” -</p> - -<p> -“They might have escaped him involuntarily,” observed Marlow. “However, a plain -fact settles it. They went off together to see the ship.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you conclude from this that nothing whatever was said?” I inquired. -</p> - -<p> -“I should have liked to see the first meeting of their glances upstairs there,” -mused Marlow. “And perhaps nothing was said. But no man comes out of such a -‘wrangle’ (as Fyne called it) without showing some traces of it. And you may be -sure that a girl so bruised all over would feel the slightest touch of anything -resembling coldness. She was mistrustful; she could not be otherwise; for the -energy of evil is so much more forcible than the energy of good that she could -not help looking still upon her abominable governess as an authority. How could -one have expected her to throw off the unholy prestige of that long domination? -She could not help believing what she had been told; that she was in some -mysterious way odious and unlovable. It was cruelly true—<i>to her</i>. The -oracle of so many years had spoken finally. Only other people did not find her -out at once . . . I would not go so far as to say she believed it altogether. -That would be hardly possible. But then haven’t the most flattered, the most -conceited of us their moments of doubt? Haven’t they? Well, I don’t know. There -may be lucky beings in this world unable to believe any evil of themselves. For -my own part I’ll tell you that once, many years ago now, it came to my -knowledge that a fellow I had been mixed up with in a certain transaction—a -clever fellow whom I really despised—was going around telling people that I was -a consummate hypocrite. He could know nothing of it. It suited his humour to -say so. I had given him no ground for that particular calumny. Yet to this day -there are moments when it comes into my mind, and involuntarily I ask myself, -‘What if it were true?’ It’s absurd, but it has on one or two occasions nearly -affected my conduct. And yet I was not an impressionable ignorant young girl. I -had taken the exact measure of the fellow’s utter worthlessness long before. He -had never been for me a person of prestige and power, like that awful governess -to Flora de Barral. See the might of suggestion? We live at the mercy of a -malevolent word. A sound, a mere disturbance of the air, sinks into our very -soul sometimes. Flora de Barral had been more astounded than convinced by the -first impetuosity of Roderick Anthony. She let herself be carried along by a -mysterious force which her person had called into being, as her father had been -carried away out of his depth by the unexpected power of successful -advertising. -</p> - -<p> -They went on board that morning. The <i>Ferndale</i> had just come to her -loading berth. The only living creature on board was the ship-keeper—whether -the same who had been described to us by Mr. Powell, or another, I don’t know. -Possibly some other man. He, looking over the side, saw, in his own words, ‘the -captain come sailing round the corner of the nearest cargo-shed, in company -with a girl.’ He lowered the accommodation ladder down on to the jetty . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“How do you know all this?” I interrupted. -</p> - -<p> -Marlow interjected an impatient: -</p> - -<p> -“You shall see by and by . . . Flora went up first, got down on deck and stood -stock-still till the captain took her by the arm and led her aft. The -ship-keeper let them into the saloon. He had the keys of all the cabins, and -stumped in after them. The captain ordered him to open all the doors, every -blessed door; state-rooms, passages, pantry, fore-cabin—and then sent him away. -</p> - -<p> -“The <i>Ferndale</i> had magnificent accommodation. At the end of a passage -leading from the quarter-deck there was a long saloon, its sumptuosity slightly -tarnished perhaps, but having a grand air of roominess and comfort. The harbour -carpets were down, the swinging lamps hung, and everything in its place, even -to the silver on the sideboard. Two large stern cabins opened out of it, one on -each side of the rudder casing. These two cabins communicated through a small -bathroom between them, and one was fitted up as the captain’s state-room. The -other was vacant, and furnished with arm-chairs and a round table, more like a -room on shore, except for the long curved settee following the shape of the -ship’s stern. In a dim inclined mirror, Flora caught sight down to the waist of -a pale-faced girl in a white straw hat trimmed with roses, distant, shadowy, as -if immersed in water, and was surprised to recognize herself in those -surroundings. They seemed to her arbitrary, bizarre, strange. Captain Anthony -moved on, and she followed him. He showed her the other cabins. He talked all -the time loudly in a voice she seemed to have known extremely well for a long -time; and yet, she reflected, she had not heard it often in her life. What he -was saying she did not quite follow. He was speaking of comparatively -indifferent things in a rather moody tone, but she felt it round her like a -caress. And when he stopped she could hear, alarming in the sudden silence, the -precipitated beating of her heart. -</p> - -<p> -The ship-keeper dodged about the quarter-deck, out of hearing, and trying to -keep out of sight. At the same time, taking advantage of the open doors with -skill and prudence, he could see the captain and “that girl” the captain had -brought aboard. The captain was showing her round very thoroughly. Through the -whole length of the passage, far away aft in the perspective of the saloon the -ship-keeper had interesting glimpses of them as they went in and out of the -various cabins, crossing from side to side, remaining invisible for a time in -one or another of the state-rooms, and then reappearing again in the distance. -The girl, always following the captain, had her sunshade in her hands. Mostly -she would hang her head, but now and then she would look up. They had a lot to -say to each other, and seemed to forget they weren’t alone in the ship. He saw -the captain put his hand on her shoulder, and was preparing himself with a -certain zest for what might follow, when the “old man” seemed to recollect -himself, and came striding down all the length of the saloon. At this move the -ship-keeper promptly dodged out of sight, as you may believe, and heard the -captain slam the inner door of the passage. After that disappointment the -ship-keeper waited resentfully for them to clear out of the ship. It happened -much sooner than he had expected. The girl walked out on deck first. As before -she did not look round. She didn’t look at anything; and she seemed to be in -such a hurry to get ashore that she made for the gangway and started down the -ladder without waiting for the captain. -</p> - -<p> -What struck the ship-keeper most was the absent, unseeing expression of the -captain, striding after the girl. He passed him, the ship-keeper, without -notice, without an order, without so much as a look. The captain had never done -so before. Always had a nod and a pleasant word for a man. From this slight the -ship-keeper drew a conclusion unfavourable to the strange girl. He gave them -time to get down on the wharf before crossing the deck to steal one more look -at the pair over the rail. The captain took hold of the girl’s arm just before -a couple of railway trucks drawn by a horse came rolling along and hid them -from the ship-keeper’s sight for good. -</p> - -<p> -Next day, when the chief mate joined the ship, he told him the tale of the -visit, and expressed himself about the girl “who had got hold of the captain” -disparagingly. She didn’t look healthy, he explained. “Shabby clothes, too,” he -added spitefully. -</p> - -<p> -The mate was very much interested. He had been with Anthony for several years, -and had won for himself in the course of many long voyages, a footing of -familiarity, which was to be expected with a man of Anthony’s character. But in -that slowly-grown intimacy of the sea, which in its duration and solitude had -its unguarded moments, no words had passed, even of the most casual, to prepare -him for the vision of his captain associated with any kind of girl. His -impression had been that women did not exist for Captain Anthony. Exhibiting -himself with a girl! A girl! What did he want with a girl? Bringing her on -board and showing her round the cabin! That was really a little bit too much. -Captain Anthony ought to have known better. -</p> - -<p> -Franklin (the chief mate’s name was Franklin) felt disappointed; almost -disillusioned. Silly thing to do! Here was a confounded old ship-keeper set -talking. He snubbed the ship-keeper, and tried to think of that insignificant -bit of foolishness no more; for it diminished Captain Anthony in his eyes of a -jealously devoted subordinate. -</p> - -<p> -Franklin was over forty; his mother was still alive. She stood in the forefront -of all women for him, just as Captain Anthony stood in the forefront of all -men. We may suppose that these groups were not very large. He had gone to sea -at a very early age. The feeling which caused these two people to partly -eclipse the rest of mankind were of course not similar; though in time he had -acquired the conviction that he was “taking care” of them both. The “old lady” -of course had to be looked after as long as she lived. In regard to Captain -Anthony, he used to say that: why should he leave him? It wasn’t likely that he -would come across a better sailor or a better man or a more comfortable ship. -As to trying to better himself in the way of promotion, commands were not the -sort of thing one picked up in the streets, and when it came to that, Captain -Anthony was as likely to give him a lift on occasion as anyone in the world. -</p> - -<p> -From Mr. Powell’s description Franklin was a short, thick black-haired man, -bald on the top. His head sunk between the shoulders, his staring prominent -eyes and a florid colour, gave him a rather apoplectic appearance. In repose, -his congested face had a humorously melancholy expression. -</p> - -<p> -The ship-keeper having given him up all the keys and having been chased forward -with the admonition to mind his own business and not to chatter about what did -not concern him, Mr. Franklin went under the poop. He opened one door after -another; and, in the saloon, in the captain’s state-room and everywhere, he -stared anxiously as if expecting to see on the bulkheads, on the deck, in the -air, something unusual—sign, mark, emanation, shadow—he hardly knew what—some -subtle change wrought by the passage of a girl. But there was nothing. He -entered the unoccupied stern cabin and spent some time there unscrewing the two -stern ports. In the absence of all material evidences his uneasiness was -passing away. With a last glance round he came out and found himself in the -presence of his captain advancing from the other end of the saloon. -</p> - -<p> -Franklin, at once, looked for the girl. She wasn’t to be seen. The captain came -up quickly. ‘Oh! you are here, Mr. Franklin.’ And the mate said, ‘I was giving -a little air to the place, sir.’ Then the captain, his hat pulled down over his -eyes, laid his stick on the table and asked in his kind way: ‘How did you find -your mother, Franklin?’—‘The old lady’s first-rate, sir, thank you.’ And then -they had nothing to say to each other. It was a strange and disturbing feeling -for Franklin. He, just back from leave, the ship just come to her loading -berth, the captain just come on board, and apparently nothing to say! The -several questions he had been anxious to ask as to various things which had to -be done had slipped out of his mind. He, too, felt as though he had nothing to -say. -</p> - -<p> -The captain, picking up his stick off the table, marched into his state-room -and shut the door after him. Franklin remained still for a moment and then -started slowly to go on deck. But before he had time to reach the other end of -the saloon he heard himself called by name. He turned round. The captain was -staring from the doorway of his state-room. Franklin said, “Yes, sir.” But the -captain, silent, leaned a little forward grasping the door handle. So he, -Franklin, walked aft keeping his eyes on him. When he had come up quite close -he said again, “Yes, sir?” interrogatively. Still silence. The mate didn’t like -to be stared at in that manner, a manner quite new in his captain, with a -defiant and self-conscious stare, like a man who feels ill and dares you to -notice it. Franklin gazed at his captain, felt that there was something wrong, -and in his simplicity voiced his feelings by asking point-blank: -</p> - -<p> -“What’s wrong, sir?” -</p> - -<p> -The captain gave a slight start, and the character of his stare changed to a -sort of sinister surprise. Franklin grew very uncomfortable, but the captain -asked negligently: -</p> - -<p> -“What makes you think that there’s something wrong?” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t say exactly. You don’t look quite yourself, sir,” Franklin owned up. -</p> - -<p> -“You seem to have a confoundedly piercing eye,” said the captain in such an -aggressive tone that Franklin was moved to defend himself. -</p> - -<p> -“We have been together now over six years, sir, so I suppose I know you a bit -by this time. I could see there was something wrong directly you came on -board.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Franklin,” said the captain, “we have been more than six years together, -it is true, but I didn’t know you for a reader of faces. You are not a correct -reader though. It’s very far from being wrong. You understand? As far from -being wrong as it can very well be. It ought to teach you not to make rash -surmises. You should leave that to the shore people. They are great hands at -spying out something wrong. I dare say they know what they have made of the -world. A dam’ poor job of it and that’s plain. It’s a confoundedly ugly place, -Mr. Franklin. You don’t know anything of it? Well—no, we sailors don’t. Only -now and then one of us runs against something cruel or underhand, enough to -make your hair stand on end. And when you do see a piece of their wickedness -you find that to set it right is not so easy as it looks . . . Oh! I called you -back to tell you that there will be a lot of workmen, joiners and all that sent -down on board first thing to-morrow morning to start making alterations in the -cabin. You will see to it that they don’t loaf. There isn’t much time.” -</p> - -<p> -Franklin was impressed by this unexpected lecture upon the wickedness of the -solid world surrounded by the salt, uncorruptible waters on which he and his -captain had dwelt all their lives in happy innocence. What he could not -understand was why it should have been delivered, and what connection it could -have with such a matter as the alterations to be carried out in the cabin. The -work did not seem to him to be called for in such a hurry. What was the use of -altering anything? It was a very good accommodation, spacious, -well-distributed, on a rather old-fashioned plan, and with its decorations -somewhat tarnished. But a dab of varnish, a touch of gilding here and there, -was all that was necessary. As to comfort, it could not be improved by any -alterations. He resented the notion of change; but he said dutifully that he -would keep his eye on the workmen if the captain would only let him know what -was the nature of the work he had ordered to be done. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ll find a note of it on this table. I’ll leave it for you as I go ashore,” -said Captain Anthony hastily. Franklin thought there was no more to hear, and -made a movement to leave the saloon. But the captain continued after a slight -pause, “You will be surprised, no doubt, when you look at it. There’ll be a -good many alterations. It’s on account of a lady coming with us. I am going to -get married, Mr. Franklin!” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER TWO—YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS</h3> - -<p> -“You remember,” went on Marlow, “how I feared that Mr. Powell’s want of -experience would stand in his way of appreciating the unusual. The unusual I -had in my mind was something of a very subtle sort: the unusual in marital -relations. I may well have doubted the capacity of a young man too much -concerned with the creditable performance of his professional duties to observe -what in the nature of things is not easily observable in itself, and still less -so under the special circumstances. In the majority of ships a second officer -has not many points of contact with the captain’s wife. He sits at the same -table with her at meals, generally speaking; he may now and then be addressed -more or less kindly on insignificant matters, and have the opportunity to show -her some small attentions on deck. And that is all. Under such conditions, -signs can be seen only by a sharp and practised eye. I am alluding now to -troubles which are subtle often to the extent of not being understood by the -very hearts they devastate or uplift. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, Mr. Powell, whom the chance of his name had thrown upon the floating stage -of that tragicomedy would have been perfectly useless for my purpose if the -unusual of an obvious kind had not aroused his attention from the first. -</p> - -<p> -We know how he joined that ship so suddenly offered to his anxious desire to -make a real start in his profession. He had come on board breathless with the -hurried winding up of his shore affairs, accompanied by two horrible -night-birds, escorted by a dock policeman on the make, received by an asthmatic -shadow of a ship-keeper, warned not to make a noise in the darkness of the -passage because the captain and his wife were already on board. That in itself -was already somewhat unusual. Captains and their wives do not, as a rule, join -a moment sooner than is necessary. They prefer to spend the last moments with -their friends and relations. A ship in one of London’s older docks with their -restrictions as to lights and so on is not the place for a happy evening. -Still, as the tide served at six in the morning, one could understand them -coming on board the evening before. -</p> - -<p> -Just then young Powell felt as if anybody ought to be glad enough to be quit of -the shore. We know he was an orphan from a very early age, without brothers or -sisters—no near relations of any kind, I believe, except that aunt who had -quarrelled with his father. No affection stood in the way of the quiet -satisfaction with which he thought that now all the worries were over, that -there was nothing before him but duties, that he knew what he would have to do -as soon as the dawn broke and for a long succession of days. A most soothing -certitude. He enjoyed it in the dark, stretched out in his bunk with his new -blankets pulled over him. Some clock ashore beyond the dock-gates struck two. -And then he heard nothing more, because he went off into a light sleep from -which he woke up with a start. He had not taken his clothes off, it was hardly -worth while. He jumped up and went on deck. -</p> - -<p> -The morning was clear, colourless, grey overhead; the dock like a sheet of -darkling glass crowded with upside-down reflections of warehouses, of hulls and -masts of silent ships. Rare figures moved here and there on the distant quays. -A knot of men stood alongside with clothes-bags and wooden chests at their -feet. Others were coming down the lane between tall, blind walls, surrounding a -hand-cart loaded with more bags and boxes. It was the crew of the -<i>Ferndale</i>. They began to come on board. He scanned their faces as they -passed forward filling the roomy deck with the shuffle of their footsteps and -the murmur of voices, like the awakening to life of a world about to be -launched into space. -</p> - -<p> -Far away down the clear glassy stretch in the middle of the long dock Mr. -Powell watched the tugs coming in quietly through the open gates. A subdued -firm voice behind him interrupted this contemplation. It was Franklin, the -thick chief mate, who was addressing him with a watchful appraising stare of -his prominent black eyes: “You’d better take a couple of these chaps with you -and look out for her aft. We are going to cast off.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir,” Powell said with proper alacrity; but for a moment they remained -looking at each other fixedly. Something like a faint smile altered the set of -the chief mate’s lips just before he moved off forward with his brisk step. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell, getting up on the poop, touched his cap to Captain Anthony, who was -there alone. He tells me that it was only then that he saw his captain for the -first time. The day before, in the shipping office, what with the bad light and -his excitement at this berth obtained as if by a brusque and unscrupulous -miracle, did not count. He had then seemed to him much older and heavier. He -was surprised at the lithe figure, broad of shoulder, narrow at the hips, the -fire of the deep-set eyes, the springiness of the walk. The captain gave him a -steady stare, nodded slightly, and went on pacing the poop with an air of not -being aware of what was going on, his head rigid, his movements rapid. -</p> - -<p> -Powell stole several glances at him with a curiosity very natural under the -circumstances. He wore a short grey jacket and a grey cap. In the light of the -dawn, growing more limpid rather than brighter, Powell noticed the slightly -sunken cheeks under the trimmed beard, the perpendicular fold on the forehead, -something hard and set about the mouth. -</p> - -<p> -It was too early yet for the work to have begun in the dock. The water gleamed -placidly, no movement anywhere on the long straight lines of the quays, no one -about to be seen except the few dock hands busy alongside the <i>Ferndale</i>, -knowing their work, mostly silent or exchanging a few words in low tones as if -they, too, had been aware of that lady ‘who mustn’t be disturbed.’ The -<i>Ferndale</i> was the only ship to leave that tide. The others seemed still -asleep, without a sound, and only here and there a figure, coming up on the -forecastle, leaned on the rail to watch the proceedings idly. Without trouble -and fuss and almost without a sound was the <i>Ferndale</i> leaving the land, -as if stealing away. Even the tugs, now with their engines stopped, were -approaching her without a ripple, the burly-looking paddle-boat sheering -forward, while the other, a screw, smaller and of slender shape, made for her -quarter so gently that she did not divide the smooth water, but seemed to glide -on its surface as if on a sheet of plate-glass, a man in her bow, the master at -the wheel visible only from the waist upwards above the white screen of the -bridge, both of them so still-eyed as to fascinate young Powell into curious -self-forgetfulness and immobility. He was steeped, sunk in the general -quietness, remembering the statement ‘she’s a lady that mustn’t be disturbed,’ -and repeating to himself idly: ‘No. She won’t be disturbed. She won’t be -disturbed.’ Then the first loud words of that morning breaking that strange -hush of departure with a sharp hail: ‘Look out for that line there,’ made him -start. The line whizzed past his head, one of the sailors aft caught it, and -there was an end to the fascination, to the quietness of spirit which had -stolen on him at the very moment of departure. From that moment till two hours -afterwards, when the ship was brought up in one of the lower reaches of the -Thames off an apparently uninhabited shore, near some sort of inlet where -nothing but two anchored barges flying a red flag could be seen, Powell was too -busy to think of the lady ‘that mustn’t be disturbed,’ or of his captain—or of -anything else unconnected with his immediate duties. In fact, he had no -occasion to go on the poop, or even look that way much; but while the ship was -about to anchor, casting his eyes in that direction, he received an absurd -impression that his captain (he was up there, of course) was sitting on both -sides of the aftermost skylight at once. He was too occupied to reflect on this -curious delusion, this phenomenon of seeing double as though he had had a drop -too much. He only smiled at himself. -</p> - -<p> -As often happens after a grey daybreak the sun had risen in a warm and glorious -splendour above the smooth immense gleam of the enlarged estuary. Wisps of mist -floated like trails of luminous dust, and in the dazzling reflections of water -and vapour, the shores had the murky semi-transparent darkness of shadows cast -mysteriously from below. Powell, who had sailed out of London all his young -seaman’s life, told me that it was then, in a moment of entranced vision an -hour or so after sunrise, that the river was revealed to him for all time, like -a fair face often seen before, which is suddenly perceived to be the expression -of an inner and unsuspected beauty, of that something unique and only its own -which rouses a passion of wonder and fidelity and an unappeasable memory of its -charm. The hull of the <i>Ferndale</i>, swung head to the eastward, caught the -light, her tall spars and rigging steeped in a bath of red-gold, from the -water-line full of glitter to the trucks slight and gleaming against the -delicate expanse of the blue. -</p> - -<p> -“Time we had a mouthful to eat,” said a voice at his side. It was Mr. Franklin, -the chief mate, with his head sunk between his shoulders, and melancholy eyes. -“Let the men have their breakfast, bo’sun,” he went on, “and have the fire out -in the galley in half an hour at the latest, so that we can call these barges -of explosives alongside. Come along, young man. I don’t know your name. Haven’t -seen the captain, to speak to, since yesterday afternoon when he rushed off to -pick up a second mate somewhere. How did he get you?” -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell, a little shy notwithstanding the friendly disposition of the -other, answered him smilingly, aware somehow that there was something marked in -this inquisitiveness, natural, after all—something anxious. His name was -Powell, and he was put in the way of this berth by Mr. Powell, the shipping -master. He blushed. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, I see. Well, you have been smart in getting ready. The ship-keeper, before -he went away, told me you joined at one o’clock. I didn’t sleep on board last -night. Not I. There was a time when I never cared to leave this ship for more -than a couple of hours in the evening, even while in London, but now, since—” -</p> - -<p> -He checked himself with a roll of his prominent eyes towards that youngster, -that stranger. Meantime, he was leading the way across the quarter-deck under -the poop into the long passage with the door of the saloon at the far end. It -was shut. But Mr. Franklin did not go so far. After passing the pantry he -opened suddenly a door on the left of the passage, to Powell’s great surprise. -</p> - -<p> -“Our mess-room,” he said, entering a small cabin painted white, bare, lighted -from part of the foremost skylight, and furnished only with a table and two -settees with movable backs. “That surprises you? Well, it isn’t usual. And it -wasn’t so in this ship either, before. It’s only since—” -</p> - -<p> -He checked himself again. “Yes. Here we shall feed, you and I, facing each -other for the next twelve months or more—God knows how much more! The bo’sun -keeps the deck at meal-times in fine weather.” -</p> - -<p> -He talked not exactly wheezing, but like a man whose breath is somewhat short, -and the spirit (young Powell could not help thinking) embittered by some -mysterious grievance. -</p> - -<p> -There was enough of the unusual there to be recognized even by Powell’s -inexperience. The officers kept out of the cabin against the custom of the -service, and then this sort of accent in the mate’s talk. Franklin did not seem -to expect conversational ease from the new second mate. He made several remarks -about the old, deploring the accident. Awkward. Very awkward this thing to -happen on the very eve of sailing. -</p> - -<p> -“Collar-bone and arm broken,” he sighed. “Sad, very sad. Did you notice if the -captain was at all affected? Eh? Must have been.” -</p> - -<p> -Before this congested face, these globular eyes turned yearningly upon him, -young Powell (one must keep in mind he was but a youngster then) who could not -remember any signs of visible grief, confessed with an embarrassed laugh that, -owing to the suddenness of this lucky chance coming to him, he was not in a -condition to notice the state of other people. -</p> - -<p> -“I was so pleased to get a ship at last,” he murmured, further disconcerted by -the sort of pent-up gravity in Mr. Franklin’s aspect. -</p> - -<p> -“One man’s food another man’s poison,” the mate remarked. “That holds true -beyond mere victuals. I suppose it didn’t occur to you that it was a dam’ poor -way for a good man to be knocked out.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell admitted openly that he had not thought of that. He was ready to -admit that it was very reprehensible of him. But Franklin had no intention -apparently to moralize. He did not fall silent either. His further remarks were -to the effect that there had been a time when Captain Anthony would have showed -more than enough concern for the least thing happening to one of his officers. -Yes, there had been a time! -</p> - -<p> -“And mind,” he went on, laying down suddenly a half-consumed piece of bread and -butter and raising his voice, “poor Mathews was the second man the longest on -board. I was the first. He joined a month later—about the same time as the -steward by a few days. The bo’sun and the carpenter came the voyage after. -Steady men. Still here. No good man need ever have thought of leaving the -<i>Ferndale</i> unless he were a fool. Some good men are fools. Don’t know when -they are well off. I mean the best of good men; men that you would do anything -for. They go on for years, then all of a sudden—” -</p> - -<p> -Our young friend listened to the mate with a queer sense of discomfort growing -on him. For it was as though Mr. Franklin were thinking aloud, and putting him -into the delicate position of an unwilling eavesdropper. But there was in the -mess-room another listener. It was the steward, who had come in carrying a tin -coffee-pot with a long handle, and stood quietly by: a man with a middle-aged, -sallow face, long features, heavy eyelids, a soldierly grey moustache. His body -encased in a short black jacket with narrow sleeves, his long legs in very -tight trousers, made up an agile, youthful, slender figure. He moved forward -suddenly, and interrupted the mate’s monologue. -</p> - -<p> -“More coffee, Mr. Franklin? Nice fresh lot. Piping hot. I am going to give -breakfast to the saloon directly, and the cook is raking his fire out. Now’s -your chance.” -</p> - -<p> -The mate who, on account of his peculiar build, could not turn his head freely, -twisted his thick trunk slightly, and ran his black eyes in the corners towards -the steward. -</p> - -<p> -“And is the precious pair of them out?” he growled. -</p> - -<p> -The steward, pouring out the coffee into the mate’s cup, muttered moodily but -distinctly: “The lady wasn’t when I was laying the table.” -</p> - -<p> -Powell’s ears were fine enough to detect something hostile in this reference to -the captain’s wife. For of what other person could they be speaking? The -steward added with a gloomy sort of fairness: “But she will be before I bring -the dishes in. She never gives that sort of trouble. That she doesn’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“No. Not in that way,” Mr. Franklin agreed, and then both he and the steward, -after glancing at Powell—the stranger to the ship—said nothing more. -</p> - -<p> -But this had been enough to rouse his curiosity. Curiosity is natural to man. -Of course it was not a malevolent curiosity which, if not exactly natural, is -to be met fairly frequently in men and perhaps more frequently in -women—especially if a woman be in question; and that woman under a cloud, in a -manner of speaking. For under a cloud Flora de Barral was fated to be even at -sea. Yes. Even that sort of darkness which attends a woman for whom there is no -clear place in the world hung over her. Yes. Even at sea! -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -And this is the pathos of being a woman. A man can struggle to get a place for -himself or perish. But a woman’s part is passive, say what you like, and -shuffle the facts of the world as you may, hinting at lack of energy, of -wisdom, of courage. As a matter of fact, almost all women have all that—of -their own kind. But they are not made for attack. Wait they must. I am speaking -here of women who are really women. And it’s no use talking of opportunities, -either. I know that some of them do talk of it. But not the genuine women. -Those know better. Nothing can beat a true woman for a clear vision of reality; -I would say a cynical vision if I were not afraid of wounding your chivalrous -feelings—for which, by the by, women are not so grateful as you may think, to -fellows of your kind . . . -</p> - -<p> -“Upon my word, Marlow,” I cried, “what are you flying out at me for like this? -I wouldn’t use an ill-sounding word about women, but what right have you to -imagine that I am looking for gratitude?” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow raised a soothing hand. -</p> - -<p> -“There! There! I take back the ill-sounding word, with the remark, though, that -cynicism seems to me a word invented by hypocrites. But let that pass. As to -women, they know that the clamour for opportunities for them to become -something which they cannot be is as reasonable as if mankind at large started -asking for opportunities of winning immortality in this world, in which death -is the very condition of life. You must understand that I am not talking here -of material existence. That naturally is implied; but you won’t maintain that a -woman who, say, enlisted, for instance (there have been cases) has conquered -her place in the world. She has only got her living in it—which is quite -meritorious, but not quite the same thing. -</p> - -<p> -All these reflections which arise from my picking up the thread of Flora de -Barral’s existence did not, I am certain, present themselves to Mr. Powell—not -the Mr. Powell we know taking solitary week-end cruises in the estuary of the -Thames (with mysterious dashes into lonely creeks) but to the young Mr. Powell, -the chance second officer of the ship <i>Ferndale</i>, commanded (and for the -most part owned) by Roderick Anthony, the son of the poet—you know. A Mr. -Powell, much slenderer than our robust friend is now, with the bloom of -innocence not quite rubbed off his smooth cheeks, and apt not only to be -interested but also to be surprised by the experience life was holding in store -for him. This would account for his remembering so much of it with considerable -vividness. For instance, the impressions attending his first breakfast on board -the <i>Ferndale</i>, both visual and mental, were as fresh to him as if -received yesterday. -</p> - -<p> -The surprise, it is easy to understand, would arise from the inability to -interpret aright the signs which experience (a thing mysterious in itself) -makes to our understanding and emotions. For it is never more than that. Our -experience never gets into our blood and bones. It always remains outside of -us. That’s why we look with wonder at the past. And this persists even when -from practice and through growing callousness of fibre we come to the point -when nothing that we meet in that rapid blinking stumble across a flick of -sunshine—which our life is—nothing, I say, which we run against surprises us -any more. Not at the time, I mean. If, later on, we recover the faculty with -some such exclamation: ‘Well! Well! I’ll be hanged if I ever, . . . ’ it is -probably because this very thing that there should be a past to look back upon, -other people’s, is very astounding in itself when one has the time, a fleeting -and immense instant to think of it . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -I was on the point of interrupting Marlow when he stopped of himself, his eyes -fixed on vacancy, or—perhaps—(I wouldn’t be too hard on him) on a vision. He -has the habit, or, say, the fault, of defective mantelpiece clocks, of suddenly -stopping in the very fulness of the tick. If you have ever lived with a clock -afflicted with that perversity, you know how vexing it is—such a stoppage. I -was vexed with Marlow. He was smiling faintly while I waited. He even laughed a -little. And then I said acidly: -</p> - -<p> -“Am I to understand that you have ferreted out something comic in the history -of Flora de Barral?” -</p> - -<p> -“Comic!” he exclaimed. “No! What makes you say? . . . Oh, I laughed—did I? But -don’t you know that people laugh at absurdities that are very far from being -comic? Didn’t you read the latest books about laughter written by philosophers, -psychologists? There is a lot of them . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“I dare say there has been a lot of nonsense written about laughter—and tears, -too, for that matter,” I said impatiently. -</p> - -<p> -“They say,” pursued the unabashed Marlow, “that we laugh from a sense of -superiority. Therefore, observe, simplicity, honesty, warmth of feeling, -delicacy of heart and of conduct, self-confidence, magnanimity are laughed at, -because the presence of these traits in a man’s character often puts him into -difficult, cruel or absurd situations, and makes us, the majority who are -fairly free as a rule from these peculiarities, feel pleasantly superior.” -</p> - -<p> -“Speak for yourself,” I said. “But have you discovered all these fine things in -the story; or has Mr. Powell discovered them to you in his artless talk? Have -you two been having good healthy laughs together? Come! Are your sides aching -yet, Marlow?” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow took no offence at my banter. He was quite serious. -</p> - -<p> -“I should not like to say off-hand how much of that there was,” he pursued with -amusing caution. “But there was a situation, tense enough for the signs of it -to give many surprises to Mr. Powell—neither of them shocking in itself, but -with a cumulative effect which made the whole unforgettable in the detail of -its progress. And the first surprise came very soon, when the explosives (to -which he owed his sudden chance of engagement)—dynamite in cases and blasting -powder in barrels—taken on board, main hatch battened for sea, cook restored to -his functions in the galley, anchor fished and the tug ahead, rounding the -South Foreland, and with the sun sinking clear and red down the purple vista of -the channel, he went on the poop, on duty, it is true, but with time to take -the first freer breath in the busy day of departure. The pilot was still on -board, who gave him first a silent glance, and then passed an insignificant -remark before resuming his lounging to and fro between the steering wheel and -the binnacle. Powell took his station modestly at the break of the poop. He had -noticed across the skylight a head in a grey cap. But when, after a time, he -crossed over to the other side of the deck he discovered that it was not the -captain’s head at all. He became aware of grey hairs curling over the nape of -the neck. How could he have made that mistake? But on board ship away from the -land one does not expect to come upon a stranger. -</p> - -<p> -Powell walked past the man. A thin, somewhat sunken face, with a tightly closed -mouth, stared at the distant French coast, vague like a suggestion of solid -darkness, lying abeam beyond the evening light reflected from the level waters, -themselves growing more sombre than the sky; a stare, across which Powell had -to pass and did pass with a quick side glance, noting its immovable stillness. -His passage disturbed those eyes no more than if he had been as immaterial as a -ghost. And this failure of his person in producing an impression affected him -strangely. Who could that old man be? -</p> - -<p> -He was so curious that he even ventured to ask the pilot in a low voice. The -pilot turned out to be a good-natured specimen of his kind, condescending, -sententious. He had been down to his meals in the main cabin, and had something -to impart. -</p> - -<p> -“That? Queer fish—eh? Mrs. Anthony’s father. I’ve been introduced to him in the -cabin at breakfast time. Name of Smith. Wonder if he has all his wits about -him. They take him about with them, it seems. Don’t look very happy—eh?” -</p> - -<p> -Then, changing his tone abruptly, he desired Powell to get all hands on deck -and make sail on the ship. “I shall be leaving you in half an hour. You’ll have -plenty of time to find out all about the old gent,” he added with a thick -laugh. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -In the secret emotion of giving his first order as a fully responsible officer, -young Powell forgot the very existence of that old man in a moment. The -following days, in the interest of getting in touch with the ship, with the men -in her, with his duties, in the rather anxious period of settling down, his -curiosity slumbered; for of course the pilot’s few words had not extinguished -it. -</p> - -<p> -This settling down was made easy for him by the friendly character of his -immediate superior—the chief. Powell could not defend himself from some -sympathy for that thick, bald man, comically shaped, with his crimson -complexion and something pathetic in the rolling of his very movable black eyes -in an apparently immovable head, who was so tactfully ready to take his -competency for granted. -</p> - -<p> -There can be nothing more reassuring to a young man tackling his life’s work -for the first time. Mr. Powell, his mind at ease about himself, had time to -observe the people around with friendly interest. Very early in the beginning -of the passage, he had discovered with some amusement that the marriage of -Captain Anthony was resented by those to whom Powell (conscious of being looked -upon as something of an outsider) referred in his mind as ‘the old lot.’ -</p> - -<p> -They had the funny, regretful glances, intonations, nods of men who had seen -other, better times. What difference it could have made to the bo’sun and the -carpenter Powell could not very well understand. Yet these two pulled long -faces and even gave hostile glances to the poop. The cook and the steward might -have been more directly concerned. But the steward used to remark on occasion, -‘Oh, she gives no extra trouble,’ with scrupulous fairness of the most gloomy -kind. He was rather a silent man with a great sense of his personal worth which -made his speeches guarded. The cook, a neat man with fair side whiskers, who -had been only three years in the ship, seemed the least concerned. He was even -known to have inquired once or twice as to the success of some of his dishes -with the captain’s wife. This was considered a sort of disloyal falling away -from the ruling feeling. -</p> - -<p> -The mate’s annoyance was yet the easiest to understand. As he let it out to -Powell before the first week of the passage was over: ‘You can’t expect me to -be pleased at being chucked out of the saloon as if I weren’t good enough to -sit down to meat with that woman.’ But he hastened to add: ‘Don’t you think I’m -blaming the captain. He isn’t a man to be found fault with. You, Mr. Powell, -are too young yet to understand such matters.’ -</p> - -<p> -Some considerable time afterwards, at the end of a conversation of that -aggrieved sort, he enlarged a little more by repeating: ‘Yes! You are too young -to understand these things. I don’t say you haven’t plenty of sense. You are -doing very well here. Jolly sight better than I expected, though I liked your -looks from the first.’ -</p> - -<p> -It was in the trade-winds, at night, under a velvety, bespangled sky; a great -multitude of stars watching the shadows of the sea gleaming mysteriously in the -wake of the ship; while the leisurely swishing of the water to leeward was like -a drowsy comment on her progress. Mr. Powell expressed his satisfaction by a -half-bashful laugh. The mate mused on: ‘And of course you haven’t known the -ship as she used to be. She was more than a home to a man. She was not like any -other ship; and Captain Anthony was not like any other master to sail with. -Neither is she now. But before one never had a care in the world as to her—and -as to him, too. No, indeed, there was never anything to worry about.’ -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell couldn’t see what there was to worry about even then. The serenity -of the peaceful night seemed as vast as all space, and as enduring as eternity -itself. It’s true the sea is an uncertain element, but no sailor remembers this -in the presence of its bewitching power any more than a lover ever thinks of -the proverbial inconstancy of women. And Mr. Powell, being young, thought -naïvely that the captain being married, there could be no occasion for -anxiety as to his condition. I suppose that to him life, perhaps not so much -his own as that of others, was something still in the nature of a fairy-tale -with a ‘they lived happy ever after’ termination. We are the creatures of our -light literature much more than is generally suspected in a world which prides -itself on being scientific and practical, and in possession of incontrovertible -theories. Powell felt in that way the more because the captain of a ship at sea -is a remote, inaccessible creature, something like a prince of a fairy-tale, -alone of his kind, depending on nobody, not to be called to account except by -powers practically invisible and so distant, that they might well be looked -upon as supernatural for all that the rest of the crew knows of them, as a -rule. -</p> - -<p> -So he did not understand the aggrieved attitude of the mate—or rather he -understood it obscurely as a result of simple causes which did not seem to him -adequate. He would have dismissed all this out of his mind with a contemptuous: -‘What the devil do I care?’ if the captain’s wife herself had not been so -young. To see her the first time had been something of a shock to him. He had -some preconceived ideas as to captain’s wives which, while he did not believe -the testimony of his eyes, made him open them very wide. He had stared till the -captain’s wife noticed it plainly and turned her face away. Captain’s wife! -That girl covered with rugs in a long chair. Captain’s . . . ! He gasped -mentally. It had never occurred to him that a captain’s wife could be anything -but a woman to be described as stout or thin, as jolly or crabbed, but always -mature, and even, in comparison with his own years, frankly old. But this! It -was a sort of moral upset as though he had discovered a case of abduction or -something as surprising as that. You understand that nothing is more disturbing -than the upsetting of a preconceived idea. Each of us arranges the world -according to his own notion of the fitness of things. To behold a girl where -your average mediocre imagination had placed a comparatively old woman may -easily become one of the strongest shocks . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow paused, smiling to himself. -</p> - -<p> -“Powell remained impressed after all these years by the very recollection,” he -continued in a voice, amused perhaps but not mocking. “He said to me only the -other day with something like the first awe of that discovery lingering in his -tone—he said to me: “Why, she seemed so young, so girlish, that I looked round -for some woman which would be the captain’s wife, though of course I knew there -was no other woman on board that voyage.” The voyage before, it seems, there -had been the steward’s wife to act as maid to Mrs. Anthony; but she was not -taken that time for some reason he didn’t know. Mrs. Anthony . . . ! If it -hadn’t been the captain’s wife he would have referred to her mentally as a kid, -he said. I suppose there must be a sort of divinity hedging in a captain’s wife -(however incredible) which prevented him applying to her that contemptuous -definition in the secret of his thoughts. -</p> - -<p> -I asked him when this had happened; and he told me that it was three days after -parting from the tug, just outside the channel—to be precise. A head wind had -set in with unpleasant damp weather. He had come up to leeward of the poop, -still feeling very much of a stranger, and an untried officer, at six in the -evening to take his watch. To see her was quite as unexpected as seeing a -vision. When she turned away her head he recollected himself and dropped his -eyes. What he could see then was only, close to the long chair on which she -reclined, a pair of long, thin legs ending in black cloth boots tucked in close -to the skylight seat. Whence he concluded that the ‘old gentleman,’ who wore a -grey cap like the captain’s, was sitting by her—his daughter. In his first -astonishment he had stopped dead short, with the consequence that now he felt -very much abashed at having betrayed his surprise. But he couldn’t very well -turn tail and bolt off the poop. He had come there on duty. So, still with -downcast eyes, he made his way past them. Only when he got as far as the -wheel-grating did he look up. She was hidden from him by the back of her -deck-chair; but he had the view of the owner of the thin, aged legs seated on -the skylight, his clean-shaved cheek, his thin compressed mouth with a hollow -in each corner, the sparse grey locks escaping from under the tweed cap, and -curling slightly on the collar of the coat. He leaned forward a little over -Mrs. Anthony, but they were not talking. Captain Anthony, walking with a -springy hurried gait on the other side of the poop from end to end, gazed -straight before him. Young Powell might have thought that his captain was not -aware of his presence either. However, he knew better, and for that reason -spent a most uncomfortable hour motionless by the compass before his captain -stopped in his swift pacing and with an almost visible effort made some remark -to him about the weather in a low voice. Before Powell, who was startled, could -find a word of answer, the captain swung off again on his endless tramp with a -fixed gaze. And till the supper bell rang silence dwelt over that poop like an -evil spell. The captain walked up and down looking straight before him, the -helmsman steered, looking upwards at the sails, the old gent on the skylight -looked down on his daughter—and Mr. Powell confessed to me that he didn’t know -where to look, feeling as though he had blundered in where he had no -business—which was absurd. At last he fastened his eyes on the compass card, -took refuge, in spirit, inside the binnacle. He felt chilled more than he -should have been by the chilly dusk falling on the muddy green sea of the -soundings from a smoothly clouded sky. A fitful wind swept the cheerless waste, -and the ship, hauled up so close as to check her way, seemed to progress by -languid fits and starts against the short seas which swept along her sides with -a snarling sound. -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell thought that this was the dreariest evening aspect of the sea he -had ever seen. He was glad when the other occupants of the poop left it at the -sound of the bell. The captain first, with a sudden swerve in his walk towards -the companion, and not even looking once towards his wife and his wife’s -father. Those two got up and moved towards the companion, the old gent very -erect, his thin locks stirring gently about the nape of his neck, and carrying -the rugs over his arm. The girl who was Mrs. Anthony went down first. The murky -twilight had settled in deep shadow on her face. She looked at Mr. Powell in -passing. He thought that she was very pale. Cold perhaps. The old gent stopped -a moment, thin and stiff, before the young man, and in a voice which was low -but distinct enough, and without any particular accent—not even of inquiry—he -said: -</p> - -<p> -“You are the new second officer, I believe.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell answered in the affirmative, wondering if this were a friendly -overture. He had noticed that Mr. Smith’s eyes had a sort of inward look as -though he had disliked or disdained his surroundings. The captain’s wife had -disappeared then down the companion stairs. Mr. Smith said ‘Ah!’ and waited a -little longer to put another question in his incurious voice. -</p> - -<p> -“And did you know the man who was here before you?” -</p> - -<p> -“No,” said young Powell, “I didn’t know anybody belonging to this ship before I -joined.” -</p> - -<p> -“He was much older than you. Twice your age. Perhaps more. His hair was iron -grey. Yes. Certainly more.” -</p> - -<p> -The low, repressed voice paused, but the old man did not move away. He added: -“Isn’t it unusual?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell was surprised not only by being engaged in conversation, but also by -its character. It might have been the suggestion of the word uttered by this -old man, but it was distinctly at that moment that he became aware of something -unusual not only in this encounter but generally around him, about everybody, -in the atmosphere. The very sea, with short flashes of foam bursting out here -and there in the gloomy distances, the unchangeable, safe sea sheltering a man -from all passions, except its own anger, seemed queer to the quick glance he -threw to windward where the already effaced horizon traced no reassuring limit -to the eye. In the expiring, diffused twilight, and before the clouded night -dropped its mysterious veil, it was the immensity of space made visible—almost -palpable. Young Powell felt it. He felt it in the sudden sense of his -isolation; the trustworthy, powerful ship of his first acquaintance reduced to -a speck, to something almost undistinguishable, the mere support for the soles -of his two feet before that unexpected old man becoming so suddenly articulate -in a darkening universe. -</p> - -<p> -It took him a moment or so to seize the drift of the question. He repeated -slowly: ‘Unusual . . . Oh, you mean for an elderly man to be the second of a -ship. I don’t know. There are a good many of us who don’t get on. He didn’t get -on, I suppose.’ -</p> - -<p> -The other, his head bowed a little, had the air of listening with acute -attention. -</p> - -<p> -“And now he has been taken to the hospital,” he said. -</p> - -<p> -“I believe so. Yes. I remember Captain Anthony saying so in the shipping -office.” -</p> - -<p> -“Possibly about to die,” went on the old man, in his careful deliberate tone. -“And perhaps glad enough to die.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell was young enough to be startled at the suggestion, which sounded -confidential and blood-curdling in the dusk. He said sharply that it was not -very likely, as if defending the absent victim of the accident from an unkind -aspersion. He felt, in fact, indignant. The other emitted a short stifled laugh -of a conciliatory nature. The second bell rang under the poop. He made a -movement at the sound, but lingered. -</p> - -<p> -“What I said was not meant seriously,” he murmured, with that strange air of -fearing to be overheard. “Not in this case. I know the man.” -</p> - -<p> -The occasion, or rather the want of occasion, for this conversation, had -sharpened the perceptions of the unsophisticated second officer of the -<i>Ferndale</i>. He was alive to the slightest shade of tone, and felt as if -this “I know the man” should have been followed by a “he was no friend of -mine.” But after the shortest possible break the old gentleman continued to -murmur distinctly and evenly: -</p> - -<p> -“Whereas you have never seen him. Nevertheless, when you have gone through as -many years as I have, you will understand how an event putting an end to one’s -existence may not be altogether unwelcome. Of course there are stupid -accidents. And even then one needn’t be very angry. What is it to be deprived -of life? It’s soon done. But what would you think of the feelings of a man who -should have had his life stolen from him? Cheated out of it, I say!” -</p> - -<p> -He ceased abruptly, and remained still long enough for the astonished Powell to -stammer out an indistinct: “What do you mean? I don’t understand.” Then, with a -low ‘Good-night’ glided a few steps, and sank through the shadow of the -companion into the lamplight below which did not reach higher than the turn of -the staircase. -</p> - -<p> -The strange words, the cautious tone, the whole person left a strong uneasiness -in the mind of Mr. Powell. He started walking the poop in great mental -confusion. He felt all adrift. This was funny talk and no mistake. And this -cautious low tone as though he were watched by someone was more than funny. The -young second officer hesitated to break the established rule of every ship’s -discipline; but at last could not resist the temptation of getting hold of some -other human being, and spoke to the man at the wheel. -</p> - -<p> -“Did you hear what this gentleman was saying to me?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, sir,” answered the sailor quietly. Then, encouraged by this evidence of -laxity in his officer, made bold to add, “A queer fish, sir.” This was -tentative, and Mr. Powell, busy with his own view, not saying anything, he -ventured further. “They are more like passengers. One sees some queer -passengers.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who are like passengers?” asked Powell gruffly. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, these two, sir.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER THREE—DEVOTED SERVANTS—AND THE LIGHT OF A FLARE</h3> - -<p> -Young Powell thought to himself: “The men, too, are noticing it.” Indeed, the -captain’s behaviour to his wife and to his wife’s father was noticeable enough. -It was as if they had been a pair of not very congenial passengers. But perhaps -it was not always like that. The captain might have been put out by something. -</p> - -<p> -When the aggrieved Franklin came on deck Mr. Powell made a remark to that -effect. For his curiosity was aroused. -</p> - -<p> -The mate grumbled “Seems to you? . . . Putout? . . . eh?” He buttoned his thick -jacket up to the throat, and only then added a gloomy “Aye, likely enough,” -which discouraged further conversation. But no encouragement would have induced -the newly-joined second mate to enter the way of confidences. His was an -instinctive prudence. Powell did not know why it was he had resolved to keep -his own counsel as to his colloquy with Mr. Smith. But his curiosity did not -slumber. Some time afterwards, again at the relief of watches, in the course of -a little talk, he mentioned Mrs. Anthony’s father quite casually, and tried to -find out from the mate who he was. -</p> - -<p> -“It would take a clever man to find that out, as things are on board now,” Mr. -Franklin said, unexpectedly communicative. “The first I saw of him was when she -brought him alongside in a four-wheeler one morning about half-past eleven. The -captain had come on board early, and was down in the cabin that had been fitted -out for him. Did I tell you that if you want the captain for anything you must -stamp on the port side of the deck? That’s so. This ship is not only unlike -what she used to be, but she is like no other ship, anyhow. Did you ever hear -of the captain’s room being on the port side? Both of them stern cabins have -been fitted up afresh like a blessed palace. A gang of people from some tip-top -West-End house were fussing here on board with hangings and furniture for a -fortnight, as if the Queen were coming with us. Of course the starboard cabin -is the bedroom one, but the poor captain hangs out to port on a couch, so that -in case we want him on deck at night, Mrs. Anthony should not be startled. -Nervous! Phoo! A woman who marries a sailor and makes up her mind to come to -sea should have no blamed jumpiness about her, I say. But never mind. Directly -the old cab pointed round the corner of the warehouse I called out to the -captain that his lady was coming aboard. He answered me, but as I didn’t see -him coming, I went down the gangway myself to help her alight. She jumps out -excitedly without touching my arm, or as much as saying “thank you” or “good -morning” or anything, turns back to the cab, and then that old joker comes out -slowly. I hadn’t noticed him inside. I hadn’t expected to see anybody. It gave -me a start. She says: “My father—Mr. Franklin.” He was staring at me like an -owl. “How do you do, sir?” says I. Both of them looked funny. It was as if -something had happened to them on the way. Neither of them moved, and I stood -by waiting. The captain showed himself on the poop; and I saw him at the side -looking over, and then he disappeared; on the way to meet them on shore, I -expected. But he just went down below again. So, not seeing him, I said: “Let -me help you on board, sir.” “On board!” says he in a silly fashion. “On board!” -“It’s not a very good ladder, but it’s quite firm,” says I, as he seemed to be -afraid of it. And he didn’t look a broken-down old man, either. You can see -yourself what he is. Straight as a poker, and life enough in him yet. But he -made no move, and I began to feel foolish. Then she comes forward. “Oh! Thank -you, Mr. Franklin. I’ll help my father up.” Flabbergasted me—to be choked off -like this. Pushed in between him and me without as much as a look my way. So of -course I dropped it. What do you think? I fell back. I would have gone up on -board at once and left them on the quay to come up or stay there till next -week, only they were blocking the way. I couldn’t very well shove them on one -side. Devil only knows what was up between them. There she was, pale as death, -talking to him very fast. He got as red as a turkey-cock—dash me if he didn’t. -A bad-tempered old bloke, I can tell you. And a bad lot, too. Never mind. I -couldn’t hear what she was saying to him, but she put force enough into it to -shake her. It seemed—it seemed, mind!—that he didn’t want to go on board. Of -course it couldn’t have been that. I know better. Well, she took him by the -arm, above the elbow, as if to lead him, or push him rather. I was standing not -quite ten feet off. Why should I have gone away? I was anxious to get back on -board as soon as they would let me. I didn’t want to overhear her blamed -whispering either. But I couldn’t stay there for ever, so I made a move to get -past them if I could. And that’s how I heard a few words. It was the old -chap—something nasty about being “under the heel” of somebody or other. Then he -says, “I don’t want this sacrifice.” What it meant I can’t tell. It was a -quarrel—of that I am certain. She looks over her shoulder, and sees me pretty -close to them. I don’t know what she found to say into his ear, but he gave way -suddenly. He looked round at me too, and they went up together so quickly then -that when I got on the quarter-deck I was only in time to see the inner door of -the passage close after them. Queer—eh? But if it were only queerness one -wouldn’t mind. Some luggage in new trunks came on board in the afternoon. We -undocked at midnight. And may I be hanged if I know who or what he was or is. I -haven’t been able to find out. No, I don’t know. He may have been anything. All -I know is that once, years ago when I went to see the Derby with a friend, I -saw a pea-and-thimble chap who looked just like that old mystery father out of -a cab.” -</p> - -<p> -All this the goggle-eyed mate had said in a resentful and melancholy voice, -with pauses, to the gentle murmur of the sea. It was for him a bitter sort of -pleasure to have a fresh pair of ears, a newcomer, to whom he could repeat all -these matters of grief and suspicion talked over endlessly by the band of -Captain Anthony’s faithful subordinates. It was evidently so refreshing to his -worried spirit that it made him forget the advisability of a little caution -with a complete stranger. But really with Mr. Powell there was no danger. -Amused, at first, at these plaints, he provoked them for fun. Afterwards, -turning them over in his mind, he became impressed, and as the impression grew -stronger with the days his resolution to keep it to himself grew stronger too. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -What made it all the easier to keep—I mean the resolution—was that Powell’s -sentiment of amused surprise at what struck him at first as mere absurdity was -not unmingled with indignation. And his years were too few, his position too -novel, his reliance on his own opinion not yet firm enough to allow him to -express it with any effect. And then—what would have been the use, anyhow—and -where was the necessity? -</p> - -<p> -But this thing, familiar and mysterious at the same time, occupied his -imagination. The solitude of the sea intensifies the thoughts and the facts of -one’s experience which seems to lie at the very centre of the world, as the -ship which carries one always remains the centre figure of the round horizon. -He viewed the apoplectic, goggle-eyed mate and the saturnine, heavy-eyed -steward as the victims of a peculiar and secret form of lunacy which poisoned -their lives. But he did not give them his sympathy on that account. No. That -strange affliction awakened in him a sort of suspicious wonder. -</p> - -<p> -Once—and it was at night again; for the officers of the <i>Ferndale</i> keeping -watch and watch as was customary in those days, had but few occasions for -intercourse—once, I say, the thick Mr. Franklin, a quaintly bulky figure under -the stars, the usual witnesses of his outpourings, asked him with an abruptness -which was not callous, but in his simple way: -</p> - -<p> -“I believe you have no parents living?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell said that he had lost his father and mother at a very early age. -</p> - -<p> -“My mother is still alive,” declared Mr. Franklin in a tone which suggested -that he was gratified by the fact. “The old lady is lasting well. Of course -she’s got to be made comfortable. A woman must be looked after, and, if it -comes to that, I say, give me a mother. I dare say if she had not lasted it out -so well I might have gone and got married. I don’t know, though. We sailors -haven’t got much time to look about us to any purpose. Anyhow, as the old lady -was there I haven’t, I may say, looked at a girl in all my life. Not that I -wasn’t partial to female society in my time,” he added with a pathetic -intonation, while the whites of his goggle eyes gleamed amorously under the -clear night sky. “Very partial, I may say.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell was amused; and as these communications took place only when the -mate was relieved off duty he had no serious objection to them. The mate’s -presence made the first half-hour and sometimes even more of his watch on deck -pass away. If his senior did not mind losing some of his rest it was not Mr. -Powell’s affair. Franklin was a decent fellow. His intention was not to boast -of his filial piety. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I mean respectable female society,” he explained. “The other sort is -neither here nor there. I blame no man’s conduct, but a well-brought-up young -fellow like you knows that there’s precious little fun to be got out of it.” He -fetched a deep sigh. “I wish Captain Anthony’s mother had been a lasting sort -like my old lady. He would have had to look after her and he would have done it -well. Captain Anthony is a proper man. And it would have saved him from the -most foolish—” -</p> - -<p> -He did not finish the phrase which certainly was turning bitter in his mouth. -Mr. Powell thought to himself: “There he goes again.” He laughed a little. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t understand why you are so hard on the captain, Mr. Franklin. I thought -you were a great friend of his.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Franklin exclaimed at this. He was not hard on the captain. Nothing was -further from his thoughts. Friend! Of course he was a good friend and a -faithful servant. He begged Powell to understand that if Captain Anthony chose -to strike a bargain with Old Nick to-morrow, and Old Nick were good to the -captain, he (Franklin) would find it in his heart to love Old Nick for the -captain’s sake. That was so. On the other hand, if a saint, an angel with white -wings came along and—” -</p> - -<p> -He broke off short again as if his own vehemence had frightened him. Then in -his strained pathetic voice (which he had never raised) he observed that it was -no use talking. Anybody could see that the man was changed. -</p> - -<p> -“As to that,” said young Powell, “it is impossible for me to judge.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good Lord!” whispered the mate. “An educated, clever young fellow like you -with a pair of eyes on him and some sense too! Is that how a happy man looks? -Eh? Young you may be, but you aren’t a kid; and I dare you to say ‘Yes!’” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell did not take up the challenge. He did not know what to think of the -mate’s view. Still, it seemed as if it had opened his understanding in a -measure. He conceded that the captain did not look very well. -</p> - -<p> -“Not very well,” repeated the mate mournfully. “Do you think a man with a face -like that can hope to live his life out? You haven’t knocked about long in this -world yet, but you are a sailor, you have been in three or four ships, you say. -Well, have you ever seen a shipmaster walking his own deck as if he did not -know what he had underfoot? Have you? Dam’me if I don’t think that he forgets -where he is. Of course he can be no other than a prime seaman; but it’s lucky, -all the same, he has me on board. I know by this time what he wants done -without being told. Do you know that I have had no order given me since we left -port? Do you know that he has never once opened his lips to me unless I spoke -to him first? I? His chief officer; his shipmate for full six years, with whom -he had no cross word—not once in all that time. Aye. Not a cross look even. -True that when I do make him speak to me, there is his dear old self, the quick -eye, the kind voice. Could hardly be other to his old Franklin. But what’s the -good? Eyes, voice, everything’s miles away. And for all that I take good care -never to address him when the poop isn’t clear. Yes! Only we two and nothing -but the sea with us. You think it would be all right; the only chief mate he -ever had—Mr. Franklin here and Mr. Franklin there—when anything went wrong the -first word you would hear about the decks was ‘Franklin!’—I am thirteen years -older than he is—you would think it would be all right, wouldn’t you? Only we -two on this poop on which we saw each other first—he a young master—told me -that he thought I would suit him very well—we two, and thirty-one days out at -sea, and it’s no good! It’s like talking to a man standing on shore. I can’t -get him back. I can’t get at him. I feel sometimes as if I must shake him by -the arm: “Wake up! Wake up! You are wanted, sir . . . !” -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell recognized the expression of a true sentiment, a thing so rare in -this world where there are so many mutes and so many excellent reasons even at -sea for an articulate man not to give himself away, that he felt something like -respect for this outburst. It was not loud. The grotesque squat shape, with the -knob of the head as if rammed down between the square shoulders by a blow from -a club, moved vaguely in a circumscribed space limited by the two harness-casks -lashed to the front rail of the poop, without gestures, hands in the pockets of -the jacket, elbows pressed closely to its side; and the voice without -resonance, passed from anger to dismay and back again without a single louder -word in the hurried delivery, interrupted only by slight gasps for air as if -the speaker were being choked by the suppressed passion of his grief. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell, though moved to a certain extent, was by no means carried away. And -just as he thought that it was all over, the other, fidgeting in the darkness, -was heard again explosive, bewildered but not very loud in the silence of the -ship and the great empty peace of the sea. -</p> - -<p> -“They have done something to him! What is it? What can it be? Can’t you guess? -Don’t you know?” -</p> - -<p> -“Good heavens!” Young Powell was astounded on discovering that this was an -appeal addressed to him. “How on earth can I know?” -</p> - -<p> -“You do talk to that white-faced, black-eyed . . . I’ve seen you talking to her -more than a dozen times.” -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell, his sympathy suddenly chilled, remarked in a disdainful tone that -Mrs. Anthony’s eyes were not black. -</p> - -<p> -“I wish to God she had never set them on the captain, whatever colour they -are,” retorted Franklin. “She and that old chap with the scraped jaws who sits -over her and stares down at her dead-white face with his yellow eyes—confound -them! Perhaps you will tell us that his eyes are not yellow?” -</p> - -<p> -Powell, not interested in the colour of Mr. Smith’s eyes, made a vague gesture. -Yellow or not yellow, it was all one to him. -</p> - -<p> -The mate murmured to himself. “No. He can’t know. No! No more than a baby. It -would take an older head.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t even understand what you mean,” observed Mr. Powell coldly. -</p> - -<p> -“And even the best head would be puzzled by such devil-work,” the mate -continued, muttering. “Well, I have heard tell of women doing for a man in one -way or another when they got him fairly ashore. But to bring their devilry to -sea and fasten on such a man! . . . It’s something I can’t understand. But I -can watch. Let them look out—I say!” -</p> - -<p> -His short figure, unable to stoop, without flexibility, could not express -dejection. He was very tired suddenly; he dragged his feet going off the poop. -Before he left it with nearly an hour of his watch below sacrificed, he -addressed himself once more to our young man who stood abreast of the mizzen -rigging in an unreceptive mood expressed by silence and immobility. He did not -regret, he said, having spoken openly on this very serious matter. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know about its seriousness, sir,” was Mr. Powell’s frank answer. “But -if you think you have been telling me something very new you are mistaken. You -can’t keep that matter out of your speeches. It’s the sort of thing I’ve been -hearing more or less ever since I came on board.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell, speaking truthfully, did not mean to speak offensively. He had -instincts of wisdom; he felt that this was a serious affair, for it had nothing -to do with reason. He did not want to raise an enemy for himself in the mate. -And Mr. Franklin did not take offence. To Mr. Powell’s truthful statement he -answered with equal truth and simplicity that it was very likely, very likely. -With a thing like that (next door to witchcraft almost) weighing on his mind, -the wonder was that he could think of anything else. The poor man must have -found in the restlessness of his thoughts the illusion of being engaged in an -active contest with some power of evil; for his last words as he went -lingeringly down the poop ladder expressed the quaint hope that he would get -him, Powell, “on our side yet.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell—just imagine a straightforward youngster assailed in this fashion on -the high seas—answered merely by an embarrassed and uneasy laugh which -reflected exactly the state of his innocent soul. The apoplectic mate, already -half-way down, went up again three steps of the poop ladder. Why, yes. A proper -young fellow, the mate expected, wouldn’t stand by and see a man, a good sailor -and his own skipper, in trouble without taking his part against a couple of -shore people who—Mr. Powell interrupted him impatiently, asking what was the -trouble? -</p> - -<p> -“What is it you are hinting at?” he cried with an inexplicable irritation. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t like to think of him all alone down there with these two,” Franklin -whispered impressively. “Upon my word I don’t. God only knows what may be going -on there . . . Don’t laugh . . . It was bad enough last voyage when Mrs. Brown -had a cabin aft; but now it’s worse. It frightens me. I can’t sleep sometimes -for thinking of him all alone there, shut off from us all.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Brown was the steward’s wife. You must understand that shortly after his -visit to the Fyne cottage (with all its consequences), Anthony had got an offer -to go to the Western Islands, and bring home the cargo of some ship which, -damaged in a collision or a stranding, took refuge in St. Michael, and was -condemned there. Roderick Anthony had connections which would put such paying -jobs in his way. So Flora de Barral had but a five months’ voyage, a mere -excursion, for her first trial of sea-life. And Anthony, dearly trying to be -most attentive, had induced this Mrs. Brown, the wife of his faithful steward, -to come along as maid to his bride. But for some reason or other this -arrangement was not continued. And the mate, tormented by indefinite alarms and -forebodings, regretted it. He regretted that Jane Brown was no longer on -board—as a sort of representative of Captain Anthony’s faithful servants, to -watch quietly what went on in that part of the ship this fatal marriage had -closed to their vigilance. That had been excellent. For she was a dependable -woman. -</p> - -<p> -Powell did not detect any particular excellence in what seemed a spying -employment. But in his simplicity he said that he should have thought Mrs. -Anthony would have been glad anyhow to have another woman on board. He was -thinking of the white-faced girlish personality which it seemed to him ought to -have been cared for. The innocent young man always looked upon the girl as -immature; something of a child yet. -</p> - -<p> -“She! glad! Why it was she who had her fired out. She didn’t want anybody -around the cabin. Mrs. Brown is certain of it. She told her husband so. You ask -the steward and hear what he has to say about it. That’s why I don’t like it. A -capable woman who knew her place. But no. Out she must go. For no fault, mind -you. The captain was ashamed to send her away. But that wife of his—aye the -precious pair of them have got hold of him. I can’t speak to him for a minute -on the poop without that thimble-rigging coon coming gliding up. I’ll tell you -what. I overheard once—God knows I didn’t try to—only he forgot I was on the -other side of the skylight with my sextant—I overheard him—you know how he sits -hanging over her chair and talking away without properly opening his mouth—yes -I caught the word right enough. He was alluding to the captain as “the jailer.” -The jail . . . !” -</p> - -<p> -Franklin broke off with a profane execration. A silence reigned for a long time -and the slight, very gentle rolling of the ship slipping before the N.E. -trade-wind seemed to be a soothing device for lulling to sleep the suspicions -of men who trust themselves to the sea. -</p> - -<p> -A deep sigh was heard followed by the mate’s voice asking dismally if that was -the way one would speak of a man to whom one wished well? No better proof of -something wrong was needed. Therefore he hoped, as he vanished at last, that -Mr. Powell would be on their side. And this time Mr. Powell did not answer this -hope with an embarrassed laugh. -</p> - -<p> -That young officer was more and more surprised at the nature of the incongruous -revelations coming to him in the surroundings and in the atmosphere of the open -sea. It is difficult for us to understand the extent, the completeness, the -comprehensiveness of his inexperience, for us who didn’t go to sea out of a -small private school at the age of fourteen years and nine months. Leaning on -his elbow in the mizzen rigging and so still that the helmsman over there at -the other end of the poop might have (and he probably did) suspect him of being -criminally asleep on duty, he tried to “get hold of that thing” by some side -which would fit in with his simple notions of psychology. “What the deuce are -they worrying about?” he asked himself in a dazed and contemptuous impatience. -But all the same “jailer” was a funny name to give a man; unkind, unfriendly, -nasty. He was sorry that Mr. Smith was guilty in that matter because, the truth -must be told, he had been to a certain extent sensible of having been noticed -in a quiet manner by the father of Mrs. Anthony. Youth appreciates that sort of -recognition which is the subtlest form of flattery age can offer. Mr. Smith -seized opportunities to approach him on deck. His remarks were sometimes weird -and enigmatical. -</p> - -<p> -He was doubtless an eccentric old gent. But from that to calling his son-in-law -(whom he never approached on deck) nasty names behind his back was a long step. -</p> - -<p> -And Mr. Powell marvelled . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“While he was telling me all this,”—Marlow changed his tone—“I marvelled even -more. It was as if misfortune marked its victims on the forehead for the -dislike of the crowd. I am not thinking here of numbers. Two men may behave -like a crowd, three certainly will when their emotions are engaged. It was as -if the forehead of Flora de Barral were marked. Was the girl born to be a -victim; to be always disliked and crushed as if she were too fine for this -world? Or too luckless—since that also is often counted as sin. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, I marvelled more since I knew more of the girl than Mr. Powell—if only her -true name; and more of Captain Anthony—if only the fact that he was the son of -a delicate erotic poet of a markedly refined and autocratic temperament. Yes, I -knew their joint stories which Mr. Powell did not know. The chapter in it he -was opening to me, the sea-chapter, with such new personages as the sentimental -and apoplectic chief-mate and the morose steward, however astounding to him in -its detached condition was much more so to me as a member of a series, -following the chapter outside the Eastern Hotel in which I myself had played my -part. In view of her declarations and my sage remarks it was very unexpected. -She had meant well, and I had certainly meant well too. Captain Anthony—as far -as I could gather from little Fyne—had meant well. As far as such lofty words -may be applied to the obscure personages of this story we were all filled with -the noblest sentiments and intentions. The sea was there to give them the -shelter of its solitude free from the earth’s petty suggestions. I could well -marvel in myself, as to what had happened. -</p> - -<p> -I hope that if he saw it, Mr. Powell forgave me the smile of which I was guilty -at that moment. The light in the cabin of his little cutter was dim. And the -smile was dim too. Dim and fleeting. The girl’s life had presented itself to me -as a tragi-comical adventure, the saddest thing on earth, slipping between -frank laughter and unabashed tears. Yes, the saddest facts and the most common, -and, being common perhaps the most worthy of our unreserved pity. -</p> - -<p> -The purely human reality is capable of lyrism but not of abstraction. Nothing -will serve for its understanding but the evidence of rational linking up of -characters and facts. And beginning with Flora de Barral, in the light of my -memories I was certain that she at least must have been passive; for that is of -necessity the part of women, this waiting on fate which some of them, and not -the most intelligent, cover up by the vain appearances of agitation. Flora de -Barral was not exceptionally intelligent but she was thoroughly feminine. She -would be passive (and that does not mean inanimate) in the circumstances, where -the mere fact of being a woman was enough to give her an occult and supreme -significance. And she would be enduring which is the essence of woman’s -visible, tangible power. Of that I was certain. Had she not endured already? -Yet it is so true that the germ of destruction lies in wait for us mortals, -even at the very source of our strength, that one may die of too much endurance -as well as of too little of it. -</p> - -<p> -Such was my train of thought. And I was mindful also of my first view of -her—toying or perhaps communing in earnest with the possibilities of a -precipice. But I did not ask Mr. Powell anxiously what had happened to Mrs. -Anthony in the end. I let him go on in his own way feeling that no matter what -strange facts he would have to disclose, I was certain to know much more of -them than he ever did know or could possibly guess . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow paused for quite a long time. He seemed uncertain as though he had -advanced something beyond my grasp. Purposely I made no sign. “You understand?” -he asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Perfectly,” I said. “You are the expert in the psychological wilderness. This -is like one of those Red-skin stories where the noble savages carry off a girl -and the honest backwoodsman with his incomparable knowledge follows the track -and reads the signs of her fate in a footprint here, a broken twig there, a -trinket dropped by the way. I have always liked such stories. Go on.” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow smiled indulgently at my jesting. “It is not exactly a story for boys,” -he said. “I go on then. The sign, as you call it, was not very plentiful but -very much to the purpose, and when Mr. Powell heard (at a certain moment I felt -bound to tell him) when he heard that I had known Mrs. Anthony before her -marriage, that, to a certain extent, I was her confidant . . . For you can’t -deny that to a certain extent . . . Well let us say that I had a look in . . . -A young girl, you know, is something like a temple. You pass by and wonder what -mysterious rites are going on in there, what prayers, what visions? The -privileged men, the lover, the husband, who are given the key of the sanctuary -do not always know how to use it. For myself, without claim, without merit, -simply by chance I had been allowed to look through the half-opened door and I -had seen the saddest possible desecration, the withered brightness of youth, a -spirit neither made cringing nor yet dulled but as if bewildered in quivering -hopelessness by gratuitous cruelty; self-confidence destroyed and, instead, a -resigned recklessness, a mournful callousness (and all this simple, almost -naïve)—before the material and moral difficulties of the situation. The -passive anguish of the luckless! -</p> - -<p> -I asked myself: wasn’t that ill-luck exhausted yet? Ill-luck which is like the -hate of invisible powers interpreted, made sensible and injurious by the -actions of men? -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell as you may well imagine had opened his eyes at my statement. But he -was full of his recalled experiences on board the <i>Ferndale</i>, and the -strangeness of being mixed up in what went on aboard, simply because his name -was also the name of a shipping-master, kept him in a state of wonder which -made other coincidences, however unlikely, not so very surprising after all. -</p> - -<p> -This astonishing occurrence was so present to his mind that he always felt as -though he were there under false pretences. And this feeling was so -uncomfortable that it nerved him to break through the awe-inspiring aloofness -of his captain. He wanted to make a clean breast of it. I imagine that his -youth stood in good stead to Mr. Powell. Oh, yes. Youth is a power. Even -Captain Anthony had to take some notice of it, as if it refreshed him to see -something untouched, unscarred, unhardened by suffering. Or perhaps the very -novelty of that face, on board a ship where he had seen the same faces for -years, attracted his attention. -</p> - -<p> -Whether one day he dropped a word to his new second officer or only looked at -him I don’t know; but Mr. Powell seized the opportunity whatever it was. The -captain who had started and stopped in his everlasting rapid walk smoothed his -brow very soon, heard him to the end and then laughed a little. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah! That’s the story. And you felt you must put me right as to this.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“It doesn’t matter how you came on board,” said Anthony. And then showing that -perhaps he was not so utterly absent from his ship as Franklin supposed: -“That’s all right. You seem to be getting on very well with everybody,” he said -in his curt hurried tone, as if talking hurt him, and his eyes already straying -over the sea as usual. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -Powell tells me that looking then at the strong face to which that haggard -expression was returning, he had the impulse, from some confused friendly -feeling, to add: “I am very happy on board here, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -The quickly returning glance, its steadiness, abashed Mr. Powell and made him -even step back a little. The captain looked as though he had forgotten the -meaning of the word. -</p> - -<p> -“You—what? Oh yes . . . You . . . of course . . . Happy. Why not?” -</p> - -<p> -This was merely muttered; and next moment Anthony was off on his headlong tramp -his eyes turned to the sea away from his ship. -</p> - -<p> -A sailor indeed looks generally into the great distances, but in Captain -Anthony’s case there was—as Powell expressed it—something particular, something -purposeful like the avoidance of pain or temptation. It was very marked once -one had become aware of it. Before, one felt only a pronounced strangeness. Not -that the captain—Powell was careful to explain—didn’t see things as a -ship-master should. The proof of it was that on that very occasion he desired -him suddenly after a period of silent pacing, to have all the staysails sheets -eased off, and he was going on with some other remarks on the subject of these -staysails when Mrs. Anthony followed by her father emerged from the companion. -She established herself in her chair to leeward of the skylight as usual. -Thereupon the captain cut short whatever he was going to say, and in a little -while went down below. -</p> - -<p> -I asked Mr. Powell whether the captain and his wife never conversed on deck. He -said no—or at any rate they never exchanged more than a couple of words. There -was some constraint between them. For instance, on that very occasion, when -Mrs. Anthony came out they did look at each other; the captain’s eyes indeed -followed her till she sat down; but he did not speak to her; he did not -approach her; and afterwards left the deck without turning his head her way -after this first silent exchange of glances. -</p> - -<p> -I asked Mr. Powell what did he do then, the captain being out of the way. “I -went over and talked to Mrs. Anthony. I was thinking that it must be very dull -for her. She seemed to be such a stranger to the ship.” -</p> - -<p> -“The father was there of course?” -</p> - -<p> -“Always,” said Powell. “He was always there sitting on the skylight, as if he -were keeping watch over her. And I think,” he added, “that he was worrying her. -Not that she showed it in any way. Mrs. Anthony was always very quiet and -always ready to look one straight in the face.” -</p> - -<p> -“You talked together a lot?” I pursued my inquiries. “She mostly let me talk to -her,” confessed Mr. Powell. “I don’t know that she was very much interested—but -still she let me. She never cut me short.” -</p> - -<p> -All the sympathies of Mr. Powell were for Flora Anthony née de Barral. -She was the only human being younger than himself on board that ship since the -<i>Ferndale</i> carried no boys and was manned by a full crew of able seamen. -Yes! their youth had created a sort of bond between them. Mr. Powell’s open -countenance must have appeared to her distinctly pleasing amongst the mature, -rough, crabbed or even inimical faces she saw around her. With the warm -generosity of his age young Powell was on her side, as it were, even before he -knew that there were sides to be taken on board that ship, and what this taking -sides was about. There was a girl. A nice girl. He asked himself no questions. -Flora de Barral was not so much younger in years than himself; but for some -reason, perhaps by contrast with the accepted idea of a captain’s wife, he -could not regard her otherwise but as an extremely youthful creature. At the -same time, apart from her exalted position, she exercised over him the -supremacy a woman’s earlier maturity gives her over a young man of her own age. -As a matter of fact we can see that, without ever having more than a half an -hour’s consecutive conversation together, and the distances duly preserved, -these two were becoming friends—under the eye of the old man, I suppose. -</p> - -<p> -How he first got in touch with his captain’s wife Powell relates in this way. -It was long before his memorable conversation with the mate and shortly after -getting clear of the channel. It was gloomy weather; dead head wind, blowing -quite half a gale; the <i>Ferndale</i> under reduced sail was stretching -close-hauled across the track of the homeward bound ships, just moving through -the water and no more, since there was no object in pressing her and the -weather looked threatening. About ten o’clock at night he was alone on the -poop, in charge, keeping well aft by the weather rail and staring to windward, -when amongst the white, breaking seas, under the black sky, he made out the -lights of a ship. He watched them for some time. She was running dead before -the wind of course. She will pass jolly close—he said to himself; and then -suddenly he felt a great mistrust of that approaching ship. She’s heading -straight for us—he thought. It was not his business to get out of the way. On -the contrary. And his uneasiness grew by the recollection of the forty tons of -dynamite in the body of the <i>Ferndale</i>; not the sort of cargo one thinks -of with equanimity in connection with a threatened collision. He gazed at the -two small lights in the dark immensity filled with the angry noise of the seas. -They fascinated him till their plainness to his sight gave him a conviction -that there was danger there. He knew in his mind what to do in the emergency, -but very properly he felt that he must call the captain out at once. -</p> - -<p> -He crossed the deck in one bound. By the immemorial custom and usage of the sea -the captain’s room is on the starboard side. You would just as soon expect your -captain to have his nose at the back of his head as to have his state-room on -the port side of the ship. Powell forgot all about the direction on that point -given him by the chief. He flew over as I said, stamped with his foot and then -putting his face to the cowl of the big ventilator shouted down there: “Please -come on deck, sir,” in a voice which was not trembling or scared but which we -may call fairly expressive. There could not be a mistake as to the urgence of -the call. But instead of the expected alert “All right!” and the sound of a -rush down there, he heard only a faint exclamation—then silence. -</p> - -<p> -Think of his astonishment! He remained there, his ear in the cowl of the -ventilator, his eyes fastened on those menacing sidelights dancing on the gusts -of wind which swept the angry darkness of the sea. It was as though he had -waited an hour but it was something much less than a minute before he fairly -bellowed into the wide tube “Captain Anthony!” An agitated “What is it?” was -what he heard down there in Mrs. Anthony’s voice, light rapid footsteps . . . -Why didn’t she try to wake him up! “I want the captain,” he shouted, then gave -it up, making a dash at the companion where a blue light was kept, resolved to -act for himself. -</p> - -<p> -On the way he glanced at the helmsman whose face lighted up by the binnacle -lamps was calm. He said rapidly to him: “Stand by to spin that helm up at the -first word.” The answer “Aye, aye, sir,” was delivered in a steady voice. Then -Mr. Powell after a shout for the watch on deck to “lay aft,” ran to the ship’s -side and struck the blue light on the rail. -</p> - -<p> -A sort of nasty little spitting of sparks was all that came. The light (perhaps -affected by damp) had failed to ignite. The time of all these various acts must -be counted in seconds. Powell confessed to me that at this failure he -experienced a paralysis of thought, of voice, of limbs. The unexpectedness of -this misfire positively overcame his faculties. It was the only thing for which -his imagination was not prepared. It was knocked clean over. When it got up it -was with the suggestion that he must do something at once or there would be a -broadside smash accompanied by the explosion of dynamite, in which both ships -would be blown up and every soul on board of them would vanish off the earth in -an enormous flame and uproar. -</p> - -<p> -He saw the catastrophe happening and at the same moment, before he could open -his mouth or stir a limb to ward off the vision, a voice very near his ear, the -measured voice of Captain Anthony said: “Wouldn’t light—eh? Throw it down! Jump -for the flare-up.” -</p> - -<p> -The spring of activity in Mr. Powell was released with great force. He jumped. -The flare-up was kept inside the companion with a box of matches ready to hand. -Almost before he knew he had moved he was diving under the companion slide. He -got hold of the can in the dark and tried to strike a light. But he had to -press the flare-holder to his breast with one arm, his fingers were damp and -stiff, his hands trembled a little. One match broke. Another went out. In its -flame he saw the colourless face of Mrs. Anthony a little below him, standing -on the cabin stairs. Her eyes which were very close to his (he was in a -crouching posture on the top step) seemed to burn darkly in the vanishing -light. On deck the captain’s voice was heard sudden and unexpectedly sardonic: -“You had better look sharp, if you want to be in time.” -</p> - -<p> -“Let me have the box,” said Mrs. Anthony in a hurried and familiar whisper -which sounded amused as if they had been a couple of children up to some lark -behind a wall. He was glad of the offer which seemed to him very natural, and -without ceremony— -</p> - -<p> -“Here you are. Catch hold.” -</p> - -<p> -Their hands touched in the dark and she took the box while he held the paraffin -soaked torch in its iron holder. He thought of warning her: “Look out for -yourself.” But before he had the time to finish the sentence the flare blazed -up violently between them and he saw her throw herself back with an arm across -her face. “Hallo,” he exclaimed; only he could not stop a moment to ask if she -was hurt. He bolted out of the companion straight into his captain who took the -flare from him and held it high above his head. -</p> - -<p> -The fierce flame fluttered like a silk flag, throwing an angry swaying glare -mingled with moving shadows over the poop, lighting up the concave surfaces of -the sails, gleaming on the wet paint of the white rails. And young Powell -turned his eyes to windward with a catch in his breath. -</p> - -<p> -The strange ship, a darker shape in the night, did not seem to be moving -onwards but only to grow more distinct right abeam, staring at the -<i>Ferndale</i> with one green and one red eye which swayed and tossed as if -they belonged to the restless head of some invisible monster ambushed in the -night amongst the waves. A moment, long like eternity, elapsed, and, suddenly, -the monster which seemed to take to itself the shape of a mountain shut its -green eye without as much as a preparatory wink. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell drew a free breath. “All right now,” said Captain Anthony in a quiet -undertone. He gave the blazing flare to Powell and walked aft to watch the -passing of that menace of destruction coming blindly with its parti-coloured -stare out of a blind night on the wings of a sweeping wind. Her very form could -be distinguished now black and elongated amongst the hissing patches of foam -bursting along her path. -</p> - -<p> -As is always the case with a ship running before wind and sea she did not seem -to an onlooker to move very fast; but to be progressing indolently in long -leisurely bounds and pauses in the midst of the overtaking waves. It was only -when actually passing the stern within easy hail of the <i>Ferndale</i>, that -her headlong speed became apparent to the eye. With the red light shut off and -soaring like an immense shadow on the crest of a wave she was lost to view in -one great, forward swing, melting into the lightless space. -</p> - -<p> -“Close shave,” said Captain Anthony in an indifferent voice just raised enough -to be heard in the wind. “A blind lot on board that ship. Put out the flare -now.” -</p> - -<p> -Silently Mr. Powell inverted the holder, smothering the flame in the can, -bringing about by the mere turn of his wrist the fall of darkness upon the -poop. And at the same time vanished out of his mind’s eye the vision of another -flame enormous and fierce shooting violently from a white churned patch of the -sea, lighting up the very clouds and carrying upwards in its volcanic rush -flying spars, corpses, the fragments of two destroyed ships. It vanished and -there was an immense relief. He told me he did not know how scared he had been, -not generally but of that very thing his imagination had conjured, till it was -all over. He measured it (for fear is a great tension) by the feeling of slack -weariness which came over him all at once. -</p> - -<p> -He walked to the companion and stooping low to put the flare in its usual place -saw in the darkness the motionless pale oval of Mrs. Anthony’s face. She -whispered quietly: -</p> - -<p> -“Is anything going to happen? What is it?” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s all over now,” he whispered back. -</p> - -<p> -He remained bent low, his head inside the cover staring at that white ghostly -oval. He wondered she had not rushed out on deck. She had remained quietly -there. This was pluck. Wonderful self-restraint. And it was not stupidity on -her part. She knew there was imminent danger and probably had some notion of -its nature. -</p> - -<p> -“You stayed here waiting for what would come,” he murmured admiringly. -</p> - -<p> -“Wasn’t that the best thing to do?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -He didn’t know. Perhaps. He confessed he could not have done it. Not he. His -flesh and blood could not have stood it. He would have felt he must see what -was coming. Then he remembered that the flare might have scorched her face, and -expressed his concern. -</p> - -<p> -“A bit. Nothing to hurt. Smell the singed hair?” -</p> - -<p> -There was a sort of gaiety in her tone. She might have been frightened but she -certainly was not overcome and suffered from no reaction. This confirmed and -augmented if possible Mr. Powell’s good opinion of her as a “jolly girl,” -though it seemed to him positively monstrous to refer in such terms to one’s -captain’s wife. “But she doesn’t look it,” he thought in extenuation and was -going to say something more to her about the lighting of that flare when -another voice was heard in the companion, saying some indistinct words. Its -tone was contemptuous; it came from below, from the bottom of the stairs. It -was a voice in the cabin. And the only other voice which could be heard in the -main cabin at this time of the evening was the voice of Mrs. Anthony’s father. -The indistinct white oval sank from Mr. Powell’s sight so swiftly as to take -him by surprise. For a moment he hung at the opening of the companion and now -that her slight form was no longer obstructing the narrow and winding staircase -the voices came up louder but the words were still indistinct. The old -gentleman was excited about something and Mrs. Anthony was “managing him” as -Powell expressed it. They moved away from the bottom of the stairs and Powell -went away from the companion. Yet he fancied he had heard the words “Lost to -me” before he withdrew his head. They had been uttered by Mr. Smith. -</p> - -<p> -Captain Anthony had not moved away from the taffrail. He remained in the very -position he took up to watch the other ship go by rolling and swinging all -shadowy in the uproar of the following seas. He stirred not; and Powell keeping -near by did not dare speak to him, so enigmatical in its contemplation of the -night did his figure appear to his young eyes: indistinct—and in its immobility -staring into gloom, the prey of some incomprehensible grief, longing or regret. -</p> - -<p> -Why is it that the stillness of a human being is often so impressive, so -suggestive of evil—as if our proper fate were a ceaseless agitation? The -stillness of Captain Anthony became almost intolerable to his second officer. -Mr. Powell loitering about the skylight wanted his captain off the deck now. -“Why doesn’t he go below?” he asked himself impatiently. He ventured a cough. -</p> - -<p> -Whether the effect of the cough or not Captain Anthony spoke. He did not move -the least bit. With his back remaining turned to the whole length of the ship -he asked Mr. Powell with some brusqueness if the chief mate had neglected to -instruct him that the captain was to be found on the port side. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Powell approaching his back. “The mate told me to stamp on -the port side when I wanted you; but I didn’t remember at the moment.” -</p> - -<p> -“You should remember,” the captain uttered with an effort. Then added mumbling -“I don’t want Mrs. Anthony frightened. Don’t you see? . . .” -</p> - -<p> -“She wasn’t this time,” Powell said innocently: “She lighted the flare-up for -me, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“This time,” Captain Anthony exclaimed and turned round. “Mrs. Anthony lighted -the flare? Mrs. Anthony! . . . ” Powell explained that she was in the companion -all the time. -</p> - -<p> -“All the time,” repeated the captain. It seemed queer to Powell that instead of -going himself to see the captain should ask him: -</p> - -<p> -“Is she there now?” -</p> - -<p> -Powell said that she had gone below after the ship had passed clear of the -<i>Ferndale</i>. Captain Anthony made a movement towards the companion himself, -when Powell added the information. “Mr. Smith called to Mrs. Anthony from the -saloon, sir. I believe they are talking there now.” -</p> - -<p> -He was surprised to see the captain give up the idea of going below after all. -</p> - -<p> -He began to walk the poop instead regardless of the cold, of the damp wind and -of the sprays. And yet he had nothing on but his sleeping suit and slippers. -Powell placing himself on the break of the poop kept a look-out. When after -some time he turned his head to steal a glance at his eccentric captain he -could not see his active and shadowy figure swinging to and fro. The second -mate of the <i>Ferndale</i> walked aft peering about and addressed the seaman -who steered. -</p> - -<p> -“Captain gone below?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir,” said the fellow who with a quid of tobacco bulging out his left -cheek kept his eyes on the compass card. “This minute. He laughed.” -</p> - -<p> -“Laughed,” repeated Powell incredulously. “Do you mean the captain did? You -must be mistaken. What would he want to laugh for?” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t know, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -The elderly sailor displayed a profound indifference towards human emotions. -However, after a longish pause he conceded a few words more to the second -officer’s weakness. “Yes. He was walking the deck as usual when suddenly he -laughed a little and made for the companion. Thought of something funny all at -once.” -</p> - -<p> -Something funny! That Mr. Powell could not believe. He did not ask himself why, -at the time. Funny thoughts come to men, though, in all sorts of situations; -they come to all sorts of men. Nevertheless Mr. Powell was shocked to learn -that Captain Anthony had laughed without visible cause on a certain night. The -impression for some reason was disagreeable. And it was then, while finishing -his watch, with the chilly gusts of wind sweeping at him out of the darkness -where the short sea of the soundings growled spitefully all round the ship, -that it occurred to his unsophisticated mind that perhaps things are not what -they are confidently expected to be; that it was possible that Captain Anthony -was not a happy man . . . In so far you will perceive he was to a certain -extent prepared for the apoplectic and sensitive Franklin’s lamentations about -his captain. And though he treated them with a contempt which was in a great -measure sincere, yet he admitted to me that deep down within him an -inexplicable and uneasy suspicion that all was not well in that cabin, so -unusually cut off from the rest of the ship, came into being and grew against -his will. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER FOUR—ANTHONY AND FLORA</h3> - -<p> -Marlow emerged out of the shadow of the book-case to get himself a cigar from a -box which stood on a little table by my side. In the full light of the room I -saw in his eyes that slightly mocking expression with which he habitually -covers up his sympathetic impulses of mirth and pity before the unreasonable -complications the idealism of mankind puts into the simple but poignant problem -of conduct on this earth. -</p> - -<p> -He selected and lit the cigar with affected care, then turned upon me, I had -been looking at him silently. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose,” he said, the mockery of his eyes giving a pellucid quality to his -tone, “that you think it’s high time I told you something definite. I mean -something about that psychological cabin mystery of discomfort (for it’s -obvious that it must be psychological) which affected so profoundly Mr. -Franklin the chief mate, and had even disturbed the serene innocence of Mr. -Powell, the second of the ship <i>Ferndale</i>, commanded by Roderick -Anthony—the son of the poet, you know.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are going to confess now that you have failed to find it out,” I said in -pretended indignation. -</p> - -<p> -“It would serve you right if I told you that I have. But I won’t. I haven’t -failed. I own though that for a time, I was puzzled. However, I have now seen -our Powell many times under the most favourable conditions—and besides I came -upon a most unexpected source of information . . . But never mind that. The -means don’t concern you except in so far as they belong to the story. I’ll -admit that for some time the old-maiden-lady-like occupation of putting two and -two together failed to procure a coherent theory. I am speaking now as an -investigator—a man of deductions. With what we know of Roderick Anthony and -Flora de Barral I could not deduct an ordinary marital quarrel beautifully -matured in less than a year—could I? If you ask me what is an ordinary marital -quarrel I will tell you, that it is a difference about nothing; I mean, these -nothings which, as Mr. Powell told us when we first met him, shore people are -so prone to start a row about, and nurse into hatred from an idle sense of -wrong, from perverted ambition, for spectacular reasons too. There are on earth -no actors too humble and obscure not to have a gallery; that gallery which -envenoms the play by stealthy jeers, counsels of anger, amused comments or -words of perfidious compassion. However, the Anthonys were free from all -demoralizing influences. At sea, you know, there is no gallery. You hear no -tormenting echoes of your own littleness there, where either a great elemental -voice roars defiantly under the sky or else an elemental silence seems to be -part of the infinite stillness of the universe. -</p> - -<p> -Remembering Flora de Barral in the depths of moral misery, and Roderick Anthony -carried away by a gust of tempestuous tenderness, I asked myself, Is it all -forgotten already? What could they have found to estrange them from each other -with this rapidity and this thoroughness so far from all temptations, in the -peace of the sea and in an isolation so complete that if it had not been the -jealous devotion of the sentimental Franklin stimulating the attention of -Powell, there would have been no record, no evidence of it at all. -</p> - -<p> -I must confess at once that it was Flora de Barral whom I suspected. In this -world as at present organized women are the suspected half of the population. -There are good reasons for that. These reasons are so discoverable with a -little reflection that it is not worth my while to set them out for you. I will -only mention this: that the part falling to women’s share being all “influence” -has an air of occult and mysterious action, something not altogether -trustworthy like all natural forces which, for us, work in the dark because of -our imperfect comprehension. -</p> - -<p> -If women were not a force of nature, blind in its strength and capricious in -its power, they would not be mistrusted. As it is one can’t help it. You will -say that this force having been in the person of Flora de Barral captured by -Anthony . . . Why yes. He had dealt with her masterfully. But man has captured -electricity too. It lights him on his way, it warms his home, it will even cook -his dinner for him—very much like a woman. But what sort of conquest would you -call it? He knows nothing of it. He has got to be mighty careful what he is -about with his captive. And the greater the demand he makes on it in the -exultation of his pride the more likely it is to turn on him and burn him to a -cinder . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“A far-fetched enough parallel,” I observed coldly to Marlow. He had returned -to the arm-chair in the shadow of the bookcase. “But accepting the meaning you -have in your mind it reduces itself to the knowledge of how to use it. And if -you mean that this ravenous Anthony—” -</p> - -<p> -“Ravenous is good,” interrupted Marlow. “He was a-hungering and a-thirsting for -femininity to enter his life in a way no mere feminist could have the slightest -conception of. I reckon that this accounts for much of Fyne’s disgust with him. -Good little Fyne. You have no idea what infernal mischief he had worked during -his call at the hotel. But then who could have suspected Anthony of being a -heroic creature. There are several kinds of heroism and one of them at least is -idiotic. It is the one which wears the aspect of sublime delicacy. It is -apparently the one of which the son of the delicate poet was capable. -</p> - -<p> -He certainly resembled his father, who, by the way, wore out two women without -any satisfaction to himself, because they did not come up to his supra-refined -standard of the delicacy which is so perceptible in his verses. That’s your -poet. He demands too much from others. The inarticulate son had set up a -standard for himself with that need for embodying in his conduct the dreams, -the passion, the impulses the poet puts into arrangements of verses, which are -dearer to him than his own self—and may make his own self appear sublime in the -eyes of other people, and even in his own eyes. -</p> - -<p> -Did Anthony wish to appear sublime in his own eyes? I should not like to make -that charge; though indeed there are other, less noble, ambitions at which the -world does not dare to smile. But I don’t think so; I do not even think that -there was in what he did a conscious and lofty confidence in himself, a -particularly pronounced sense of power which leads men so often into impossible -or equivocal situations. Looked at abstractedly (the way in which truth is -often seen in its real shape) his life had been a life of solitude and -silence—and desire. -</p> - -<p> -Chance had thrown that girl in his way; and if we may smile at his violent -conquest of Flora de Barral we must admit also that this eager appropriation -was truly the act of a man of solitude and desire; a man also, who, unless a -complete imbecile, must have been a man of long and ardent reveries wherein the -faculty of sincere passion matures slowly in the unexplored recesses of the -heart. And I know also that a passion, dominating or tyrannical, invading the -whole man and subjugating all his faculties to its own unique end, may conduct -him whom it spurs and drives, into all sorts of adventures, to the brink of -unfathomable dangers, to the limits of folly, and madness, and death. -</p> - -<p> -To the man then of a silence made only more impressive by the inarticulate -thunders and mutters of the great seas, an utter stranger to the clatter of -tongues, there comes the muscular little Fyne, the most marked representative -of that mankind whose voice is so strange to him, the husband of his sister, a -personality standing out from the misty and remote multitude. He comes and -throws at him more talk than he had ever heard boomed out in an hour, and -certainly touching the deepest things Anthony had ever discovered in himself, -and flings words like “unfair” whose very sound is abhorrent to him. Unfair! -Undue advantage! He! Unfair to that girl? Cruel to her! -</p> - -<p> -No scorn could stand against the impression of such charges advanced with heat -and conviction. They shook him. They were yet vibrating in the air of that -stuffy hotel-room, terrific, disturbing, impossible to get rid of, when the -door opened and Flora de Barral entered. -</p> - -<p> -He did not even notice that she was late. He was sitting on a sofa plunged in -gloom. Was it true? Having himself always said exactly what he meant he -imagined that people (unless they were liars, which of course his -brother-in-law could not be) never said more than they meant. The deep chest -voice of little Fyne was still in his ear. “He knows,” Anthony said to himself. -He thought he had better go away and never see her again. But she stood there -before him accusing and appealing. How could he abandon her? That was out of -the question. She had no one. Or rather she had someone. That father. Anthony -was willing to take him at her valuation. This father may have been the victim -of the most atrocious injustice. But what could a man coming out of jail do? An -old man too. And then—what sort of man? What would become of them both? Anthony -shuddered slightly and the faint smile with which Flora had entered the room -faded on her lips. She was used to his impetuous tenderness. She was no longer -afraid of it. But she had never seen him look like this before, and she -suspected at once some new cruelty of life. He got up with his usual ardour but -as if sobered by a momentous resolve and said: -</p> - -<p> -“No. I can’t let you out of my sight. I have seen you. You have told me your -story. You are honest. You have never told me you loved me.” -</p> - -<p> -She waited, saying to herself that he had never given her time, that he had -never asked her! And that, in truth, she did not know! -</p> - -<p> -I am inclined to believe that she did not. As abundance of experience is not -precisely her lot in life, a woman is seldom an expert in matters of sentiment. -It is the man who can and generally does “see himself” pretty well inside and -out. Women’s self-possession is an outward thing; inwardly they flutter, -perhaps because they are, or they feel themselves to be, engaged. All this -speaking generally. In Flora de Barral’s particular case ever since Anthony had -suddenly broken his way into her hopeless and cruel existence she lived like a -person liberated from a condemned cell by a natural cataclysm, a tempest, an -earthquake; not absolutely terrified, because nothing can be worse than the eve -of execution, but stunned, bewildered—abandoning herself passively. She did not -want to make a sound, to move a limb. She hadn’t the strength. What was the -good? And deep down, almost unconsciously she was seduced by the feeling of -being supported by this violence. A sensation she had never experienced before -in her life. -</p> - -<p> -She felt as if this whirlwind were calming down somehow! As if this feeling of -support, which was tempting her to close her eyes deliciously and let herself -be carried on and on into the unknown undefiled by vile experiences, were less -certain, had wavered threateningly. She tried to read something in his face, in -that energetic kindly face to which she had become accustomed so soon. But she -was not yet capable of understanding its expression. Scared, discouraged on the -threshold of adolescence, plunged in moral misery of the bitterest kind, she -had not learned to read—not that sort of language. -</p> - -<p> -If Anthony’s love had been as egoistic as love generally is, it would have been -greater than the egoism of his vanity—or of his generosity, if you like—and all -this could not have happened. He would not have hit upon that renunciation at -which one does not know whether to grin or shudder. It is true too that then -his love would not have fastened itself upon the unhappy daughter of de Barral. -But it was a love born of that rare pity which is not akin to contempt because -rooted in an overwhelmingly strong capacity for tenderness—the tenderness of -the fiery kind—the tenderness of silent solitary men, the voluntary, passionate -outcasts of their kind. At the time I am forced to think that his vanity must -have been enormous. -</p> - -<p> -“What big eyes she has,” he said to himself amazed. No wonder. She was staring -at him with all the might of her soul awakening slowly from a poisoned sleep, -in which it could only quiver with pain but could neither expand nor move. He -plunged into them breathless and tense, deep, deep, like a mad sailor taking a -desperate dive from the masthead into the blue unfathomable sea so many men -have execrated and loved at the same time. And his vanity was immense. It had -been touched to the quick by that muscular little feminist, Fyne. “I! I! Take -advantage of her helplessness. I! Unfair to that creature—that wisp of mist, -that white shadow homeless in an ugly dirty world. I could blow her away with a -breath,” he was saying to himself with horror. “Never!” All the supremely -refined delicacy of tenderness, expressed in so many fine lines of verse by -Carleon Anthony, grew to the size of a passion filling with inward sobs the big -frame of the man who had never in his life read a single one of those famous -sonnets singing of the most highly civilized, chivalrous love, of those sonnets -which . . . You know there’s a volume of them. My edition has the portrait of -the author at thirty, and when I showed it to Mr. Powell the other day he -exclaimed: “Wonderful! One would think this the portrait of Captain Anthony -himself if . . .” I wanted to know what that if was. But Powell could not say. -There was something—a difference. No doubt there was—in fineness perhaps. The -father, fastidious, cerebral, morbidly shrinking from all contacts, could only -sing in harmonious numbers of what the son felt with a dumb and reckless -sincerity. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Possessed by most strong men’s touching illusion as to the frailness of women -and their spiritual fragility, it seemed to Anthony that he would be -destroying, breaking something very precious inside that being. In fact nothing -less than partly murdering her. This seems a very extreme effect to flow from -Fyne’s words. But Anthony, unaccustomed to the chatter of the firm earth, never -stayed to ask himself what value these words could have in Fyne’s mouth. And -indeed the mere dark sound of them was utterly abhorrent to his native -rectitude, sea-salted, hardened in the winds of wide horizons, open as the day. -</p> - -<p> -He wished to blurt out his indignation but she regarded him with an expectant -air which checked him. His visible discomfort made her uneasy. He could only -repeat “Oh yes. You are perfectly honest. You might have, but I dare say you -are right. At any rate you have never said anything to me which you didn’t -mean.” -</p> - -<p> -“Never,” she whispered after a pause. -</p> - -<p> -He seemed distracted, choking with an emotion she could not understand because -it resembled embarrassment, a state of mind inconceivable in that man. -</p> - -<p> -She wondered what it was she had said; remembering that in very truth she had -hardly spoken to him except when giving him the bare outline of her story which -he seemed to have hardly had the patience to hear, waving it perpetually aside -with exclamations of horror and anger, with fiercely sombre mutters “Enough! -Enough!” and with alarming starts from a forced stillness, as though he meant -to rush out at once and take vengeance on somebody. She was saying to herself -that he caught her words in the air, never letting her finish her thought. -Honest. Honest. Yes certainly she had been that. Her letter to Mrs. Fyne had -been prompted by honesty. But she reflected sadly that she had never known what -to say to him. That perhaps she had nothing to say. -</p> - -<p> -“But you’ll find out that I can be honest too,” he burst out in a menacing -tone, she had learned to appreciate with an amused thrill. -</p> - -<p> -She waited for what was coming. But he hung in the wind. He looked round the -room with disgust as if he could see traces on the walls of all the casual -tenants that had ever passed through it. People had quarrelled in that room; -they had been ill in it, there had been misery in that room, wickedness, crime -perhaps—death most likely. This was not a fit place. He snatched up his hat. He -had made up his mind. The ship—the ship he had known ever since she came off -the stocks, his home—her shelter—the uncontaminated, honest ship, was the -place. -</p> - -<p> -“Let us go on board. We’ll talk there,” he said. “And you will have to listen -to me. For whatever happens, no matter what they say, I cannot let you go.” -</p> - -<p> -You can’t say that (misgivings or no misgivings) she could have done anything -else but go on board. It was the appointed business of that morning. During the -drive he was silent. Anthony was the last man to condemn conventionally any -human being, to scorn and despise even deserved misfortune. He was ready to -take old de Barral—the convict—on his daughter’s valuation without the -slightest reserve. But love like his, though it may drive one into risky folly -by the proud consciousness of its own strength, has a sagacity of its own. And -now, as if lifted up into a higher and serene region by its purpose of -renunciation, it gave him leisure to reflect for the first time in these last -few days. He said to himself: “I don’t know that man. She does not know him -either. She was barely sixteen when they locked him up. She was a child. What -will he say? What will he do? No, he concluded, I cannot leave her behind with -that man who would come into the world as if out of a grave. -</p> - -<p> -They went on board in silence, and it was after showing her round and when they -had returned to the saloon that he assailed her in his fiery, masterful -fashion. At first she did not understand. Then when she understood that he was -giving her her liberty she went stiff all over, her hand resting on the edge of -the table, her face set like a carving of white marble. It was all over. It was -as that abominable governess had said. She was insignificant, contemptible. -Nobody could love her. Humiliation clung to her like a cold shroud—never to be -shaken off, unwarmed by this madness of generosity. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Here. Your home. I can’t give it to you and go away, but it is big enough -for us two. You need not be afraid. If you say so I shall not even look at you. -Remember that grey head of which you have been thinking night and day. Where is -it going to rest? Where else if not here, where nothing evil can touch it. -Don’t you understand that I won’t let you buy shelter from me at the cost of -your very soul. I won’t. You are too much part of me. I have found myself since -I came upon you and I would rather sell my own soul to the devil than let you -go out of my keeping. But I must have the right.” -</p> - -<p> -He went away brusquely to shut the door leading on deck and came back the whole -length of the cabin repeating: -</p> - -<p> -“I must have the legal right. Are you ashamed of letting people think you are -my wife?” -</p> - -<p> -He opened his arms as if to clasp her to his breast but mastered the impulse -and shook his clenched hands at her, repeating: “I must have the right if only -for your father’s sake. I must have the right. Where would you take him? To -that infernal cardboard box-maker. I don’t know what keeps me from hunting him -up in his virtuous home and bashing his head in. I can’t bear the thought. -Listen to me, Flora! Do you hear what I am saying to you? You are not so proud -that you can’t understand that I as a man have my pride too?” -</p> - -<p> -He saw a tear glide down her white cheek from under each lowered eyelid. Then, -abruptly, she walked out of the cabin. He stood for a moment, concentrated, -reckoning his own strength, interrogating his heart, before he followed her -hastily. Already she had reached the wharf. -</p> - -<p> -At the sound of his pursuing footsteps her strength failed her. Where could she -escape from this? From this new perfidy of life taking upon itself the form of -magnanimity. His very voice was changed. The sustaining whirlwind had let her -down, to stumble on again, weakened by the fresh stab, bereft of moral support -which is wanted in life more than all the charities of material help. She had -never had it. Never. Not from the Fynes. But where to go? Oh yes, this dock—a -placid sheet of water close at hand. But there was that old man with whom she -had walked hand in hand on the parade by the sea. She seemed to see him coming -to meet her, pitiful, a little greyer, with an appealing look and an extended, -tremulous arm. It was for her now to take the hand of that wronged man more -helpless than a child. But where could she lead him? Where? And what was she to -say to him? What words of cheer, of courage and of hope? There were none. -Heaven and earth were mute, unconcerned at their meeting. But this other man -was coming up behind her. He was very close now. His fiery person seemed to -radiate heat, a tingling vibration into the atmosphere. She was exhausted, -careless, afraid to stumble, ready to fall. She fancied she could hear his -breathing. A wave of languid warmth overtook her, she seemed to lose touch with -the ground under her feet; and when she felt him slip his hand under her arm -she made no attempt to disengage herself from that grasp which closed upon her -limb, insinuating and firm. -</p> - -<p> -He conducted her through the dangers of the quayside. Her sight was dim. A -moving truck was like a mountain gliding by. Men passed by as if in a mist; and -the buildings, the sheds, the unexpected open spaces, the ships, had strange, -distorted, dangerous shapes. She said to herself that it was good not to be -bothered with what all these things meant in the scheme of creation (if indeed -anything had a meaning), or were just piled-up matter without any sense. She -felt how she had always been unrelated to this world. She was hanging on to it -merely by that one arm grasped firmly just above the elbow. It was a captivity. -So be it. Till they got out into the street and saw the hansom waiting outside -the gates Anthony spoke only once, beginning brusquely but in a much gentler -tone than she had ever heard from his lips. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I ought to have known that you could not care for a man like me, a -stranger. Silence gives consent. Yes? Eh? I don’t want any of that sort of -consent. And unless some day you find you can speak . . . No! No! I shall never -ask you. For all the sign I will give you you may go to your grave with sealed -lips. But what I have said you must do!” -</p> - -<p> -He bent his head over her with tender care. At the same time she felt her arm -pressed and shaken inconspicuously, but in an undeniable manner. “You must do -it.” A little shake that no passer-by could notice; and this was going on in a -deserted part of the dock. “It must be done. You are listening to me—eh? or -would you go again to my sister?” -</p> - -<p> -His ironic tone, perhaps from want of use, had an awful grating ferocity. -</p> - -<p> -“Would you go to her?” he pursued in the same strange voice. “Your best friend! -And say nicely—I am sorry. Would you? No! You couldn’t. There are things that -even you, poor dear lost girl, couldn’t stand. Eh? Die rather. That’s it. Of -course. Or can you be thinking of taking your father to that infernal cousin’s -house. No! Don’t speak. I can’t bear to think of it. I would follow you there -and smash the door!” -</p> - -<p> -The catch in his voice astonished her by its resemblance to a sob. It -frightened her too. The thought that came to her head was: “He mustn’t.” He was -putting her into the hansom. “Oh! He mustn’t, he mustn’t.” She was still more -frightened by the discovery that he was shaking all over. Bewildered, shrinking -into the far off corner, avoiding his eyes, she yet saw the quivering of his -mouth and made a wild attempt at a smile, which broke the rigidity of her lips -and set her teeth chattering suddenly. -</p> - -<p> -“I am not coming with you,” he was saying. “I’ll tell the man . . . I can’t. -Better not. What is it? Are you cold? Come! What is it? Only to go to a -confounded stuffy room, a hole of an office. Not a quarter of an hour. I’ll -come for you—in ten days. Don’t think of it too much. Think of no man, woman or -child of all that silly crowd cumbering the ground. Don’t think of me either. -Think of yourself. Ha! Nothing will be able to touch you then—at last. Say -nothing. Don’t move. I’ll have everything arranged; and as long as you don’t -hate the sight of me—and you don’t—there’s nothing to be frightened about. One -of their silly offices with a couple of ink-slingers of no consequence; poor, -scribbling devils.” -</p> - -<p> -The hansom drove away with Flora de Barral inside, without movement, without -thought, only too glad to rest, to be alone and still moving away without -effort, in solitude and silence. -</p> - -<p> -Anthony roamed the streets for hours without being able to remember in the -evening where he had been—in the manner of a happy and exulting lover. But -nobody could have thought so from his face, which bore no signs of blissful -anticipation. Exulting indeed he was but it was a special sort of exultation -which seemed to take him by the throat like an enemy. -</p> - -<p> -Anthony’s last words to Flora referred to the registry office where they were -married ten days later. During that time Anthony saw no one or anything, though -he went about restlessly, here and there, amongst men and things. This special -state is peculiar to common lovers, who are known to have no eyes for anything -except for the contemplation, actual or inward, of one human form which for -them contains the soul of the whole world in all its beauty, perfection, -variety and infinity. It must be extremely pleasant. But felicity was denied to -Roderick Anthony’s contemplation. He was not a common sort of lover; and he was -punished for it as if Nature (which it is said abhors a vacuum) were so very -conventional as to abhor every sort of exceptional conduct. Roderick Anthony -had begun already to suffer. That is why perhaps he was so industrious in going -about amongst his fellowmen who would have been surprised and humiliated, had -they known how little solidity and even existence they had in his eyes. But -they could not suspect anything so queer. They saw nothing extraordinary in him -during that fortnight. The proof of this is that they were willing to transact -business with him. Obviously they were; since it is then that the offer of -chartering his ship for the special purpose of proceeding to the Western -Islands was put in his way by a firm of shipbrokers who had no doubt of his -sanity. -</p> - -<p> -He probably looked sane enough for all the practical purposes of commercial -life. But I am not so certain that he really was quite sane at that time. -</p> - -<p> -However, he jumped at the offer. Providence itself was offering him this -opportunity to accustom the girl to sea-life by a comparatively short trip. -This was the time when everything that happened, everything he heard, casual -words, unrelated phrases, seemed a provocation or an encouragement, confirmed -him in his resolution. And indeed to be busy with material affairs is the best -preservative against reflection, fears, doubts—all these things which stand in -the way of achievement. I suppose a fellow proposing to cut his throat would -experience a sort of relief while occupied in stropping his razor carefully. -</p> - -<p> -And Anthony was extremely careful in preparing for himself and for the luckless -Flora, an impossible existence. He went about it with no more tremors than if -he had been stuffed with rags or made of iron instead of flesh and blood. An -existence, mind you, which, on shore, in the thick of mankind, of varied -interests, of distractions, of infinite opportunities to preserve your distance -from each other, is hardly conceivable; but on board ship, at sea, <i>en -tête-à-tête</i> for days and weeks and months together, -could mean nothing but mental torture, an exquisite absurdity of torment. He -was a simple soul. His hopelessly masculine ingenuousness is displayed in a -touching way by his care to procure some woman to attend on Flora. The -condition of guaranteed perfect respectability gave him moments of anxious -thought. When he remembered suddenly his steward’s wife he must have exclaimed -<i>eureka</i> with particular exultation. One does not like to call Anthony an -ass. But really to put any woman within scenting distance of such a secret and -suppose that she would not track it out! -</p> - -<p> -No woman, however simple, could be as ingenuous as that. I don’t know how Flora -de Barral qualified him in her thoughts when he told her of having done this -amongst other things intended to make her comfortable. I should think that, for -all <i>her</i> simplicity, she must have been appalled. He stood before her on -the appointed day outwardly calmer than she had ever seen him before. And this -very calmness, that scrupulous attitude which he felt bound in honour to assume -then and for ever, unless she would condescend to make a sign at some future -time, added to the heaviness of her heart innocent of the most pardonable -guile. -</p> - -<p> -The night before she had slept better than she had done for the past ten -nights. Both youth and weariness will assert themselves in the end against the -tyranny of nerve-racking stress. She had slept but she woke up with her eyes -full of tears. There were no traces of them when she met him in the shabby -little parlour downstairs. She had swallowed them up. She was not going to let -him see. She felt bound in honour to accept the situation for ever and ever -unless . . . Ah, unless . . . She dissembled all her sentiments but it was not -duplicity on her part. All she wanted was to get at the truth; to see what -would come of it. -</p> - -<p> -She beat him at his own honourable game and the thoroughness of her serenity -disconcerted Anthony a bit. It was he who stammered when it came to talking. -The suppressed fierceness of his character carried him on after the first word -or two masterfully enough. But it was as if they both had taken a bite of the -same bitter fruit. He was thinking with mournful regret not unmixed with -surprise: “That fellow Fyne has been telling me the truth. She does not care -for me a bit.” It humiliated him and also increased his compassion for the girl -who in this darkness of life, buffeted and despairing, had fallen into the grip -of his stronger will, abandoning herself to his arms as on a night of -shipwreck. Flora on her side with partial insight (for women are never blind -with the complete masculine blindness) looked on him with some pity; and she -felt pity for herself too. It was a rejection, a casting out; nothing new to -her. But she who supposed all her sensibility dead by this time, discovered in -herself a resentment of this ultimate betrayal. She had no resignation for this -one. With a sort of mental sullenness she said to herself: “Well, I am here. I -am here without any nonsense. It is not my fault that I am a mere worthless -object of pity.” -</p> - -<p> -And these things which she could tell herself with a clear conscience served -her better than the passionate obstinacy of purpose could serve Roderick -Anthony. She was much more sure of herself than he was. Such are the advantages -of mere rectitude over the most exalted generosity. -</p> - -<p> -And so they went out to get married, the people of the house where she lodged -having no suspicion of anything of the sort. They were only excited at a -“gentleman friend” (a very fine man too) calling on Miss Smith for the first -time since she had come to live in the house. When she returned, for she did -come back alone, there were allusions made to that outing. She had to take her -meals with these rather vulgar people. The woman of the house, a scraggy, -genteel person, tried even to provoke confidences. Flora’s white face with the -deep blue eyes did not strike their hearts as it did the heart of Captain -Anthony, as the very face of the suffering world. Her pained reserve had no -power to awe them into decency. -</p> - -<p> -Well, she returned alone—as in fact might have been expected. After leaving the -Registry Office Flora de Barral and Roderick Anthony had gone for a walk in a -park. It must have been an East-End park but I am not sure. Anyway that’s what -they did. It was a sunny day. He said to her: “Everything I have in the world -belongs to you. I have seen to that without troubling my brother-in-law. They -have no call to interfere.” -</p> - -<p> -She walked with her hand resting lightly on his arm. He had offered it to her -on coming out of the Registry Office, and she had accepted it silently. Her -head drooped, she seemed to be turning matters over in her mind. She said, -alluding to the Fynes: “They have been very good to me.” At that he exclaimed: -</p> - -<p> -“They have never understood you. Well, not properly. My sister is not a bad -woman, but . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Flora didn’t protest; asking herself whether he imagined that he himself -understood her so much better. Anthony dismissing his family out of his -thoughts went on: “Yes. Everything is yours. I have kept nothing back. As to -the piece of paper we have just got from that miserable quill-driver if it -wasn’t for the law, I wouldn’t mind if you tore it up here, now, on this spot. -But don’t you do it. Unless you should some day feel that—” -</p> - -<p> -He choked, unexpectedly. She, reflective, hesitated a moment then making up her -mind bravely. -</p> - -<p> -“Neither am I keeping anything back from you.” -</p> - -<p> -She had said it! But he in his blind generosity assumed that she was alluding -to her deplorable history and hastened to mutter: -</p> - -<p> -“Of course! Of course! Say no more. I have been lying awake thinking of it all -no end of times.” -</p> - -<p> -He made a movement with his other arm as if restraining himself from shaking an -indignant fist at the universe; and she never even attempted to look at him. -His voice sounded strangely, incredibly lifeless in comparison with these -tempestuous accents that in the broad fields, in the dark garden had seemed to -shake the very earth under her weary and hopeless feet. -</p> - -<p> -She regretted them. Hearing the sigh which escaped her Anthony instead of -shaking his fist at the universe began to pat her hand resting on his arm and -then desisted, suddenly, as though he had burnt himself. Then after a silence: -</p> - -<p> -“You will have to go by yourself to-morrow. I . . . No, I think I mustn’t come. -Better not. What you two will have to say to each other—” -</p> - -<p> -She interrupted him quickly: -</p> - -<p> -“Father is an innocent man. He was cruelly wronged.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. That’s why,” Anthony insisted earnestly. “And you are the only human -being that can make it up to him. You alone must reconcile him with the world -if anything can. But of course you shall. You’ll have to find words. Oh you’ll -know. And then the sight of you, alone, would soothe—” -</p> - -<p> -“He’s the gentlest of men,” she interrupted again. -</p> - -<p> -Anthony shook his head. “It would take no end of generosity, no end of -gentleness to forgive such a dead set. For my part I would have liked better to -have been killed and done with at once. It could not have been worse for -you—and I suppose it was of you that he was thinking most while those infernal -lawyers were badgering him in court. Of you. And now I think of it perhaps the -sight of you may bring it all back to him. All these years, all these years—and -you his child left alone in the world. I would have gone crazy. For even if he -had done wrong—” -</p> - -<p> -“But he hasn’t,” insisted Flora de Barral with a quite unexpected fierceness. -“You mustn’t even suppose it. Haven’t you read the accounts of the trial?” -</p> - -<p> -“I am not supposing anything,” Anthony defended himself. He just remembered -hearing of the trial. He assured her that he was away from England, the second -voyage of the <i>Ferndale</i>. He was crossing the Pacific from Australia at -the time and didn’t see any papers for weeks and weeks. He interrupted himself -to suggest: -</p> - -<p> -“You had better tell him at once that you are happy.” -</p> - -<p> -He had stammered a little, and Flora de Barral uttered a deliberate and concise -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -A short silence ensued. She withdrew her hand from his arm. They stopped. -Anthony looked as if a totally unexpected catastrophe had happened. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah,” he said. “You mind . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“No! I think I had better,” she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -“I dare say. I dare say. Bring him along straight on board to-morrow. Stop -nowhere.” -</p> - -<p> -She had a movement of vague gratitude, a momentary feeling of peace which she -referred to the man before her. She looked up at Anthony. His face was sombre. -He was miles away and muttered as if to himself: -</p> - -<p> -“Where could he want to stop though?” -</p> - -<p> -“There’s not a single being on earth that I would want to look at his dear face -now, to whom I would willingly take him,” she said extending her hand frankly -and with a slight break in her voice, “but you—Roderick.” -</p> - -<p> -He took that hand, felt it very small and delicate in his broad palm. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s right. That’s right,” he said with a conscious and hasty heartiness -and, as if suddenly ashamed of the sound of his voice, turned half round and -absolutely walked away from the motionless girl. He even resisted the -temptation to look back till it was too late. The gravel path lay empty to the -very gate of the park. She was gone—vanished. He had an impression that he had -missed some sort of chance. He felt sad. That excited sense of his own conduct -which had kept him up for the last ten days buoyed him no more. He had -succeeded! -</p> - -<p> -He strolled on aimlessly a prey to gentle melancholy. He walked and walked. -There were but few people about in this breathing space of a poor -neighbourhood. Under certain conditions of life there is precious little time -left for mere breathing. But still a few here and there were indulging in that -luxury; yet few as they were Captain Anthony, though the least exclusive of -men, resented their presence. Solitude had been his best friend. He wanted some -place where he could sit down and be alone. And in his need his thoughts turned -to the sea which had given him so much of that congenial solitude. There, if -always with his ship (but that was an integral part of him) he could always be -as solitary as he chose. Yes. Get out to sea! -</p> - -<p> -The night of the town with its strings of lights, rigid, and crossed like a net -of flames, thrown over the sombre immensity of walls, closed round him, with -its artificial brilliance overhung by an emphatic blackness, its unnatural -animation of a restless, overdriven humanity. His thoughts which somehow were -inclined to pity every passing figure, every single person glimpsed under a -street lamp, fixed themselves at last upon a figure which certainly could not -have been seen under the lamps on that particular night. A figure unknown to -him. A figure shut up within high unscaleable walls of stone or bricks till -next morning . . . The figure of Flora de Barral’s father. De Barral the -financier—the convict. -</p> - -<p> -There is something in that word with its suggestions of guilt and retribution -which arrests the thought. We feel ourselves in the presence of the power of -organized society—a thing mysterious in itself and still more mysterious in its -effect. Whether guilty or innocent, it was as if old de Barral had been down to -the Nether Regions. Impossible to imagine what he would bring out from there to -the light of this world of uncondemned men. What would he think? What would he -have to say? And what was one to say to him? -</p> - -<p> -Anthony, a little awed, as one is by a range of feelings stretching beyond -one’s grasp, comforted himself by the thought that probably the old fellow -would have little to say. He wouldn’t want to talk about it. No man would. It -must have been a real hell to him. -</p> - -<p> -And then Anthony, at the end of the day in which he had gone through a marriage -ceremony with Flora de Barral, ceased to think of Flora’s father except, as in -some sort, the captive of his triumph. He turned to the mental contemplation of -the white, delicate and appealing face with great blue eyes which he had seen -weep and wonder and look profoundly at him, sometimes with incredulity, -sometimes with doubt and pain, but always irresistible in the power to find -their way right into his breast, to stir there a deep response which was -something more than love—he said to himself,—as men understand it. More? Or was -it only something other? Yes. It was something other. More or less. Something -as incredible as the fulfilment of an amazing and startling dream in which he -could take the world in his arms—all the suffering world—not to possess its -pathetic fairness but to console and cherish its sorrow. -</p> - -<p> -Anthony walked slowly to the ship and that night slept without dreams. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER FIVE—THE GREAT DE BARRAL</h3> - -<p> -Renovated certainly the saloon of the <i>Ferndale</i> was to receive the -“strange woman.” The mellowness of its old-fashioned, tarnished decoration was -gone. And Anthony looking round saw the glitter, the gleams, the colour of new -things, untried, unused, very bright—too bright. The workmen had gone only last -night; and the last piece of work they did was the hanging of the heavy -curtains which looped midway the length of the saloon—divided it in two if -released, cutting off the after end with its companion-way leading direct on -the poop, from the forepart with its outlet on the deck; making a privacy -within a privacy, as though Captain Anthony could not place obstacles enough -between his new happiness and the men who shared his life at sea. He inspected -that arrangement with an approving eye then made a particular visitation of the -whole, ending by opening a door which led into a large state-room made of two -knocked into one. It was very well furnished and had, instead of the usual -bedplace of such cabins, an elaborate swinging cot of the latest pattern. -Anthony tilted it a little by way of trial. “The old man will be very -comfortable in here,” he said to himself, and stepped back into the saloon -closing the door gently. Then another thought occurred to him obvious under the -circumstances but strangely enough presenting itself for the first time. “Jove! -Won’t he get a shock,” thought Roderick Anthony. -</p> - -<p> -He went hastily on deck. “Mr. Franklin, Mr. Franklin.” The mate was not very -far. “Oh! Here you are. Miss . . . Mrs. Anthony’ll be coming on board -presently. Just give me a call when you see the cab.” -</p> - -<p> -Then, without noticing the gloominess of the mate’s countenance he went in -again. Not a friendly word, not a professional remark, or a small joke, not as -much as a simple and inane “fine day.” Nothing. Just turned about and went in. -</p> - -<p> -We know that, when the moment came, he thought better of it and decided to meet -Flora’s father in that privacy of the main cabin which he had been so careful -to arrange. Why Anthony appeared to shrink from the contact, he who was -sufficiently self-confident not only to face but to absolutely create a -situation almost insane in its audacious generosity, is difficult to explain. -Perhaps when he came on the poop for a glance he found that man so different -outwardly from what he expected that he decided to meet him for the first time -out of everybody’s sight. Possibly the general secrecy of his relation to the -girl might have influenced him. Truly he may well have been dismayed. That -man’s coming brought him face to face with the necessity to speak and act a -lie; to appear what he was not and what he could never be, unless, unless— -</p> - -<p> -In short, we’ll say if you like that for various reasons, all having to do with -the delicate rectitude of his nature, Roderick Anthony (a man of whom his chief -mate used to say: he doesn’t know what fear is) was frightened. There is a -Nemesis which overtakes generosity too, like all the other imprudences of men -who dare to be lawless and proud . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“Why do you say this?” I inquired, for Marlow had stopped abruptly and kept -silent in the shadow of the bookcase. -</p> - -<p> -“I say this because that man whom chance had thrown in Flora’s way was both: -lawless and proud. Whether he knew anything about it or not it does not matter. -Very likely not. One may fling a glove in the face of nature and in the face of -one’s own moral endurance quite innocently, with a simplicity which wears the -aspect of perfectly Satanic conceit. However, as I have said it does not -matter. It’s a transgression all the same and has got to be paid for in the -usual way. But never mind that. I paused because, like Anthony, I find a -difficulty, a sort of dread in coming to grips with old de Barral. -</p> - -<p> -You remember I had a glimpse of him once. He was not an imposing personality: -tall, thin, straight, stiff, faded, moving with short steps and with a gliding -motion, speaking in an even low voice. When the sea was rough he wasn’t much -seen on deck—at least not walking. He caught hold of things then and dragged -himself along as far as the after skylight where he would sit for hours. Our, -then young, friend offered once to assist him and this service was the first -beginning of a sort of friendship. He clung hard to one—Powell says, with no -figurative intention. Powell was always on the lookout to assist, and to assist -mainly Mrs. Anthony, because he clung so jolly hard to her that Powell was -afraid of her being dragged down notwithstanding that she very soon became very -sure-footed in all sorts of weather. And Powell was the only one ready to -assist at hand because Anthony (by that time) seemed to be afraid to come near -them; the unforgiving Franklin always looked wrathfully the other way; the -boatswain, if up there, acted likewise but sheepishly; and any hands that -happened to be on the poop (a feeling spreads mysteriously all over a ship) -shunned him as though he had been the devil. -</p> - -<p> -We know how he arrived on board. For my part I know so little of prisons that I -haven’t the faintest notion how one leaves them. It seems as abominable an -operation as the other, the shutting up with its mental suggestions of bang, -snap, crash and the empty silence outside—where an instant before you were—you -<i>were</i>—and now no longer are. Perfectly devilish. And the release! I don’t -know which is worse. How do they do it? Pull the string, door flies open, man -flies through: Out you go! <i>Adios</i>! And in the space where a second before -you were not, in the silent space there is a figure going away, limping. Why -limping? I don’t know. That’s how I see it. One has a notion of a maiming, -crippling process; of the individual coming back damaged in some subtle way. I -admit it is a fantastic hallucination, but I can’t help it. Of course I know -that the proceedings of the best machine-made humanity are employed with -judicious care and so on. I am absurd, no doubt, but still . . . Oh yes it’s -idiotic. When I pass one of these places . . . did you notice that there is -something infernal about the aspect of every individual stone or brick of them, -something malicious as if matter were enjoying its revenge of the contemptuous -spirit of man. Did you notice? You didn’t? Eh? Well I am perhaps a little mad -on that point. When I pass one of these places I must avert my eyes. I couldn’t -have gone to meet de Barral. I should have shrunk from the ordeal. You’ll -notice that it looks as if Anthony (a brave man indubitably) had shirked it -too. Little Fyne’s flight of fancy picturing three people in the fatal four -wheeler—you remember?—went wide of the truth. There were only two people in the -four wheeler. Flora did not shrink. Women can stand anything. The dear -creatures have no imagination when it comes to solid facts of life. In -sentimental regions—I won’t say. It’s another thing altogether. There they -shrink from or rush to embrace ghosts of their own creation just the same as -any fool-man would. -</p> - -<p> -No. I suppose the girl Flora went on that errand reasonably. And then, why! -This was the moment for which she had lived. It was her only point of contact -with existence. Oh yes. She had been assisted by the Fynes. And kindly. -Certainly. Kindly. But that’s not enough. There is a kind way of assisting our -fellow-creatures which is enough to break their hearts while it saves their -outer envelope. How cold, how infernally cold she must have felt—unless when -she was made to burn with indignation or shame. Man, we know, cannot live by -bread alone but hang me if I don’t believe that some women could live by love -alone. If there be a flame in human beings fed by varied ingredients earthly -and spiritual which tinge it in different hues, then I seem to see the colour -of theirs. It is azure . . . What the devil are you laughing at . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Marlow jumped up and strode out of the shadow as if lifted by indignation but -there was the flicker of a smile on his lips. “You say I don’t know women. -Maybe. It’s just as well not to come too close to the shrine. But I have a -clear notion of <i>woman</i>. In all of them, termagant, flirt, crank, -washerwoman, blue-stocking, outcast and even in the ordinary fool of the -ordinary commerce there is something left, if only a spark. And when there is a -spark there can always be a flame . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -He went back into the shadow and sat down again. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t mean to say that Flora de Barral was one of the sort that could live -by love alone. In fact she had managed to live without. But still, in the -distrust of herself and of others she looked for love, any kind of love, as -women will. And that confounded jail was the only spot where she could see -it—for she had no reason to distrust her father. -</p> - -<p> -She was there in good time. I see her gazing across the road at these walls -which are, properly speaking, awful. You do indeed seem to feel along the very -lines and angles of the unholy bulk, the fall of time, drop by drop, hour by -hour, leaf by leaf, with a gentle and implacable slowness. And a voiceless -melancholy comes over one, invading, overpowering like a dream, penetrating and -mortal like poison. -</p> - -<p> -When de Barral came out she experienced a sort of shock to see that he was -exactly as she remembered him. Perhaps a little smaller. Otherwise unchanged. -You come out in the same clothes, you know. I can’t tell whether he was looking -for her. No doubt he was. Whether he recognized her? Very likely. She crossed -the road and at once there was reproduced at a distance of years, as if by some -mocking witchcraft, the sight so familiar on the Parade at Brighton of the -financier de Barral walking with his only daughter. One comes out of prison in -the same clothes one wore on the day of condemnation, no matter how long one -has been put away there. Oh, they last! They last! But there is something which -is preserved by prison life even better than one’s discarded clothing. It is -the force, the vividness of one’s sentiments. A monastery will do that too; but -in the unholy claustration of a jail you are thrown back wholly upon -yourself—for God and Faith are not there. The people outside disperse their -affections, you hoard yours, you nurse them into intensity. What they let slip, -what they forget in the movement and changes of free life, you hold on to, -amplify, exaggerate into a rank growth of memories. They can look with a smile -at the troubles and pains of the past; but you can’t. Old pains keep on gnawing -at your heart, old desires, old deceptions, old dreams, assailing you in the -dead stillness of your present where nothing moves except the irrecoverable -minutes of your life. -</p> - -<p> -De Barral was out and, for a time speechless, being led away almost before he -had taken possession of the free world, by his daughter. Flora controlled -herself well. They walked along quickly for some distance. The cab had been -left round the corner—round several corners for all I know. He was flustered, -out of breath, when she helped him in and followed herself. Inside that rolling -box, turning towards that recovered presence with her heart too full for words -she felt the desire of tears she had managed to keep down abandon her suddenly, -her half-mournful, half-triumphant exultation subside, every fibre of her body, -relaxed in tenderness, go stiff in the close look she took at his face. He -<i>was</i> different. There was something. Yes, there was something between -them, something hard and impalpable, the ghost of these high walls. -</p> - -<p> -How old he was, how unlike! -</p> - -<p> -She shook off this impression, amazed and frightened by it of course. And -remorseful too. Naturally. She threw her arms round his neck. He returned that -hug awkwardly, as if not in perfect control of his arms, with a fumbling and -uncertain pressure. She hid her face on his breast. It was as though she were -pressing it against a stone. They released each other and presently the cab was -rolling along at a jog-trot to the docks with those two people as far apart as -they could get from each other, in opposite corners. -</p> - -<p> -After a silence given up to mutual examination he uttered his first coherent -sentence outside the walls of the prison. -</p> - -<p> -“What has done for me was envy. Envy. There was a lot of them just bursting -with it every time they looked my way. I was doing too well. So they went to -the Public Prosecutor—” -</p> - -<p> -She said hastily “Yes! Yes! I know,” and he glared as if resentful that the -child had turned into a young woman without waiting for him to come out. “What -do you know about it?” he asked. “You were too young.” His speech was soft. The -old voice, the old voice! It gave her a thrill. She recognized its pointless -gentleness always the same no matter what he had to say. And she remembered -that he never had much to say when he came down to see her. It was she who -chattered, chattered, on their walks, while stiff and with a rigidly-carried -head, he dropped a gentle word now and then. -</p> - -<p> -Moved by these recollections waking up within her, she explained to him that -within the last year she had read and studied the report of the trial. -</p> - -<p> -“I went through the files of several papers, papa.” -</p> - -<p> -He looked at her suspiciously. The reports were probably very incomplete. No -doubt the reporters had garbled his evidence. They were determined to give him -no chance either in court or before the public opinion. It was a conspiracy . . -. “My counsel was a fool too,” he added. “Did you notice? A perfect fool.” -</p> - -<p> -She laid her hand on his arm soothingly. “Is it worth while talking about that -awful time? It is so far away now.” She shuddered slightly at the thought of -all the horrible years which had passed over her young head; never guessing -that for him the time was but yesterday. He folded his arms on his breast, -leaned back in his corner and bowed his head. But in a little while he made her -jump by asking suddenly: -</p> - -<p> -“Who has got hold of the Lone Valley Railway? That’s what they were after -mainly. Somebody has got it. Parfitts and Co. grabbed it—eh? Or was it that -fellow Warner . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“I—I don’t know,” she said quite scared by the twitching of his lips. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t know!” he exclaimed softly. Hadn’t her cousin told her? Oh yes. She had -left them—of course. Why did she? It was his first question about herself but -she did not answer it. She did not want to talk of these horrors. They were -impossible to describe. She perceived though that he had not expected an -answer, because she heard him muttering to himself that: “There was half a -million’s worth of work done and material accumulated there.” -</p> - -<p> -“You mustn’t think of these things, papa,” she said firmly. And he asked her -with that invariable gentleness, in which she seemed now to detect some rather -ugly shades, what else had he to think about? Another year or two, if they had -only left him alone, he and everybody else would have been all right, rolling -in money; and she, his daughter, could have married anybody—anybody. A lord. -</p> - -<p> -All this was to him like yesterday, a long yesterday, a yesterday gone over -innumerable times, analysed, meditated upon for years. It had a vividness and -force for that old man of which his daughter who had not been shut out of the -world could have no idea. She was to him the only living figure out of that -past, and it was perhaps in perfect good faith that he added, coldly, -inexpressive and thin-lipped: “I lived only for you, I may say. I suppose you -understand that. There were only you and me.” -</p> - -<p> -Moved by this declaration, wondering that it did not warm her heart more, she -murmured a few endearing words while the uppermost thought in her mind was that -she must tell him now of the situation. She had expected to be questioned -anxiously about herself—and while she desired it she shrank from the answers -she would have to make. But her father seemed strangely, unnaturally incurious. -It looked as if there would be no questions. Still this was an opening. This -seemed to be the time for her to begin. And she began. She began by saying that -she had always felt like that. There were two of them, to live for each other. -And if he only knew what she had gone through! -</p> - -<p> -Ensconced in his corner, with his arms folded, he stared out of the cab window -at the street. How little he was changed after all. It was the unmovable -expression, the faded stare she used to see on the esplanade whenever walking -by his side hand in hand she raised her eyes to his face—while she chattered, -chattered. It was the same stiff, silent figure which at a word from her would -turn rigidly into a shop and buy her anything it occurred to her that she would -like to have. Flora de Barral’s voice faltered. He bent on her that -well-remembered glance in which she had never read anything as a child, except -the consciousness of her existence. And that was enough for a child who had -never known demonstrative affection. But she had lived a life so starved of all -feeling that this was no longer enough for her. What was the good of telling -him the story of all these miseries now past and gone, of all those bewildering -difficulties and humiliations? What she must tell him was difficult enough to -say. She approached it by remarking cheerfully: -</p> - -<p> -“You haven’t even asked me where I am taking you.” He started like a -somnambulist awakened suddenly, and there was now some meaning in his stare; a -sort of alarmed speculation. He opened his mouth slowly. Flora struck in with -forced gaiety. “You would never, guess.” -</p> - -<p> -He waited, still more startled and suspicious. “Guess! Why don’t you tell me?” -</p> - -<p> -He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward towards her. She got hold of one of -his hands. “You must know first . . . ” She paused, made an effort: “I am -married, papa.” -</p> - -<p> -For a moment they kept perfectly still in that cab rolling on at a steady -jog-trot through a narrow city street full of bustle. Whatever she expected she -did not expect to feel his hand snatched away from her grasp as if from a burn -or a contamination. De Barral fresh from the stagnant torment of the prison -(where nothing happens) had not expected that sort of news. It seemed to stick -in his throat. In strangled low tones he cried out, “You—married? You, Flora! -When? Married! What for? Who to? Married!” -</p> - -<p> -His eyes which were blue like hers, only faded, without depth, seemed to start -out of their orbits. He did really look as if he were choking. He even put his -hand to his collar . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“You know,” continued Marlow out of the shadow of the bookcase and nearly -invisible in the depths of the arm-chair, “the only time I saw him he had given -me the impression of absolute rigidity, as though he had swallowed a poker. But -it seems that he could collapse. I can hardly picture this to myself. I -understand that he did collapse to a certain extent in his corner of the cab. -The unexpected had crumpled him up. She regarded him perplexed, pitying, a -little disillusioned, and nodded at him gravely: Yes. Married. What she did not -like was to see him smile in a manner far from encouraging to the devotion of a -daughter. There was something unintentionally savage in it. Old de Barral could -not quite command his muscles, as yet. But he had recovered command of his -gentle voice. -</p> - -<p> -“You were just saying that in this wide world there we were, only you and I, to -stick to each other.” -</p> - -<p> -She was dimly aware of the scathing intention lurking in these soft low tones, -in these words which appealed to her poignantly. She defended herself. Never, -never for a single moment had she ceased to think of him. Neither did he cease -to think of her, he said, with as much sinister emphasis as he was capable of. -</p> - -<p> -“But, papa,” she cried, “I haven’t been shut up like you.” She didn’t mind -speaking of it because he was innocent. He hadn’t been understood. It was a -misfortune of the most cruel kind but no more disgraceful than an illness, a -maiming accident or some other visitation of blind fate. “I wish I had been -too. But I was alone out in the world, the horrid world, that very world which -had used you so badly.” -</p> - -<p> -“And you couldn’t go about in it without finding somebody to fall in love -with?” he said. A jealous rage affected his brain like the fumes of wine, -rising from some secret depths of his being so long deprived of all emotions. -The hollows at the corners of his lips became more pronounced in the puffy -roundness of his cheeks. Images, visions, obsess with particular force, men -withdrawn from the sights and sounds of active life. “And I did nothing but -think of you!” he exclaimed under his breath, contemptuously. “Think of you! -You haunted me, I tell you.” -</p> - -<p> -Flora said to herself that there was a being who loved her. “Then we have been -haunting each other,” she declared with a pang of remorse. For indeed he had -haunted her nearly out of the world, into a final and irremediable desertion. -“Some day I shall tell you . . . No. I don’t think I can ever tell you. There -was a time when I was mad. But what’s the good? It’s all over now. We shall -forget all this. There shall be nothing to remind us.” -</p> - -<p> -De Barral moved his shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -“I should think you were mad to tie yourself to . . . How long is it since you -are married?” -</p> - -<p> -She answered “Not long” that being the only answer she dared to make. -Everything was so different from what she imagined it would be. He wanted to -know why she had said nothing of it in any of her letters; in her last letter. -She said: -</p> - -<p> -“It was after.” -</p> - -<p> -“So recently!” he wondered. “Couldn’t you wait at least till I came out? You -could have told me; asked me; consulted me! Let me see—” -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head negatively. And he was appalled. He thought to himself: Who -can he be? Some miserable, silly youth without a penny. Or perhaps some -scoundrel? Without making any expressive movement he wrung his loosely-clasped -hands till the joints cracked. He looked at her. She was pretty. Some low -scoundrel who will cast her off. Some plausible vagabond . . . “You couldn’t -wait—eh?” -</p> - -<p> -Again she made a slight negative sign. -</p> - -<p> -“Why not? What was the hurry?” She cast down her eyes. “It had to be. Yes. It -was sudden, but it had to be.” -</p> - -<p> -He leaned towards her, his mouth open, his eyes wild with virtuous anger, but -meeting the absolute candour of her raised glance threw himself back into his -corner again. -</p> - -<p> -“So tremendously in love with each other—was that it? Couldn’t let a father -have his daughter all to himself even for a day after—after such a separation. -And you know I never had anyone, I had no friends. What did I want with those -people one meets in the City. The best of them are ready to cut your throat. -Yes! Business men, gentlemen, any sort of men and women—out of spite, or to get -something. Oh yes, they can talk fair enough if they think there’s something to -be got out of you . . . ” His voice was a mere breath yet every word came to -Flora as distinctly as if charged with all the moving power of passion . . . -“My girl, I looked at them making up to me and I would say to myself: What do I -care for all that! I am a business man. I am the great Mr. de Barral (yes, yes, -some of them twisted their mouths at it, but I <i>was</i> the great Mr. de -Barral) and I have my little girl. I wanted nobody and I have never had -anybody.” -</p> - -<p> -A true emotion had unsealed his lips but the words that came out of them were -no louder than the murmur of a light wind. It died away. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s just it,” said Flora de Barral under her breath. Without removing his -eyes from her he took off his hat. It was a tall hat. The hat of the trial. The -hat of the thumb-nail sketches in the illustrated papers. One comes out in the -same clothes, but seclusion counts! It is well known that lurid visions haunt -secluded men, monks, hermits—then why not prisoners? De Barral the convict took -off the silk hat of the financier de Barral and deposited it on the front seat -of the cab. Then he blew out his cheeks. He was red in the face. -</p> - -<p> -“And then what happens?” he began again in his contained voice. “Here I am, -overthrown, broken by envy, malice and all uncharitableness. I come out—and -what do I find? I find that my girl Flora has gone and married some man or -other, perhaps a fool, how do I know; or perhaps—anyway not good enough.” -</p> - -<p> -“Stop, papa.” -</p> - -<p> -“A silly love affair as likely as not,” he continued monotonously, his thin -lips writhing between the ill-omened sunk corners. “And a very suspicious thing -it is too, on the part of a loving daughter.” -</p> - -<p> -She tried to interrupt him but he went on till she actually clapped her hand on -his mouth. He rolled his eyes a bit but when she took her hand away he remained -silent. -</p> - -<p> -“Wait. I must tell you . . . And first of all, papa, understand this, for -everything’s in that: he is the most generous man in the world. He is . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -De Barral very still in his corner uttered with an effort “You are in love with -him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Papa! He came to me. I was thinking of you. I had no eyes for anybody. I could -no longer bear to think of you. It was then that he came. Only then. At that -time when—when I was going to give up.” -</p> - -<p> -She gazed into his faded blue eyes as if yearning to be understood, to be given -encouragement, peace—a word of sympathy. He declared without animation “I would -like to break his neck.” -</p> - -<p> -She had the mental exclamation of the overburdened. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh my God!” and watched him with frightened eyes. But he did not appear insane -or in any other way formidable. This comforted her. The silence lasted for some -little time. Then suddenly he asked: -</p> - -<p> -“What’s your name then?” -</p> - -<p> -For a moment in the profound trouble of the task before her she did not -understand what the question meant. Then, her face faintly flushing, she -whispered: “Anthony.” -</p> - -<p> -Her father, a red spot on each cheek, leaned his head back wearily in the -corner of the cab. -</p> - -<p> -“Anthony. What is he? Where did he spring from?” -</p> - -<p> -“Papa, it was in the country, on a road—” -</p> - -<p> -He groaned, “On a road,” and closed his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s too long to explain to you now. We shall have lots of time. There are -things I could not tell you now. But some day. Some day. For now nothing can -part us. Nothing. We are safe as long as we live—nothing can ever come between -us.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are infatuated with the fellow,” he remarked, without opening his eyes. -And she said: “I believe in him,” in a low voice. “You and I must believe in -him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who the devil is he?” -</p> - -<p> -“He’s the brother of the lady—you know Mrs. Fyne, she knew mother—who was so -kind to me. I was staying in the country, in a cottage, with Mr. and Mrs. Fyne. -It was there that we met. He came on a visit. He noticed me. I—well—we are -married now.” -</p> - -<p> -She was thankful that his eyes were shut. It made it easier to talk of the -future she had arranged, which now was an unalterable thing. She did not enter -on the path of confidences. That was impossible. She felt he would not -understand her. She felt also that he suffered. Now and then a great anxiety -gripped her heart with a mysterious sense of guilt—as though she had betrayed -him into the hands of an enemy. With his eyes shut he had an air of weary and -pious meditation. She was a little afraid of it. Next moment a great pity for -him filled her heart. And in the background there was remorse. His face -twitched now and then just perceptibly. He managed to keep his eyelids down -till he heard that the ‘husband’ was a sailor and that he, the father, was -being taken straight on board ship ready to sail away from this abominable -world of treacheries, and scorns and envies and lies, away, away over the blue -sea, the sure, the inaccessible, the uncontaminated and spacious refuge for -wounded souls. -</p> - -<p> -Something like that. Not the very words perhaps but such was the general sense -of her overwhelming argument—the argument of refuge. -</p> - -<p> -I don’t think she gave a thought to material conditions. But as part of that -argument set forth breathlessly, as if she were afraid that if she stopped for -a moment she could never go on again, she mentioned that generosity of a stormy -type, which had come to her from the sea, had caught her up on the brink of -unmentionable failure, had whirled her away in its first ardent gust and could -be trusted now, implicitly trusted, to carry them both, side by side, into -absolute safety. -</p> - -<p> -She believed it, she affirmed it. He understood thoroughly at last, and at once -the interior of that cab, of an aspect so pacific in the eyes of the people on -the pavements, became the scene of a great agitation. The generosity of -Roderick Anthony—the son of the poet—affected the ex-financier de Barral in a -manner which must have brought home to Flora de Barral the extreme arduousness -of the business of being a woman. Being a woman is a terribly difficult trade -since it consists principally of dealings with men. This man—the man inside the -cab—cast oft his stiff placidity and behaved like an animal. I don’t mean it in -an offensive sense. What he did was to give way to an instinctive panic. Like -some wild creature scared by the first touch of a net falling on its back, old -de Barral began to struggle, lank and angular, against the empty air—as much of -it as there was in the cab—with staring eyes and gasping mouth from which his -daughter shrank as far as she could in the confined space. -</p> - -<p> -“Stop the cab. Stop him I tell you. Let me get out!” were the strangled -exclamations she heard. Why? What for? To do what? He would hear nothing. She -cried to him “Papa! Papa! What do you want to do?” And all she got from him -was: “Stop. I must get out. I want to think. I must get out to think.” -</p> - -<p> -It was a mercy that he didn’t attempt to open the door at once. He only stuck -his head and shoulders out of the window crying to the cabman. She saw the -consequences, the cab stopping, a crowd collecting around a raving old -gentleman . . . In this terrible business of being a woman so full of fine -shades, of delicate perplexities (and very small rewards) you can never know -what rough work you may have to do, at any moment. Without hesitation Flora -seized her father round the body and pulled back—being astonished at the ease -with which she managed to make him drop into his seat again. She kept him there -resolutely with one hand pressed against his breast, and leaning across him, -she, in her turn put her head and shoulders out of the window. By then the cab -had drawn up to the curbstone and was stopped. “No! I’ve changed my mind. Go on -please where you were told first. To the docks.” -</p> - -<p> -She wondered at the steadiness of her own voice. She heard a grunt from the -driver and the cab began to roll again. Only then she sank into her place -keeping a watchful eye on her companion. He was hardly anything more by this -time. Except for her childhood’s impressions he was just—a man. Almost a -stranger. How was one to deal with him? And there was the other too. Also -almost a stranger. The trade of being a woman was very difficult. Too -difficult. Flora closed her eyes saying to herself: “If I think too much about -it I shall go mad.” And then opening them she asked her father if the prospect -of living always with his daughter and being taken care of by her affection -away from the world, which had no honour to give to his grey hairs, was such an -awful prospect. -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me, is it so bad as that?” -</p> - -<p> -She put that question sadly, without bitterness. The famous—or notorious—de -Barral had lost his rigidity now. He was bent. Nothing more deplorably futile -than a bent poker. He said nothing. She added gently, suppressing an uneasy -remorseful sigh: -</p> - -<p> -“And it might have been worse. You might have found no one, no one in all this -town, no one in all the world, not even me! Poor papa!” -</p> - -<p> -She made a conscience-stricken movement towards him thinking: “Oh! I am -horrible, I am horrible.” And old de Barral, scared, tired, bewildered by the -extraordinary shocks of his liberation, swayed over and actually leaned his -head on her shoulder, as if sorrowing over his regained freedom. -</p> - -<p> -The movement by itself was touching. Flora supporting him lightly imagined that -he was crying; and at the thought that had she smashed in a quarry that -shoulder, together with some other of her bones, this grey and pitiful head -would have had nowhere to rest, she too gave way to tears. They flowed quietly, -easing her overstrained nerves. Suddenly he pushed her away from him so that -her head struck the side of the cab, pushing himself away too from her as if -something had stung him. -</p> - -<p> -All the warmth went out of her emotion. The very last tears turned cold on her -cheek. But their work was done. She had found courage, resolution, as women do, -in a good cry. With his hand covering the upper part of his face whether to -conceal his eyes or to shut out an unbearable sight, he was stiffening up in -his corner to his usual poker-like consistency. She regarded him in silence. -His thin obstinate lips moved. He uttered the name of the cousin—the man, you -remember, who did not approve of the Fynes, and whom rightly or wrongly little -Fyne suspected of interested motives, in view of de Barral having possibly put -away some plunder, somewhere before the smash. -</p> - -<p> -I may just as well tell you at once that I don’t know anything more of him. But -de Barral was of the opinion, speaking in his low voice from under his hand, -that this relation would have been only too glad to have secured his guidance. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I could not come forward in my own name, or person. But the advice -of a man of my experience is as good as a fortune to anybody wishing to venture -into finance. The same sort of thing can be done again.” -</p> - -<p> -He shuffled his feet a little, let fall his hand; and turning carefully toward -his daughter his puffy round cheeks, his round chin resting on his collar, he -bent on her the faded, resentful gaze of his pale eyes, which were wet. -</p> - -<p> -“The start is really only a matter of judicious advertising. There’s no -difficulty. And here you go and . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -He turned his face away. “After all I am still de Barral, <i>the</i> de Barral. -Didn’t you remember that?” -</p> - -<p> -“Papa,” said Flora; “listen. It’s you who must remember that there is no longer -a de Barral . . . ” He looked at her sideways anxiously. “There is Mr. Smith, -whom no harm, no trouble, no wicked lies of evil people can ever touch.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Smith,” he breathed out slowly. “Where does he belong to? There’s not even -a Miss Smith.” -</p> - -<p> -“There is your Flora.” -</p> - -<p> -“My Flora! You went and . . . I can’t bear to think of it. It’s horrible.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. It was horrible enough at times,” she said with feeling, because somehow, -obscurely, what this man said appealed to her as if it were her own thought -clothed in an enigmatic emotion. “I think with shame sometimes how I . . . No -not yet. I shall not tell you. At least not now.” -</p> - -<p> -The cab turned into the gateway of the dock. Flora handed the tall hat to her -father. “Here, papa. And please be good. I suppose you love me. If you don’t, -then I wonder who—” -</p> - -<p> -He put the hat on, and stiffened hard in his corner, kept a sidelong glance on -his girl. “Try to be nice for my sake. Think of the years I have been waiting -for you. I do indeed want support—and peace. A little peace.” -</p> - -<p> -She clasped his arm suddenly with both hands pressing with all her might as if -to crush the resistance she felt in him. “I could not have peace if I did not -have you with me. I won’t let you go. Not after all I went through. I won’t.” -The nervous force of her grip frightened him a little. She laughed suddenly. -“It’s absurd. It’s as if I were asking you for a sacrifice. What am I afraid -of? Where could you go? I mean now, to-day, to-night? You can’t tell me. Have -you thought of it? Well I have been thinking of it for the last year. Longer. I -nearly went mad trying to find out. I believe I was mad for a time or else I -should never have thought . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“This was as near as she came to a confession,” remarked Marlow in a changed -tone. “The confession I mean of that walk to the top of the quarry which she -reproached herself with so bitterly. And he made of it what his fancy -suggested. It could not possibly be a just notion. The cab stopped alongside -the ship and they got out in the manner described by the sensitive Franklin. I -don’t know if they suspected each other’s sanity at the end of that drive. But -that is possible. We all seem a little mad to each other; an excellent -arrangement for the bulk of humanity which finds in it an easy motive of -forgiveness. Flora crossed the quarter-deck with a rapidity born of -apprehension. It had grown unbearable. She wanted this business over. She was -thankful on looking back to see he was following her. “If he bolts away,” she -thought, “then I shall know that I am of no account indeed! That no one loves -me, that words and actions and protestations and everything in the world is -false—and I shall jump into the dock. <i>That</i> at least won’t lie.” -</p> - -<p> -Well I don’t know. If it had come to that she would have been most likely -fished out, what with her natural want of luck and the good many people on the -quay and on board. And just where the <i>Ferndale</i> was moored there hung on -a wall (I know the berth) a coil of line, a pole, and a life-buoy kept there on -purpose to save people who tumble into the dock. It’s not so easy to get away -from life’s betrayals as she thought. However it did not come to that. He -followed her with his quick gliding walk. Mr. Smith! The liberated convict de -Barral passed off the solid earth for the last time, vanished for ever, and -there was Mr. Smith added to that world of waters which harbours so many queer -fishes. An old gentleman in a silk hat, darting wary glances. He followed, -because mere existence has its claims which are obeyed mechanically. I have no -doubt he presented a respectable figure. Father-in-law. Nothing more -respectable. But he carried in his heart the confused pain of dismay and -affection, of involuntary repulsion and pity. Very much like his daughter. Only -in addition he felt a furious jealousy of the man he was going to see. -</p> - -<p> -A residue of egoism remains in every affection—even paternal. And this man in -the seclusion of his prison had thought himself into such a sense of ownership -of that single human being he had to think about, as may well be inconceivable -to us who have not had to serve a long (and wickedly unjust) sentence of penal -servitude. She was positively the only thing, the one point where his thoughts -found a resting-place, for years. She was the only outlet for his imagination. -He had not much of that faculty to be sure, but there was in it the force of -concentration. He felt outraged, and perhaps it was an absurdity on his part, -but I venture to suggest rather in degree than in kind. I have a notion that no -usual, normal father is pleased at parting with his daughter. No. Not even when -he rationally appreciates “Jane being taken off his hands” or perhaps is able -to exult at an excellent match. At bottom, quite deep down, down in the dark -(in some cases only by digging), there is to be found a certain repugnance . . -. With mothers of course it is different. Women are more loyal, not to each -other, but to their common femininity which they behold triumphant with a -secret and proud satisfaction. -</p> - -<p> -The circumstances of that match added to Mr. Smith’s indignation. And if he -followed his daughter into that ship’s cabin it was as if into a house of -disgrace and only because he was still bewildered by the suddenness of the -thing. His will, so long lying fallow, was overborne by her determination and -by a vague fear of that regained liberty. -</p> - -<p> -You will be glad to hear that Anthony, though he did shirk the welcome on the -quay, behaved admirably, with the simplicity of a man who has no small -meannesses and makes no mean reservations. His eyes did not flinch and his -tongue did not falter. He was, I have it on the best authority, admirable in -his earnestness, in his sincerity and also in his restraint. He was perfect. -Nevertheless the vital force of his unknown individuality addressing him so -familiarly was enough to fluster Mr. Smith. Flora saw her father trembling in -all his exiguous length, though he held himself stiffer than ever if that was -possible. He muttered a little and at last managed to utter, not loud of course -but very distinctly: “I am here under protest,” the corners of his mouth sunk -disparagingly, his eyes stony. “I am here under protest. I have been locked up -by a conspiracy. I—” -</p> - -<p> -He raised his hands to his forehead—his silk hat was on the table rim upwards; -he had put it there with a despairing gesture as he came in—he raised his hands -to his forehead. “It seems to me unfair. I—” He broke off again. Anthony looked -at Flora who stood by the side of her father. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, sir, you will soon get used to me. Surely you and she must have had -enough of shore-people and their confounded half-and-half ways to last you both -for a life-time. A particularly merciful lot they are too. You ask Flora. I am -alluding to my own sister, her best friend, and not a bad woman either as they -go.” -</p> - -<p> -The captain of the <i>Ferndale</i> checked himself. “Lucky thing I was there to -step in. I want you to make yourself at home, and before long—” -</p> - -<p> -The faded stare of the Great de Barral silenced Anthony by its inexpressive -fixity. He signalled with his eyes to Flora towards the door of the state-room -fitted specially to receive Mr. Smith, the free man. She seized the free man’s -hat off the table and took him caressingly under the arm. “Yes! This is home, -come and see your room, papa!” -</p> - -<p> -Anthony himself threw open the door and Flora took care to shut it carefully -behind herself and her father. “See,” she began but desisted because it was -clear that he would look at none of the contrivances for his comfort. She -herself had hardly seen them before. He was looking only at the new carpet and -she waited till he should raise his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -He didn’t do that but spoke in his usual voice. “So this is your husband, that -. . . And I locked up!” -</p> - -<p> -“Papa, what’s the good of harping on that,” she remonstrated no louder. “He is -kind.” -</p> - -<p> -“And you went and . . . married him so that he should be kind to me. Is that -it? How did you know that I wanted anybody to be kind to me?” -</p> - -<p> -“How strange you are!” she said thoughtfully. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s hard for a man who has gone through what I have gone through to feel like -other people. Has that occurred to you? . . . ” He looked up at last . . . -“Mrs. Anthony, I can’t bear the sight of the fellow.” She met his eyes without -flinching and he added, “You want to go to him now.” His mild automatic manner -seemed the effect of tremendous self-restraint—and yet she remembered him -always like that. She felt cold all over. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, of course, I must go to him,” she said with a slight start. -</p> - -<p> -He gnashed his teeth at her and she went out. -</p> - -<p> -Anthony had not moved from the spot. One of his hands was resting on the table. -She went up to him, stopped, then deliberately moved still closer. “Thank you, -Roderick.” -</p> - -<p> -“You needn’t thank me,” he murmured. “It’s I who . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“No, perhaps I needn’t. You do what you like. But you are doing it well.” -</p> - -<p> -He sighed then hardly above a whisper because they were near the state-room -door, “Upset, eh?” -</p> - -<p> -She made no sign, no sound of any kind. The thorough falseness of the position -weighed on them both. But he was the braver of the two. “I dare say. At first. -Did you think of telling him you were happy?” -</p> - -<p> -“He never asked me,” she smiled faintly at him. She was disappointed by his -quietness. “I did not say more than I was absolutely obliged to say—of myself.” -She was beginning to be irritated with this man a little. “I told him I had -been very lucky,” she said suddenly despondent, missing Anthony’s masterful -manner, that something arbitrary and tender which, after the first scare, she -had accustomed herself to look forward to with pleasurable apprehension. He was -contemplating her rather blankly. She had not taken off her outdoor things, -hat, gloves. She was like a caller. And she had a movement suggesting the end -of a not very satisfactory business call. “Perhaps it would be just as well if -we went ashore. Time yet.” -</p> - -<p> -He gave her a glimpse of his unconstrained self in the low vehement “You dare!” -which sprang to his lips and out of them with a most menacing inflexion. -</p> - -<p> -“You dare . . . What’s the matter now?” -</p> - -<p> -These last words were shot out not at her but at some target behind her back. -Looking over her shoulder she saw the bald head with black bunches of hair of -the congested and devoted Franklin (he had his cap in his hand) gazing -sentimentally from the saloon doorway with his lobster eyes. He was heard from -the distance in a tone of injured innocence reporting that the berthing master -was alongside and that he wanted to move the ship into the basin before the -crew came on board. -</p> - -<p> -His captain growled “Well, let him,” and waved away the ulcerated and pathetic -soul behind these prominent eyes which lingered on the offensive woman while -the mate backed out slowly. Anthony turned to Flora. -</p> - -<p> -“You could not have meant it. You are as straight as they make them.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am trying to be.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then don’t joke in that way. Think of what would become of—me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes. I forgot. No, I didn’t mean it. It wasn’t a joke. It was -forgetfulness. You wouldn’t have been wronged. I couldn’t have gone. I—I am too -tired.” -</p> - -<p> -He saw she was swaying where she stood and restrained himself violently from -taking her into his arms, his frame trembling with fear as though he had been -tempted to an act of unparalleled treachery. He stepped aside and lowering his -eyes pointed to the door of the stern-cabin. It was only after she passed by -him that he looked up and thus he did not see the angry glance she gave him -before she moved on. He looked after her. She tottered slightly just before -reaching the door and flung it to behind her nervously. -</p> - -<p> -Anthony—he had felt this crash as if the door had been slammed inside his very -breast—stood for a moment without moving and then shouted for Mrs. Brown. This -was the steward’s wife, his lucky inspiration to make Flora comfortable. “Mrs. -Brown! Mrs. Brown!” At last she appeared from somewhere. “Mrs. Anthony has come -on board. Just gone into the cabin. Hadn’t you better see if you can be of any -assistance?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -And again he was alone with the situation he had created in the hardihood and -inexperience of his heart. He thought he had better go on deck. In fact he -ought to have been there before. At any rate it would be the usual thing for -him to be on deck. But a sound of muttering and of faint thuds somewhere near -by arrested his attention. They proceeded from Mr. Smith’s room, he perceived. -It was very extraordinary. “He’s talking to himself,” he thought. “He seems to -be thumping the bulkhead with his fists—or his head.” -</p> - -<p> -Anthony’s eyes grew big with wonder while he listened to these noises. He -became so attentive that he did not notice Mrs. Brown till she actually stopped -before him for a moment to say: -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Anthony doesn’t want any assistance, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -This was you understand the voyage before Mr. Powell—young Powell then—joined -the <i>Ferndale</i>; chance having arranged that he should get his start in -life in that particular ship of all the ships then in the port of London. The -most unrestful ship that ever sailed out of any port on earth. I am not -alluding to her sea-going qualities. Mr. Powell tells me she was as steady as a -church. I mean unrestful in the sense, for instance in which this planet of -ours is unrestful—a matter of an uneasy atmosphere disturbed by passions, -jealousies, loves, hates and the troubles of transcendental good intentions, -which, though ethically valuable, I have no doubt cause often more unhappiness -than the plots of the most evil tendency. For those who refuse to believe in -chance he, I mean Mr. Powell, must have been obviously predestined to add his -native ingenuousness to the sum of all the others carried by the honest ship -<i>Ferndale</i>. He was too ingenuous. Everybody on board was, exception being -made of Mr. Smith who, however, was simple enough in his way, with that -terrible simplicity of the fixed idea, for which there is also another name men -pronounce with dread and aversion. His fixed idea was to save his girl from the -man who had possessed himself of her (I use these words on purpose because the -image they suggest was clearly in Mr. Smith’s mind), possessed himself unfairly -of her while he, the father, was locked up. -</p> - -<p> -“I won’t rest till I have got you away from that man,” he would murmur to her -after long periods of contemplation. We know from Powell how he used to sit on -the skylight near the long deck-chair on which Flora was reclining, gazing into -her face from above with an air of guardianship and investigation at the same -time. -</p> - -<p> -It is almost impossible to say if he ever had considered the event rationally. -The avatar of de Barral into Mr. Smith had not been effected without a -shock—that much one must recognize. It may be that it drove all practical -considerations out of his mind, making room for awful and precise visions which -nothing could dislodge afterwards. -</p> - -<p> -And it might have been the tenacity, the unintelligent tenacity, of the man who -had persisted in throwing millions of other people’s thrift into the Lone -Valley Railway, the Labrador Docks, the Spotted Leopard Copper Mine, and other -grotesque speculations exposed during the famous de Barral trial, amongst -murmurs of astonishment mingled with bursts of laughter. For it is in the -Courts of Law that Comedy finds its last refuge in our deadly serious world. As -to tears and lamentations, these were not heard in the august precincts of -comedy, because they were indulged in privately in several thousand homes, -where, with a fine dramatic effect, hunger had taken the place of Thrift. -</p> - -<p> -But there was one at least who did not laugh in court. That person was the -accused. The notorious de Barral did not laugh because he was indignant. He was -impervious to words, to facts, to inferences. It would have been impossible to -make him see his guilt or his folly—either by evidence or argument—if anybody -had tried to argue. -</p> - -<p> -Neither did his daughter Flora try to argue with him. The cruelty of her -position was so great, its complications so thorny, if I may express myself so, -that a passive attitude was yet her best refuge—as it had been before her of so -many women. -</p> - -<p> -For that sort of inertia in woman is always enigmatic and therefore menacing. -It makes one pause. A woman may be a fool, a sleepy fool, an agitated fool, a -too awfully noxious fool, and she may even be simply stupid. But she is never -dense. She’s never made of wood through and through as some men are. There is -in woman always, somewhere, a spring. Whatever men don’t know about women (and -it may be a lot or it may be very little) men and even fathers do know that -much. And that is why so many men are afraid of them. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Smith I believe was afraid of his daughter’s quietness though of course he -interpreted it in his own way. -</p> - -<p> -He would, as Mr. Powell depicts, sit on the skylight and bend over the -reclining girl, wondering what there was behind the lost gaze under the -darkened eyelids in the still eyes. He would look and look and then he would -say, whisper rather, it didn’t take much for his voice to drop to a mere -breath—he would declare, transferring his faded stare to the horizon, that he -would never rest till he had “got her away from that man.” -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t know what you are saying, papa.” -</p> - -<p> -She would try not to show her weariness, the nervous strain of these two men’s -antagonism around her person which was the cause of her languid attitudes. For -as a matter of fact the sea agreed with her. -</p> - -<p> -As likely as not Anthony would be walking on the other side of the deck. The -strain was making him restless. He couldn’t sit still anywhere. He had tried -shutting himself up in his cabin; but that was no good. He would jump up to -rush on deck and tramp, tramp up and down that poop till he felt ready to drop, -without being able to wear down the agitation of his soul, generous indeed, but -weighted by its envelope of blood and muscle and bone; handicapped by the brain -creating precise images and everlastingly speculating, speculating—looking out -for signs, watching for symptoms. -</p> - -<p> -And Mr. Smith with a slight backward jerk of his small head at the footsteps on -the other side of the skylight would insist in his awful, hopelessly gentle -voice that he knew very well what he was saying. Hadn’t she given herself to -that man while he was locked up. -</p> - -<p> -“Helpless, in jail, with no one to think of, nothing to look forward to, but my -daughter. And then when they let me out at last I find her gone—for it amounts -to this. Sold. Because you’ve sold yourself; you know you have.” -</p> - -<p> -With his round unmoved face, a lot of fine white hair waving in the wind-eddies -of the spanker, his glance levelled over the sea he seemed to be addressing the -universe across her reclining form. She would protest sometimes. -</p> - -<p> -“I wish you would not talk like this, papa. You are only tormenting me, and -tormenting yourself.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I am tormented enough,” he admitted meaningly. But it was not talking -about it that tormented him. It was thinking of it. And to sit and look at it -was worse for him than it possibly could have been for her to go and give -herself up, bad as that must have been. -</p> - -<p> -“For of course you suffered. Don’t tell me you didn’t? You must have.” -</p> - -<p> -She had renounced very soon all attempts at protests. It was useless. It might -have made things worse; and she did not want to quarrel with her father, the -only human being that really cared for her, absolutely, evidently, -completely—to the end. There was in him no pity, no generosity, nothing -whatever of these fine things—it was for her, for her very own self such as it -was, that this human being cared. This certitude would have made her put up -with worse torments. For, of course, she too was being tormented. She felt also -helpless, as if the whole enterprise had been too much for her. This is the -sort of conviction which makes for quietude. She was becoming a fatalist. -</p> - -<p> -What must have been rather appalling were the necessities of daily life, the -intercourse of current trifles. That naturally had to go on. They wished good -morning to each other, they sat down together to meals—and I believe there -would be a game of cards now and then in the evening, especially at first. What -frightened her most was the duplicity of her father, at least what looked like -duplicity, when she remembered his persistent, insistent whispers on deck. -However her father was a taciturn person as far back as she could remember him -best—on the Parade. It was she who chattered, never troubling herself to -discover whether he was pleased or displeased. And now she couldn’t fathom his -thoughts. Neither did she chatter to him. Anthony with a forced friendly smile -as if frozen to his lips seemed only too thankful at not being made to speak. -Mr. Smith sometimes forgot himself while studying his hand so long that Flora -had to recall him to himself by a murmured “Papa—your lead.” Then he apologized -by a faint as if inward ejaculation “Beg your pardon, Captain.” Naturally she -addressed Anthony as Roderick and he addressed her as Flora. This was all the -acting that was necessary to judge from the wincing twitch of the old man’s -mouth at every uttered “Flora.” On hearing the rare “Rodericks” he had -sometimes a scornful grimace as faint and faded and colourless as his whole -stiff personality. -</p> - -<p> -He would be the first to retire. He was not infirm. With him too the life on -board ship seemed to agree; but from a sense of duty, of affection, or to -placate his hidden fury, his daughter always accompanied him to his state-room -“to make him comfortable.” She lighted his lamp, helped him into his -dressing-gown or got him a book from a bookcase fitted in there—but this last -rarely, because Mr. Smith used to declare “I am no reader” with something like -pride in his low tones. Very often after kissing her good-night on the forehead -he would treat her to some such fretful remark: “It’s like being in jail—’pon -my word. I suppose that man is out there waiting for you. Head jailer! Ough!” -</p> - -<p> -She would smile vaguely; murmur a conciliatory “How absurd.” But once, out of -patience, she said quite sharply “Leave off. It hurts me. One would think you -hate me.” -</p> - -<p> -“It isn’t you I hate,” he went on monotonously breathing at her. “No, it isn’t -you. But if I saw that you loved that man I think I could hate you too.” -</p> - -<p> -That word struck straight at her heart. “You wouldn’t be the first then,” she -muttered bitterly. But he was busy with his fixed idea and uttered an awfully -equable “But you don’t! Unfortunate girl!” -</p> - -<p> -She looked at him steadily for a time then said “Good-night, papa.” -</p> - -<p> -As a matter of fact Anthony very seldom waited for her alone at the table with -the scattered cards, glasses, water-jug, bottles and soon. He took no more -opportunities to be alone with her than was absolutely necessary for the -edification of Mrs. Brown. Excellent, faithful woman; the wife of his still -more excellent and faithful steward. And Flora wished all these excellent -people, devoted to Anthony, she wished them all further; and especially the -nice, pleasant-spoken Mrs. Brown with her beady, mobile eyes and her “Yes -certainly, ma’am,” which seemed to her to have a mocking sound. And so this -short trip—to the Western Islands only—came to an end. It was so short that -when young Powell joined the <i>Ferndale</i> by a memorable stroke of chance, -no more than seven months had elapsed since the—let us say the liberation of -the convict de Barral and his avatar into Mr. Smith. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -For the time the ship was loading in London Anthony took a cottage near a -little country station in Essex, to house Mr. Smith and Mr. Smith’s daughter. -It was altogether his idea. How far it was necessary for Mr. Smith to seek -rural retreat I don’t know. Perhaps to some extent it was a judicious -arrangement. There were some obligations incumbent on the liberated de Barral -(in connection with reporting himself to the police I imagine) which Mr. Smith -was not anxious to perform. De Barral had to vanish; the theory was that de -Barral had vanished, and it had to be upheld. Poor Flora liked the country, -even if the spot had nothing more to recommend it than its retired character. -</p> - -<p> -Now and then Captain Anthony ran down; but as the station was a real wayside -one, with no early morning trains up, he could never stay for more than the -afternoon. It appeared that he must sleep in town so as to be early on board -his ship. The weather was magnificent and whenever the captain of the -<i>Ferndale</i> was seen on a brilliant afternoon coming down the road Mr. -Smith would seize his stick and toddle off for a solitary walk. But whether he -would get tired or because it gave him some satisfaction to see “that man” go -away—or for some cunning reason of his own, he was always back before the hour -of Anthony’s departure. On approaching the cottage he would see generally “that -man” lying on the grass in the orchard at some distance from his daughter -seated in a chair brought out of the cottage’s living room. Invariably Mr. -Smith made straight for them and as invariably had the feeling that his -approach was not disturbing a very intimate conversation. He sat with them, -through a silent hour or so, and then it would be time for Anthony to go. Mr. -Smith, perhaps from discretion, would casually vanish a minute or so before, -and then watch through the diamond panes of an upstairs room “that man” take a -lingering look outside the gate at the invisible Flora, lift his hat, like a -caller, and go off down the road. Then only Mr. Smith would join his daughter -again. -</p> - -<p> -These were the bad moments for her. Not always, of course, but frequently. It -was nothing extraordinary to hear Mr. Smith begin gently with some observation -like this: -</p> - -<p> -“That man is getting tired of you.” -</p> - -<p> -He would never pronounce Anthony’s name. It was always “that man.” -</p> - -<p> -Generally she would remain mute with wide open eyes gazing at nothing between -the gnarled fruit trees. Once, however, she got up and walked into the cottage. -Mr. Smith followed her carrying the chair. He banged it down resolutely and in -that smooth inexpressive tone so many ears used to bend eagerly to catch when -it came from the Great de Barral he said: -</p> - -<p> -“Let’s get away.” -</p> - -<p> -She had the strength of mind not to spin round. On the contrary she went on to -a shabby bit of a mirror on the wall. In the greenish glass her own face looked -far off like the livid face of a drowned corpse at the bottom of a pool. She -laughed faintly. -</p> - -<p> -“I tell you that man’s getting—” -</p> - -<p> -“Papa,” she interrupted him. “I have no illusions as to myself. It has happened -to me before but—” -</p> - -<p> -Her voice failing her suddenly her father struck in with quite an unwonted -animation. “Let’s make a rush for it, then.” -</p> - -<p> -Having mastered both her fright and her bitterness, she turned round, sat down -and allowed her astonishment to be seen. Mr. Smith sat down too, his knees -together and bent at right angles, his thin legs parallel to each other and his -hands resting on the arms of the wooden arm-chair. His hair had grown long, his -head was set stiffly, there was something fatuously venerable in his aspect. -</p> - -<p> -“You can’t care for him. Don’t tell me. I understand your motive. And I have -called you an unfortunate girl. You are that as much as if you had gone on the -streets. Yes. Don’t interrupt me, Flora. I was everlastingly being interrupted -at the trial and I can’t stand it any more. I won’t be interrupted by my own -child. And when I think that it is on the very day before they let me out that -you . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -He had wormed this fact out of her by that time because Flora had got tired of -evading the question. He had been very much struck and distressed. Was that the -trust she had in him? Was that a proof of confidence and love? The very day -before! Never given him even half a chance. It was as at the trial. They never -gave him a chance. They would not give him time. And there was his own daughter -acting exactly as his bitterest enemies had done. Not giving him time! -</p> - -<p> -The monotony of that subdued voice nearly lulled her dismay to sleep. She -listened to the unavoidable things he was saying. -</p> - -<p> -“But what induced that man to marry you? Of course he’s a gentleman. One can -see that. And that makes it worse. Gentlemen don’t understand anything about -city affairs—finance. Why!—the people who started the cry after me were a firm -of gentlemen. The counsel, the judge—all gentlemen—quite out of it! No notion -of . . . And then he’s a sailor too. Just a skipper—” -</p> - -<p> -“My grandfather was nothing else,” she interrupted. And he made an angular -gesture of impatience. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. But what does a silly sailor know of business? Nothing. No conception. He -can have no idea of what it means to be the daughter of Mr. de Barral—even -after his enemies had smashed him. What on earth induced him—” -</p> - -<p> -She made a movement because the level voice was getting on her nerves. And he -paused, but only to go on again in the same tone with the remark: -</p> - -<p> -“Of course you are pretty. And that’s why you are lost—like many other poor -girls. Unfortunate is the word for you.” -</p> - -<p> -She said: “It may be. Perhaps it is the right word; but listen, papa. I mean to -be honest.” -</p> - -<p> -He began to exhale more speeches. -</p> - -<p> -“Just the sort of man to get tired and then leave you and go off with his -beastly ship. And anyway you can never be happy with him. Look at his face. I -want to save you. You see I was not perhaps a very good husband to your poor -mother. She would have done better to have left me long before she died. I have -been thinking it all over. I won’t have you unhappy.” -</p> - -<p> -He ran his eyes over her with an attention which was surprisingly noticeable. -Then said, “H’m! Yes. Let’s clear out before it is too late. Quietly, you and -I.” -</p> - -<p> -She said as if inspired and with that calmness which despair often gives: -“There is no money to go away with, papa.” -</p> - -<p> -He rose up straightening himself as though he were a hinged figure. She said -decisively: -</p> - -<p> -“And of course you wouldn’t think of deserting me, papa?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course not,” sounded his subdued tone. And he left her, gliding away with -his walk which Mr. Powell described to me as being as level and wary as his -voice. He walked as if he were carrying a glass full of water on his head. -</p> - -<p> -Flora naturally said nothing to Anthony of that edifying conversation. His -generosity might have taken alarm at it and she did not want to be left behind -to manage her father alone. And moreover she was too honest. She would be -honest at whatever cost. She would not be the first to speak. Never. And the -thought came into her head: “I am indeed an unfortunate creature!” -</p> - -<p> -It was by the merest coincidence that Anthony coming for the afternoon two days -later had a talk with Mr. Smith in the orchard. Flora for some reason or other -had left them for a moment; and Anthony took that opportunity to be frank with -Mr. Smith. He said: “It seems to me, sir, that you think Flora has not done -very well for herself. Well, as to that I can’t say anything. All I want you to -know is that I have tried to do the right thing.” And then he explained that he -had willed everything he was possessed of to her. “She didn’t tell you, I -suppose?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Smith shook his head slightly. And Anthony, trying to be friendly, was just -saying that he proposed to keep the ship away from home for at least two years. -“I think, sir, that from every point of view it would be best,” when Flora came -back and the conversation, cut short in that direction, languished and died. -Later in the evening, after Anthony had been gone for hours, on the point of -separating for the night, Mr. Smith remarked suddenly to his daughter after a -long period of brooding: -</p> - -<p> -“A will is nothing. One tears it up. One makes another.” Then after reflecting -for a minute he added unemotionally: -</p> - -<p> -“One tells lies about it.” -</p> - -<p> -Flora, patient, steeled against every hurt and every disgust to the point of -wondering at herself, said: “You push your dislike of—of—Roderick too far, -papa. You have no regard for me. You hurt me.” -</p> - -<p> -He, as ever inexpressive to the point of terrifying her sometimes by the -contrast of his placidity and his words, turned away from her a pair of faded -eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder how far your dislike goes,” he began. “His very name sticks in your -throat. I’ve noticed it. It hurts me. What do you think of that? You might -remember that you are not the only person that’s hurt by your folly, by your -hastiness, by your recklessness.” He brought back his eyes to her face. “And -the very day before they were going to let me out.” His feeble voice failed him -altogether, the narrow compressed lips only trembling for a time before he -added with that extraordinary equanimity of tone, “I call it sinful.” -</p> - -<p> -Flora made no answer. She judged it simpler, kinder and certainly safer to let -him talk himself out. This, Mr. Smith, being naturally taciturn, never took -very long to do. And we must not imagine that this sort of thing went on all -the time. She had a few good days in that cottage. The absence of Anthony was a -relief and his visits were pleasurable. She was quieter. He was quieter too. -She was almost sorry when the time to join the ship arrived. It was a moment of -anguish, of excitement; they arrived at the dock in the evening and Flora after -“making her father comfortable” according to established usage lingered in the -state-room long enough to notice that he was surprised. She caught his pale -eyes observing her quite stonily. Then she went out after a cheery good-night. -</p> - -<p> -Contrary to her hopes she found Anthony yet in the saloon. Sitting in his -arm-chair at the head of the table he was picking up some business papers which -he put hastily in his breast pocket and got up. He asked her if her day, -travelling up to town and then doing some shopping, had tired her. She shook -her head. Then he wanted to know in a half-jocular way how she felt about going -away, and for a long voyage this time. -</p> - -<p> -“Does it matter how I feel?” she asked in a tone that cast a gloom over his -face. He answered with repressed violence which she did not expect: -</p> - -<p> -“No, it does not matter, because I cannot go without you. I’ve told you . . . -You know it. You don’t think I could.” -</p> - -<p> -“I assure you I haven’t the slightest wish to evade my obligations,” she said -steadily. “Even if I could. Even if I dared, even if I had to die for it!” -</p> - -<p> -He looked thunderstruck. They stood facing each other at the end of the saloon. -Anthony stuttered. “Oh no. You won’t die. You don’t mean it. You have taken -kindly to the sea.” -</p> - -<p> -She laughed, but she felt angry. -</p> - -<p> -“No, I don’t mean it. I tell you I don’t mean to evade my obligations. I shall -live on . . . feeling a little crushed, nevertheless.” -</p> - -<p> -“Crushed!” he repeated. “What’s crushing you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Your magnanimity,” she said sharply. But her voice was softened after a time. -“Yet I don’t know. There is a perfection in it—do you understand me, -Roderick?—which makes it almost possible to bear.” -</p> - -<p> -He sighed, looked away, and remarked that it was time to put out the lamp in -the saloon. The permission was only till ten o’clock. -</p> - -<p> -“But you needn’t mind that so much in your cabin. Just see that the curtains of -the ports are drawn close and that’s all. The steward might have forgotten to -do it. He lighted your reading lamp in there before he went ashore for a last -evening with his wife. I don’t know if it was wise to get rid of Mrs. Brown. -You will have to look after yourself, Flora.” -</p> - -<p> -He was quite anxious; but Flora as a matter of fact congratulated herself on -the absence of Mrs. Brown. No sooner had she closed the door of her state-room -than she murmured fervently, “Yes! Thank goodness, she is gone.” There would be -no gentle knock, followed by her appearance with her equivocal stare and the -intolerable: “Can I do anything for you, ma’am?” which poor Flora had learned -to fear and hate more than any voice or any words on board that ship—her only -refuge from the world which had no use for her, for her imperfections and for -her troubles. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Brown had been very much vexed at her dismissal. The Browns were a -childless couple and the arrangement had suited them perfectly. Their -resentment was very bitter. Mrs. Brown had to remain ashore alone with her -rage, but the steward was nursing his on board. Poor Flora had no greater -enemy, the aggrieved mate had no greater sympathizer. And Mrs. Brown, with a -woman’s quick power of observation and inference (the putting of two and two -together) had come to a certain conclusion which she had imparted to her -husband before leaving the ship. The morose steward permitted himself once to -make an allusion to it in Powell’s hearing. It was in the officers’ mess-room -at the end of a meal while he lingered after putting a fruit pie on the table. -He and the chief mate started a dialogue about the alarming change in the -captain, the sallow steward looking down with a sinister frown, Franklin -rolling upwards his eyes, sentimental in a red face. Young Powell had heard a -lot of that sort of thing by that time. It was growing monotonous; it had -always sounded to him a little absurd. He struck in impatiently with the remark -that such lamentations over a man merely because he had taken a wife seemed to -him like lunacy. -</p> - -<p> -Franklin muttered, “Depends on what the wife is up to.” The steward leaning -against the bulkhead near the door glowered at Powell, that newcomer, that -ignoramus, that stranger without right or privileges. He snarled: -</p> - -<p> -“Wife! Call her a wife, do you?” -</p> - -<p> -“What the devil do you mean by this?” exclaimed young Powell. -</p> - -<p> -“I know what I know. My old woman has not been six months on board for nothing. -You had better ask her when we get back.” -</p> - -<p> -And meeting sullenly the withering stare of Mr. Powell the steward retreated -backwards. -</p> - -<p> -Our young friend turned at once upon the mate. “And you let that confounded -bottle-washer talk like this before you, Mr. Franklin. Well, I am astonished.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, it isn’t what you think. It isn’t what you think.” Mr. Franklin looked -more apoplectic than ever. “If it comes to that I could astonish you. But it’s -no use. I myself can hardly . . . You couldn’t understand. I hope you won’t try -to make mischief. There was a time, young fellow, when I would have dared any -man—any man, you hear?—to make mischief between me and Captain Anthony. But not -now. Not now. There’s a change! Not in me though . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell rejected with indignation any suggestion of making mischief. “Who -do you take me for?” he cried. “Only you had better tell that steward to be -careful what he says before me or I’ll spoil his good looks for him for a month -and will leave him to explain the why of it to the captain the best way he -can.” -</p> - -<p> -This speech established Powell as a champion of Mrs. Anthony. Nothing more -bearing on the question was ever said before him. He did not care for the -steward’s black looks; Franklin, never conversational even at the best of times -and avoiding now the only topic near his heart, addressed him only on matters -of duty. And for that, too, Powell cared very little. The woes of the -apoplectic mate had begun to bore him long before. Yet he felt lonely a bit at -times. Therefore the little intercourse with Mrs. Anthony either in one -dog-watch or the other was something to be looked forward to. The captain did -not mind it. That was evident from his manner. One night he inquired (they were -then alone on the poop) what they had been talking about that evening? Powell -had to confess that it was about the ship. Mrs. Anthony had been asking him -questions. -</p> - -<p> -“Takes interest—eh?” jerked out the captain moving rapidly up and down the -weather side of the poop. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir. Mrs. Anthony seems to get hold wonderfully of what one’s telling -her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Sailor’s granddaughter. One of the old school. Old sea-dog of the best kind, I -believe,” ejaculated the captain, swinging past his motionless second officer -and leaving the words behind him like a trail of sparks succeeded by a perfect -conversational darkness, because, for the next two hours till he left the deck, -he didn’t open his lips again. -</p> - -<p> -On another occasion . . . we mustn’t forget that the ship had crossed the line -and was adding up south latitude every day by then . . . on another occasion, -about seven in the evening, Powell on duty, heard his name uttered softly in -the companion. The captain was on the stairs, thin-faced, his eyes sunk, on his -arm a Shetland wool wrap. -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Powell—here.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Give this to Mrs. Anthony. Evenings are getting chilly.” -</p> - -<p> -And the haggard face sank out of sight. Mrs. Anthony was surprised on seeing -the shawl. -</p> - -<p> -“The captain wants you to put this on,” explained young Powell, and as she -raised herself in her seat he dropped it on her shoulders. She wrapped herself -up closely. -</p> - -<p> -“Where was the captain?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -“He was in the companion. Called me on purpose,” said Powell, and then -retreated discreetly, because she looked as though she didn’t want to talk any -more that evening. Mr. Smith—the old gentleman—was as usual sitting on the -skylight near her head, brooding over the long chair but by no means inimical, -as far as his unreadable face went, to those conversations of the two youngest -people on board. In fact they seemed to give him some pleasure. Now and then he -would raise his faded china eyes to the animated face of Mr. Powell -thoughtfully. When the young sailor was by, the old man became less rigid, and -when his daughter, on rare occasions, smiled at some artless tale of Mr. -Powell, the inexpressive face of Mr. Smith reflected dimly that flash of -evanescent mirth. For Mr. Powell had come now to entertain his captain’s wife -with anecdotes from the not very distant past when he was a boy, on board -various ships,—funny things do happen on board ship. Flora was quite surprised -at times to find herself amused. She was even heard to laugh twice in the -course of a month. It was not a loud sound but it was startling enough at the -after-end of the <i>Ferndale</i> where low tones or silence were the rule. The -second time this happened the captain himself must have been startled somewhere -down below; because he emerged from the depths of his unobtrusive existence and -began his tramping on the opposite side of the poop. -</p> - -<p> -Almost immediately he called his young second officer over to him. This was not -done in displeasure. The glance he fastened on Mr. Powell conveyed a sort of -approving wonder. He engaged him in desultory conversation as if for the only -purpose of keeping a man who could provoke such a sound, near his person. Mr. -Powell felt himself liked. He felt it. Liked by that haggard, restless man who -threw at him disconnected phrases to which his answers were, “Yes, sir,” “No, -sir,” “Oh, certainly,” “I suppose so, sir,”—and might have been clearly -anything else for all the other cared. -</p> - -<p> -It was then, Mr. Powell told me, that he discovered in himself an already -old-established liking for Captain Anthony. He also felt sorry for him without -being able to discover the origins of that sympathy of which he had become so -suddenly aware. -</p> - -<p> -Meantime Mr. Smith, bending forward stiffly as though he had a hinged back, was -speaking to his daughter. -</p> - -<p> -She was a child no longer. He wanted to know if she believed in—in hell. In -eternal punishment? -</p> - -<p> -His peculiar voice, as if filtered through cotton-wool was inaudible on the -other side of the deck. Poor Flora, taken very much unawares, made an -inarticulate murmur, shook her head vaguely, and glanced in the direction of -the pacing Anthony who was not looking her way. It was no use glancing in that -direction. Of young Powell, leaning against the mizzen-mast and facing his -captain she could only see the shoulder and part of a blue serge back. -</p> - -<p> -And the unworried, unaccented voice of her father went on tormenting her. -</p> - -<p> -“You see, you must understand. When I came out of jail it was with joy. That -is, my soul was fairly torn in two—but anyway to see you happy—I had made up my -mind to that. Once I could be sure that you were happy then of course I would -have had no reason to care for life—strictly speaking—which is all right for an -old man; though naturally . . . no reason to wish for death either. But this -sort of life! What sense, what meaning, what value has it either for you or for -me? It’s just sitting down to look at the death, that’s coming, coming. What -else is it? I don’t know how you can put up with that. I don’t think you can -stand it for long. Some day you will jump overboard.” -</p> - -<p> -Captain Anthony had stopped for a moment staring ahead from the break of the -poop, and poor Flora sent at his back a look of despairing appeal which would -have moved a heart of stone. But as though she had done nothing he did not stir -in the least. She got out of the long chair and went towards the companion. Her -father followed carrying a few small objects, a handbag, her handkerchief, a -book. They went down together. -</p> - -<p> -It was only then that Captain Anthony turned, looked at the place they had -vacated and resumed his tramping, but not his desultory conversation with his -second officer. His nervous exasperation had grown so much that now very often -he used to lose control of his voice. If he did not watch himself it would -suddenly die in his throat. He had to make sure before he ventured on the -simplest saying, an order, a remark on the wind, a simple good-morning. That’s -why his utterance was abrupt, his answers to people startlingly brusque and -often not forthcoming at all. -</p> - -<p> -It happens to the most resolute of men to find himself at grips not only with -unknown forces, but with a well-known force the real might of which he had not -understood. Anthony had discovered that he was not the proud master but the -chafing captive of his generosity. It rose in front of him like a wall which -his respect for himself forbade him to scale. He said to himself: “Yes, I was a -fool—but she has trusted me!” Trusted! A terrible word to any man somewhat -exceptional in a world in which success has never been found in renunciation -and good faith. And it must also be said, in order not to make Anthony more -stupidly sublime than he was, that the behaviour of Flora kept him at a -distance. The girl was afraid to add to the exasperation of her father. It was -her unhappy lot to be made more wretched by the only affection which she could -not suspect. She could not be angry with it, however, and out of deference for -that exaggerated sentiment she hardly dared to look otherwise than by stealth -at the man whose masterful compassion had carried her off. And quite unable to -understand the extent of Anthony’s delicacy, she said to herself that “he -didn’t care.” He probably was beginning at bottom to detest her—like the -governess, like the maiden lady, like the German woman, like Mrs. Fyne, like -Mr. Fyne—only he was extraordinary, he was generous. At the same time she had -moments of irritation. He was violent, headstrong—perhaps stupid. Well, he had -had his way. -</p> - -<p> -A man who has had his way is seldom happy, for generally he finds that the way -does not lead very far on this earth of desires which can never be fully -satisfied. Anthony had entered with extreme precipitation the enchanted gardens -of Armida saying to himself “At last!” As to Armida, herself, he was not going -to offer her any violence. But now he had discovered that all the enchantment -was in Armida herself, in Armida’s smiles. This Armida did not smile. She -existed, unapproachable, behind the blank wall of his renunciation. His force, -fit for action, experienced the impatience, the indignation, almost the despair -of his vitality arrested, bound, stilled, progressively worn down, frittered -away by Time; by that force blind and insensible, which seems inert and yet -uses one’s life up by its imperceptible action, dropping minute after minute on -one’s living heart like drops of water wearing down a stone. -</p> - -<p> -He upbraided himself. What else could he have expected? He had rushed in like a -ruffian; he had dragged the poor defenceless thing by the hair of her head, as -it were, on board that ship. It was really atrocious. Nothing assured him that -his person could be attractive to this or any other woman. And his proceedings -were enough in themselves to make anyone odious. He must have been bereft of -his senses. She must fatally detest and fear him. Nothing could make up for -such brutality. And yet somehow he resented this very attitude which seemed to -him completely justifiable. Surely he was not too monstrous (morally) to be -looked at frankly sometimes. But no! She wouldn’t. Well, perhaps, some day . . -. Only he was not going ever to attempt to beg for forgiveness. With the -repulsion she felt for his person she would certainly misunderstand the most -guarded words, the most careful advances. Never! Never! -</p> - -<p> -It would occur to Anthony at the end of such meditations that death was not an -unfriendly visitor after all. No wonder then that even young Powell, his -faculties having been put on the alert, began to think that there was something -unusual about the man who had given him his chance in life. Yes, decidedly, his -captain was “strange.” There was something wrong somewhere, he said to himself, -never guessing that his young and candid eyes were in the presence of a passion -profound, tyrannical and mortal, discovering its own existence, astounded at -feeling itself helpless and dismayed at finding itself incurable. -</p> - -<p> -Powell had never before felt this mysterious uneasiness so strongly as on that -evening when it had been his good fortune to make Mrs. Anthony laugh a little -by his artless prattle. Standing out of the way, he had watched his captain -walk the weather-side of the poop, he took full cognizance of his liking for -that inexplicably strange man and saw him swerve towards the companion and go -down below with sympathetic if utterly uncomprehending eyes. -</p> - -<p> -Shortly afterwards, Mr. Smith came up alone and manifested a desire for a -little conversation. He, too, if not so mysterious as the captain, was not very -comprehensible to Mr. Powell’s uninformed candour. He often favoured thus the -second officer. His talk alluded somewhat enigmatically and often without -visible connection to Mr. Powell’s friendliness towards himself and his -daughter. “For I am well aware that we have no friends on board this ship, my -dear young man,” he would add, “except yourself. Flora feels that too.” -</p> - -<p> -And Mr. Powell, flattered and embarrassed, could but emit a vague murmur of -protest. For the statement was true in a sense, though the fact was in itself -insignificant. The feelings of the ship’s company could not possibly matter to -the captain’s wife and to Mr. Smith—her father. Why the latter should so often -allude to it was what surprised our Mr. Powell. This was by no means the first -occasion. More like the twentieth rather. And in his weak voice, with his -monotonous intonation, leaning over the rail and looking at the water the other -continued this conversation, or rather his remarks, remarks of such a monstrous -nature that Mr. Powell had no option but to accept them for gruesome jesting. -</p> - -<p> -“For instance,” said Mr. Smith, “that mate, Franklin, I believe he would just -as soon see us both overboard as not.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s not so bad as that,” laughed Mr. Powell, feeling uncomfortable, because -his mind did not accommodate itself easily to exaggeration of statement. “He -isn’t a bad chap really,” he added, very conscious of Mr. Franklin’s offensive -manner of which instances were not far to seek. “He’s such a fool as to be -jealous. He has been with the captain for years. It’s not for me to say, -perhaps, but I think the captain has spoiled all that gang of old servants. -They are like a lot of pet old dogs. Wouldn’t let anybody come near him if they -could help it. I’ve never seen anything like it. And the second mate, I -believe, was like that too.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, he isn’t here, luckily. There would have been one more enemy,” said Mr. -Smith. “There’s enough of them without him. And you being here instead of him -makes it much more pleasant for my daughter and myself. One feels there may be -a friend in need. For really, for a woman all alone on board ship amongst a lot -of unfriendly men . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“But Mrs Anthony is not alone,” exclaimed Powell. “There’s you, and there’s the -. . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Smith interrupted him. -</p> - -<p> -“Nobody’s immortal. And there are times when one feels ashamed to live. Such an -evening as this for instance.” -</p> - -<p> -It was a lovely evening; the colours of a splendid sunset had died out and the -breath of a warm breeze seemed to have smoothed out the sea. Away to the south -the sheet lightning was like the flashing of an enormous lantern hidden under -the horizon. In order to change the conversation Mr. Powell said: -</p> - -<p> -“Anyway no one can charge you with being a Jonah, Mr. Smith. We have had a -magnificent quick passage so far. The captain ought to be pleased. And I -suppose you are not sorry either.” -</p> - -<p> -This diversion was not successful. Mr. Smith emitted a sort of bitter chuckle -and said: “Jonah! That’s the fellow that was thrown overboard by some sailors. -It seems to me it’s very easy at sea to get rid of a person one does not like. -The sea does not give up its dead as the earth does.” -</p> - -<p> -“You forget the whale, sir,” said young Powell. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Smith gave a start. “Eh? What whale? Oh! Jonah. I wasn’t thinking of Jonah. -I was thinking of this passage which seems so quick to you. But only think what -it is to me? It isn’t a life, going about the sea like this. And, for instance, -if one were to fall ill, there isn’t a doctor to find out what’s the matter -with one. It’s worrying. It makes me anxious at times.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is Mrs. Anthony not feeling well?” asked Powell. But Mr. Smith’s remark was -not meant for Mrs. Anthony. She was well. He himself was well. It was the -captain’s health that did not seem quite satisfactory. Had Mr. Powell noticed -his appearance? -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell didn’t know enough of the captain to judge. He couldn’t tell. But he -observed thoughtfully that Mr. Franklin had been saying the same thing. And -Franklin had known the captain for years. The mate was quite worried about it. -</p> - -<p> -This intelligence startled Mr. Smith considerably. “Does he think he is in -danger of dying?” he exclaimed with an animation quite extraordinary for him, -which horrified Mr. Powell. -</p> - -<p> -“Heavens! Die! No! Don’t you alarm yourself, sir. I’ve never heard a word about -danger from Mr. Franklin.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, well,” sighed Mr. Smith and left the poop for the saloon rather -abruptly. -</p> - -<p> -As a matter of fact Mr. Franklin had been on deck for some considerable time. -He had come to relieve young Powell; but seeing him engaged in talk with the -“enemy”—with one of the “enemies” at least—had kept at a distance, which, the -poop of the <i>Ferndale</i> being aver seventy feet long, he had no difficulty -in doing. Mr. Powell saw him at the head of the ladder leaning on his elbow, -melancholy and silent. “Oh! Here you are, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Here I am. Here I’ve been ever since six o’clock. Didn’t want to interrupt the -pleasant conversation. If you like to put in half of your watch below jawing -with a dear friend, that’s not my affair. Funny taste though.” -</p> - -<p> -“He isn’t a bad chap,” said the impartial Powell. -</p> - -<p> -The mate snorted angrily, tapping the deck with his foot; then: “Isn’t he? -Well, give him my love when you come together again for another nice long -yarn.” -</p> - -<p> -“I say, Mr. Franklin, I wonder the captain don’t take offence at your manners.” -</p> - -<p> -“The captain. I wish to goodness he would start a row with me. Then I should -know at least I am somebody on board. I’d welcome it, Mr. Powell. I’d rejoice. -And dam’ me I would talk back too till I roused him. He’s a shadow of himself. -He walks about his ship like a ghost. He’s fading away right before our eyes. -But of course you don’t see. You don’t care a hang. Why should you?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell did not wait for more. He went down on the main deck. Without taking -the mate’s jeremiads seriously he put them beside the words of Mr. Smith. He -had grown already attached to Captain Anthony. There was something not only -attractive but compelling in the man. Only it is very difficult for youth to -believe in the menace of death. Not in the fact itself, but in its proximity to -a breathing, moving, talking, superior human being, showing no sign of disease. -And Mr. Powell thought that this talk was all nonsense. But his curiosity was -awakened. There was something, and at any time some circumstance might occur . -. . No, he would never find out . . . There was nothing to find out, most -likely. Mr. Powell went to his room where he tried to read a book he had -already read a good many times. Presently a bell rang for the officers’ supper. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h3>CHAPTER SIX—. . . A MOONLESS NIGHT, THICK WITH STARS ABOVE, VERY DARK ON -THE WATER</h3> - -<p> -In the mess-room Powell found Mr. Franklin hacking at a piece of cold salt beef -with a table knife. The mate, fiery in the face and rolling his eyes over that -task, explained that the carver belonging to the mess-room could not be found. -The steward, present also, complained savagely of the cook. The fellow got -things into his galley and then lost them. Mr. Franklin tried to pacify him -with mournful firmness. -</p> - -<p> -“There, there! That will do. We who have been all these years together in the -ship have other things to think about than quarrelling among ourselves.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell thought with exasperation: “Here he goes again,” for this utterance -had nothing cryptic for him. The steward having withdrawn morosely, he was not -surprised to hear the mate strike the usual note. That morning the mizzen -topsail tie had carried away (probably a defective link) and something like -forty feet of chain and wire-rope, mixed up with a few heavy iron blocks, had -crashed down from aloft on the poop with a terrifying racket. -</p> - -<p> -“Did you notice the captain then, Mr. Powell. Did you notice?” -</p> - -<p> -Powell confessed frankly that he was too scared himself when all that lot of -gear came down on deck to notice anything. -</p> - -<p> -“The gin-block missed his head by an inch,” went on the mate impressively. “I -wasn’t three feet from him. And what did he do? Did he shout, or jump, or even -look aloft to see if the yard wasn’t coming down too about our ears in a dozen -pieces? It’s a marvel it didn’t. No, he just stopped short—no wonder; he must -have felt the wind of that iron gin-block on his face—looked down at it, there, -lying close to his foot—and went on again. I believe he didn’t even blink. It -isn’t natural. The man is stupefied.” -</p> - -<p> -He sighed ridiculously and Mr. Powell had suppressed a grin, when the mate -added as if he couldn’t contain himself: -</p> - -<p> -“He will be taking to drink next. Mark my words. That’s the next thing.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell was disgusted. -</p> - -<p> -“You are so fond of the captain and yet you don’t seem to care what you say -about him. I haven’t been with him for seven years, but I know he isn’t the -sort of man that takes to drink. And then—why the devil should he?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why the devil, you ask. Devil—eh? Well, no man is safe from the devil—and -that’s answer enough for you,” wheezed Mr. Franklin not unkindly. “There was a -time, a long time ago, when I nearly took to drink myself. What do you say to -that?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell expressed a polite incredulity. The thick, congested mate seemed on -the point of bursting with despondency. “That was bad example though. I was -young and fell into dangerous company, made a fool of myself—yes, as true as -you see me sitting here. Drank to forget. Thought it a great dodge.” -</p> - -<p> -Powell looked at the grotesque Franklin with awakened interest and with that -half-amused sympathy with which we receive unprovoked confidences from men with -whom we have no sort of affinity. And at the same time he began to look upon -him more seriously. Experience has its prestige. And the mate continued: -</p> - -<p> -“If it hadn’t been for the old lady, I would have gone to the devil. I -remembered her in time. Nothing like having an old lady to look after to steady -a chap and make him face things. But as bad luck would have it, Captain Anthony -has no mother living, not a blessed soul belonging to him as far as I know. Oh, -aye, I fancy he said once something to me of a sister. But she’s married. She -don’t need him. Yes. In the old days he used to talk to me as if we had been -brothers,” exaggerated the mate sentimentally. “‘Franklin,’—he would say—‘this -ship is my nearest relation and she isn’t likely to turn against me. And I -suppose you are the man I’ve known the longest in the world.’ That’s how he -used to speak to me. Can I turn my back on him? He has turned his back on his -ship; that’s what it has come to. He has no one now but his old Franklin. But -what’s a fellow to do to put things back as they were and should be. Should -be—I say!” -</p> - -<p> -His starting eyes had a terrible fixity. Mr. Powell’s irresistible thought, “he -resembles a boiled lobster in distress,” was followed by annoyance. “Good -Lord,” he said, “you don’t mean to hint that Captain Anthony has fallen into -bad company. What is it you want to save him from?” -</p> - -<p> -“I do mean it,” affirmed the mate, and the very absurdity of the statement made -it impressive—because it seemed so absolutely audacious. “Well, you have a -cheek,” said young Powell, feeling mentally helpless. “I have a notion the -captain would half kill you if he were to know how you carry on.” -</p> - -<p> -“And welcome,” uttered the fervently devoted Franklin. “I am willing, if he -would only clear the ship afterwards of that . . . You are but a youngster and -you may go and tell him what you like. Let him knock the stuffing out of his -old Franklin first and think it over afterwards. Anything to pull him together. -But of course you wouldn’t. You are all right. Only you don’t know that things -are sometimes different from what they look. There are friendships that are no -friendships, and marriages that are no marriages. Phoo! Likely to be -right—wasn’t it? Never a hint to me. I go off on leave and when I come back, -there it is—all over, settled! Not a word beforehand. No warning. If only: -‘What do you think of it, Franklin?’—or anything of the sort. And that’s a man -who hardly ever did anything without asking my advice. Why! He couldn’t take -over a new coat from the tailor without . . . first thing, directly the fellow -came on board with some new clothes, whether in London or in China, it would -be: ‘Pass the word along there for Mr. Franklin. Mr. Franklin wanted in the -cabin.’ In I would go. ‘Just look at my back, Franklin. Fits all right, doesn’t -it?’ And I would say: ‘First rate, sir,’ or whatever was the truth of it. That -or anything else. Always the truth of it. Always. And well he knew it; and -that’s why he dared not speak right out. Talking about workmen, alterations, -cabins . . . Phoo! . . . instead of a straightforward—‘Wish me joy, Mr. -Franklin!’ Yes, that was the way to let me know. God only knows what they -are—perhaps she isn’t his daughter any more than she is . . . She doesn’t -resemble that old fellow. Not a bit. Not a bit. It’s very awful. You may well -open your mouth, young man. But for goodness’ sake, you who are mixed up with -that lot, keep your eyes and ears open too in case—in case of . . . I don’t -know what. Anything. One wonders what can happen here at sea! Nothing. Yet when -a man is called a jailer behind his back.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Franklin hid his face in his hands for a moment and Powell shut his mouth, -which indeed had been open. He slipped out of the mess-room noiselessly. “The -mate’s crazy,” he thought. It was his firm conviction. Nevertheless, that -evening, he felt his inner tranquillity disturbed at last by the force and -obstinacy of this craze. He couldn’t dismiss it with the contempt it deserved. -Had the word “jailer” really been pronounced? A strange word for the mate to -even <i>imagine</i> he had heard. A senseless, unlikely word. But this word -being the only clear and definite statement in these grotesque and dismal -ravings was comparatively restful to his mind. Powell’s mind rested on it still -when he came up at eight o’clock to take charge of the deck. It was a moonless -night, thick with stars above, very dark on the water. A steady air from the -west kept the sails asleep. Franklin mustered both watches in low tones as if -for a funeral, then approaching Powell: -</p> - -<p> -“The course is east-south-east,” said the chief mate distinctly. -</p> - -<p> -“East-south-east, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Everything’s set, Mr. Powell.” -</p> - -<p> -“All right, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -The other lingered, his sentimental eyes gleamed silvery in the shadowy face. -“A quiet night before us. I don’t know that there are any special orders. A -settled, quiet night. I dare say you won’t see the captain. Once upon a time -this was the watch he used to come up and start a chat with either of us then -on deck. But now he sits in that infernal stern-cabin and mopes. Jailer—eh?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell walked away from the mate and when at some distance said, “Damn!” -quite heartily. It was a confounded nuisance. It had ceased to be funny; that -hostile word “jailer” had given the situation an air of reality. -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Franklin’s grotesque mortal envelope had disappeared from the poop to seek its -needful repose, if only the worried soul would let it rest a while. Mr. Powell, -half sorry for the thick little man, wondered whether it would let him. For -himself, he recognized that the charm of a quiet watch on deck when one may let -one’s thoughts roam in space and time had been spoiled without remedy. What -shocked him most was the implied aspersion of complicity on Mrs. Anthony. It -angered him. In his own words to me, he felt very “enthusiastic” about Mrs. -Anthony. “Enthusiastic” is good; especially as he couldn’t exactly explain to -me what he meant by it. But he felt enthusiastic, he says. That silly Franklin -must have been dreaming. That was it. He had dreamed it all. Ass. Yet the -injurious word stuck in Powell’s mind with its associated ideas of prisoner, of -escape. He became very uncomfortable. And just then (it might have been half an -hour or more since he had relieved Franklin) just then Mr. Smith came up on the -poop alone, like a gliding shadow and leaned over the rail by his side. Young -Powell was affected disagreeably by his presence. He made a movement to go away -but the other began to talk—and Powell remained where he was as if retained by -a mysterious compulsion. The conversation started by Mr. Smith had nothing -peculiar. He began to talk of mail-boats in general and in the end seemed -anxious to discover what were the services from Port Elizabeth to London. Mr. -Powell did not know for certain but imagined that there must be communication -with England at least twice a month. “Are you thinking of leaving us, sir; of -going home by steam? Perhaps with Mrs. Anthony,” he asked anxiously. -</p> - -<p> -“No! No! How can I?” Mr. Smith got quite agitated, for him, which did not -amount to much. He was just asking for the sake of something to talk about. No -idea at all of going home. One could not always do what one wanted and that’s -why there were moments when one felt ashamed to live. This did not mean that -one did not want to live. Oh no! -</p> - -<p> -He spoke with careless slowness, pausing frequently and in such a low voice -that Powell had to strain his hearing to catch the phrases dropped overboard as -it were. And indeed they seemed not worth the effort. It was like the aimless -talk of a man pursuing a secret train of thought far removed from the idle -words we so often utter only to keep in touch with our fellow beings. An hour -passed. It seemed as though Mr. Smith could not make up his mind to go below. -He repeated himself. Again he spoke of lives which one was ashamed of. It was -necessary to put up with such lives as long as there was no way out, no -possible issue. He even alluded once more to mail-boat services on the East -coast of Africa and young Powell had to tell him once more that he knew nothing -about them. -</p> - -<p> -“Every fortnight, I thought you said,” insisted Mr. Smith. He stirred, seemed -to detach himself from the rail with difficulty. His long, slender figure -straightened into stiffness, as if hostile to the enveloping soft peace of air -and sea and sky, emitted into the night a weak murmur which Mr. Powell fancied -was the word, “Abominable” repeated three times, but which passed into the -faintly louder declaration: “The moment has come—to go to bed,” followed by a -just audible sigh. -</p> - -<p> -“I sleep very well,” added Mr. Smith in his restrained tone. “But it is the -moment one opens one’s eyes that is horrible at sea. These days! Oh, these -days! I wonder how anybody can . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -“I like the life,” observed Mr. Powell. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, you. You have only yourself to think of. You have made your bed. Well, -it’s very pleasant to feel that you are friendly to us. My daughter has taken -quite a liking to you, Mr. Powell.” -</p> - -<p> -He murmured, “Good-night” and glided away rigidly. Young Powell asked himself -with some distaste what was the meaning of these utterances. His mind had been -worried at last into that questioning attitude by no other person than the -grotesque Franklin. Suspicion was not natural to him. And he took good care to -carefully separate in his thoughts Mrs. Anthony from this man of enigmatic -words—her father. Presently he observed that the sheen of the two deck -dead-lights of Mr. Smith’s room had gone out. The old gentleman had been -surprisingly quick in getting into bed. Shortly afterwards the lamp in the -foremost skylight of the saloon was turned out; and this was the sign that the -steward had taken in the tray and had retired for the night. -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell had settled down to the regular officer-of-the-watch tramp in the -dense shadow of the world decorated with stars high above his head, and on -earth only a few gleams of light about the ship. The lamp in the after skylight -was kept burning through the night. There were also the dead-lights of the -stern-cabins glimmering dully in the deck far aft, catching his eye when he -turned to walk that way. The brasses of the wheel glittered too, with the dimly -lit figure of the man detached, as if phosphorescent, against the black and -spangled background of the horizon. -</p> - -<p> -Young Powell, in the silence of the ship, reinforced by the great silent -stillness of the world, said to himself that there was something mysterious in -such beings as the absurd Franklin, and even in such beings as himself. It was -a strange and almost improper thought to occur to the officer of the watch of a -ship on the high seas on no matter how quiet a night. Why on earth was he -bothering his head? Why couldn’t he dismiss all these people from his mind? It -was as if the mate had infected him with his own diseased devotion. He would -not have believed it possible that he should be so foolish. But he was—clearly. -He was foolish in a way totally unforeseen by himself. Pushing this -self-analysis further, he reflected that the springs of his conduct were just -as obscure. -</p> - -<p> -“I may be catching myself any time doing things of which I have no conception,” -he thought. And as he was passing near the mizzen-mast he perceived a coil of -rope left lying on the deck by the oversight of the sweepers. By an impulse -which had nothing mysterious in it, he stooped as he went by with the intention -of picking it up and hanging it up on its proper pin. This movement brought his -head down to the level of the glazed end of the after skylight—the lighted -skylight of the most private part of the saloon, consecrated to the -exclusiveness of Captain Anthony’s married life; the part, let me remind you, -cut off from the rest of that forbidden space by a pair of heavy curtains. I -mention these curtains because at this point Mr. Powell himself recalled the -existence of that unusual arrangement to my mind. -</p> - -<p> -He recalled them with simple-minded compunction at that distance of time. He -said: “You understand that directly I stooped to pick up that coil of running -gear—the spanker foot-outhaul, it was—I perceived that I could see right into -that part of the saloon the curtains were meant to make particularly private. -Do you understand me?” he insisted. -</p> - -<p> -I told him that I understood; and he proceeded to call my attention to the -wonderful linking up of small facts, with something of awe left yet, after all -these years, at the precise workmanship of chance, fate, providence, call it -what you will! “For, observe, Marlow,” he said, making at me very round eyes -which contrasted funnily with the austere touch of grey on his temples, -“observe, my dear fellow, that everything depended on the men who cleared up -the poop in the evening leaving that coil of rope on the deck, and on the -topsail-tie carrying away in a most incomprehensible and surprising manner -earlier in the day, and the end of the chain whipping round the coaming and -shivering to bits the coloured glass-pane at the end of the skylight. It had -the arms of the city of Liverpool on it; I don’t know why unless because the -<i>Ferndale</i> was registered in Liverpool. It was very thick plate glass. -Anyhow, the upper part got smashed, and directly we had attended to things -aloft Mr. Franklin had set the carpenter to patch up the damage with some -pieces of plain glass. I don’t know where they got them; I think the people who -fitted up new bookcases in the captain’s room had left some spare panes. Chips -was there the whole afternoon on his knees, messing with putty and red-lead. It -wasn’t a neat job when it was done, not by any means, but it would serve to -keep the weather out and let the light in. Clear glass. And of course I was not -thinking of it. I just stooped to pick up that rope and found my head within -three inches of that clear glass, and—dash it all! I found myself out. Not half -an hour before I was saying to myself that it was impossible to tell what was -in people’s heads or at the back of their talk, or what they were likely to be -up to. And here I found myself up to as low a trick as you can well think of. -For, after I had stooped, there I remained prying, spying, anyway looking, -where I had no business to look. Not consciously at first, may be. He who has -eyes, you know, nothing can stop him from seeing things as long as there are -things to see in front of him. What I saw at first was the end of the table and -the tray clamped on to it, a patent tray for sea use, fitted with holders for a -couple of decanters, water-jug and glasses. The glitter of these things caught -my eye first; but what I saw next was the captain down there, alone as far as I -could see; and I could see pretty well the whole of that part up to the cottage -piano, dark against the satin-wood panelling of the bulkhead. And I remained -looking. I did. And I don’t know that I was ashamed of myself either, then. It -was the fault of that Franklin, always talking of the man, making free with him -to that extent that really he seemed to have become our property, his and mine, -in a way. It’s funny, but one had that feeling about Captain Anthony. To watch -him was not so much worse than listening to Franklin talking him over. Well, -it’s no use making excuses for what’s inexcusable. I watched; but I dare say -you know that there could have been nothing inimical in this low behaviour of -mine. On the contrary. I’ll tell you now what he was doing. He was helping -himself out of a decanter. I saw every movement, and I said to myself mockingly -as though jeering at Franklin in my thoughts, ‘Hallo! Here’s the captain taking -to drink at last.’ He poured a little brandy or whatever it was into a long -glass, filled it with water, drank about a fourth of it and stood the glass -back into the holder. Every sign of a bad drinking bout, I was saying to -myself, feeling quite amused at the notions of that Franklin. He seemed to me -an enormous ass, with his jealousy and his fears. At that rate a month would -not have been enough for anybody to get drunk. The captain sat down in one of -the swivel arm-chairs fixed around the table; I had him right under me and as -he turned the chair slightly, I was looking, I may say, down his back. He took -another little sip and then reached for a book which was lying on the table. I -had not noticed it before. Altogether the proceedings of a desperate -drunkard—weren’t they? He opened the book and held it before his face. If this -was the way he took to drink, then I needn’t worry. He was in no danger from -that, and as to any other, I assure you no human being could have looked safer -than he did down there. I felt the greatest contempt for Franklin just then, -while I looked at Captain Anthony sitting there with a glass of weak -brandy-and-water at his elbow and reading in the cabin of his ship, on a quiet -night—the quietest, perhaps the finest, of a prosperous passage. And if you -wonder why I didn’t leave off my ugly spying I will tell you how it was. -Captain Anthony was a great reader just about that time; and I, too, I have a -great liking for books. To this day I can’t come near a book but I must know -what it is about. It was a thickish volume he had there, small close print, -double columns—I can see it now. What I wanted to make out was the title at the -top of the page. I have very good eyes but he wasn’t holding it conveniently—I -mean for me up there. Well, it was a history of some kind, that much I read and -then suddenly he bangs the book face down on the table, jumps up as if -something had bitten him and walks away aft. -</p> - -<p> -“Funny thing shame is. I had been behaving badly and aware of it in a way, but -I didn’t feel really ashamed till the fright of being found out in my -honourable occupation drove me from it. I slunk away to the forward end of the -poop and lounged about there, my face and ears burning and glad it was a dark -night, expecting every moment to hear the captain’s footsteps behind me. For I -made sure he was coming on deck. Presently I thought I had rather meet him face -to face and I walked slowly aft prepared to see him emerge from the companion -before I got that far. I even thought of his having detected me by some means. -But it was impossible, unless he had eyes in the top of his head. I had never -had a view of his face down there. It was impossible; I was safe; and I felt -very mean, yet, explain it as you may, I seemed not to care. And the captain -not appearing on deck, I had the impulse to go on being mean. I wanted another -peep. I really don’t know what was the beastly influence except that Mr. -Franklin’s talk was enough to demoralize any man by raising a sort of unhealthy -curiosity which did away in my case with all the restraints of common decency. -</p> - -<p> -“I did not mean to run the risk of being caught squatting in a suspicious -attitude by the captain. There was also the helmsman to consider. So what I -did—I am surprised at my low cunning—was to sit down naturally on the -skylight-seat and then by bending forward I found that, as I expected, I could -look down through the upper part of the end-pane. The worst that could happen -to me then, if I remained too long in that position, was to be suspected by the -seaman aft at the wheel of having gone to sleep there. For the rest my ears -would give me sufficient warning of any movements in the companion. -</p> - -<p> -“But in that way my angle of view was changed. The field too was smaller. The -end of the table, the tray and the swivel-chair I had right under my eyes. The -captain had not come back yet. The piano I could not see now; but on the other -hand I had a very oblique downward view of the curtains drawn across the cabin -and cutting off the forward part of it just about the level of the skylight-end -and only an inch or so from the end of the table. They were heavy stuff, -travelling on a thick brass rod with some contrivance to keep the rings from -sliding to and fro when the ship rolled. But just then the ship was as still -almost as a model shut up in a glass case while the curtains, joined closely, -and, perhaps on purpose, made a little too long moved no more than a solid -wall.” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -Marlow got up to get another cigar. The night was getting on to what I may call -its deepest hour, the hour most favourable to evil purposes of men’s hate, -despair or greed—to whatever can whisper into their ears the unlawful counsels -of protest against things that are; the hour of ill-omened silence and chill -and stagnation, the hour when the criminal plies his trade and the victim of -sleeplessness reaches the lowest depth of dreadful discouragement; the hour -before the first sight of dawn. I know it, because while Marlow was crossing -the room I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. He however never looked that -way though it is possible that he, too, was aware of the passage of time. He -sat down heavily. -</p> - -<p> -“Our friend Powell,” he began again, “was very anxious that I should understand -the topography of that cabin. I was interested more by its moral atmosphere, -that tension of falsehood, of desperate acting, which tainted the pure -sea-atmosphere into which the magnanimous Anthony had carried off his conquest -and—well—his self-conquest too, trying to act at the same time like a beast of -prey, a pure spirit and the “most generous of men.” Too big an order clearly -because he was nothing of a monster but just a common mortal, a little more -self-willed and self-confident than most, may be, both in his roughness and in -his delicacy. -</p> - -<p> -As to the delicacy of Mr. Powell’s proceedings I’ll say nothing. He found a -sort of depraved excitement in watching an unconscious man—and such an -attractive and mysterious man as Captain Anthony at that. He wanted another -peep at him. He surmised that the captain must come back soon because of the -glass two-thirds full and also of the book put down so brusquely. God knows -what sudden pang had made Anthony jump up so. I am convinced he used reading as -an opiate against the pain of his magnanimity which like all abnormal growths -was gnawing at his healthy substance with cruel persistence. Perhaps he had -rushed into his cabin simply to groan freely in absolute and delicate secrecy. -At any rate he tarried there. And young Powell would have grown weary and -compunctious at last if it had not become manifest to him that he had not been -alone in the highly incorrect occupation of watching the movements of Captain -Anthony. -</p> - -<p> -Powell explained to me that no sound did or perhaps could reach him from the -saloon. The first sign—and we must remember that he was using his eyes for all -they were worth—was an unaccountable movement of the curtain. It was wavy and -very slight; just perceptible in fact to the sharpened faculties of a secret -watcher; for it can’t be denied that our wits are much more alert when engaged -in wrong-doing (in which one mustn’t be found out) than in a righteous -occupation. -</p> - -<p> -He became suspicious, with no one and nothing definite in his mind. He was -suspicious of the curtain itself and observed it. It looked very innocent. Then -just as he was ready to put it down to a trick of imagination he saw trembling -movements where the two curtains joined. Yes! Somebody else besides himself had -been watching Captain Anthony. He owns artlessly that this roused his -indignation. It was really too much of a good thing. In this state of intense -antagonism he was startled to observe tips of fingers fumbling with the dark -stuff. Then they grasped the edge of the further curtain and hung on there, -just fingers and knuckles and nothing else. It made an abominable sight. He was -looking at it with unaccountable repulsion when a hand came into view; a short, -puffy, old, freckled hand projecting into the lamplight, followed by a white -wrist, an arm in a grey coat-sleeve, up to the elbow, beyond the elbow, -extended tremblingly towards the tray. Its appearance was weird and nauseous, -fantastic and silly. But instead of grabbing the bottle as Powell expected, -this hand, tremulous with senile eagerness, swerved to the glass, rested on its -edge for a moment (or so it looked from above) and went back with a jerk. The -gripping fingers of the other hand vanished at the same time, and young Powell -staring at the motionless curtains could indulge for a moment the notion that -he had been dreaming. -</p> - -<p> -But that notion did not last long. Powell, after repressing his first impulse -to spring for the companion and hammer at the captain’s door, took steps to -have himself relieved by the boatswain. He was in a state of distraction as to -his feelings and yet lucid as to his mind. He remained on the skylight so as to -keep his eye on the tray. -</p> - -<p> -Still the captain did not appear in the saloon. “If he had,” said Mr. Powell, -“I knew what to do. I would have put my elbow through the pane -instantly—crash.” -</p> - -<p> -I asked him why? -</p> - -<p> -“It was the quickest dodge for getting him away from that tray,” he explained. -“My throat was so dry that I didn’t know if I could shout loud enough. And this -was not a case for shouting, either.” -</p> - -<p> -The boatswain, sleepy and disgusted, arriving on the poop, found the second -officer doubled up over the end of the skylight in a pose which might have been -that of severe pain. And his voice was so changed that the man, though -naturally vexed at being turned out, made no comment on the plea of sudden -indisposition which young Powell put forward. -</p> - -<p> -The rapidity with which the sick man got off the poop must have astonished the -boatswain. But Powell, at the moment he opened the door leading into the saloon -from the quarter-deck, had managed to control his agitation. He entered swiftly -but without noise and found himself in the dark part of the saloon, the strong -sheen of the lamp on the other side of the curtains visible only above the rod -on which they ran. The door of Mr. Smith’s cabin was in that dark part. He -passed by it assuring himself by a quick side glance that it was imperfectly -closed. “Yes,” he said to me. “The old man must have been watching through the -crack. Of that I am certain; but it was not for me that he was watching and -listening. Horrible! Surely he must have been startled to hear and see somebody -he did not expect. He could not possibly guess why I was coming in, but I -suppose he must have been concerned.” Concerned indeed! He must have been -thunderstruck, appalled. -</p> - -<p> -Powell’s only distinct aim was to remove the suspected tumbler. He had no other -plan, no other intention, no other thought. Do away with it in some manner. -Snatch it up and run out with it. -</p> - -<p> -You know that complete mastery of one fixed idea, not a reasonable but an -emotional mastery, a sort of concentrated exaltation. Under its empire men rush -blindly through fire and water and opposing violence, and nothing can stop -them—unless, sometimes, a grain of sand. For his blind purpose (and clearly the -thought of Mrs. Anthony was at the bottom of it) Mr. Powell had plenty of time. -What checked him at the crucial moment was the familiar, harmless aspect of -common things, the steady light, the open book on the table, the solitude, the -peace, the home-like effect of the place. He held the glass in his hand; all he -had to do was to vanish back beyond the curtains, flee with it noiselessly into -the night on deck, fling it unseen overboard. A minute or less. And then all -that would have happened would have been the wonder at the utter disappearance -of a glass tumbler, a ridiculous riddle in pantry-affairs beyond the wit of -anyone on board to solve. The grain of sand against which Powell stumbled in -his headlong career was a moment of incredulity as to the truth of his own -conviction because it had failed to affect the safe aspect of familiar things. -He doubted his eyes too. He must have dreamt it all! “I am dreaming now,” he -said to himself. And very likely for a few seconds he must have looked like a -man in a trance or profoundly asleep on his feet, and with a glass of -brandy-and-water in his hand. -</p> - -<p> -What woke him up and, at the same time, fixed his feet immovably to the spot, -was a voice asking him what he was doing there in tones of thunder. Or so it -sounded to his ears. Anthony, opening the door of his stern-cabin had naturally -exclaimed. What else could you expect? And the exclamation must have been -fairly loud if you consider the nature of the sight which met his eye. There, -before him, stood his second officer, a seemingly decent, well-bred young man, -who, being on duty, had left the deck and had sneaked into the saloon, -apparently for the inexpressibly mean purpose of drinking up what was left of -his captain’s brandy-and-water. There he was, caught absolutely with the glass -in his hand. -</p> - -<p> -But the very monstrosity of appearances silenced Anthony after the first -exclamation; and young Powell felt himself pierced through and through by the -overshadowed glance of his captain. Anthony advanced quietly. The first impulse -of Mr. Powell, when discovered, had been to dash the glass on the deck. He was -in a sort of panic. But deep down within him his wits were working, and the -idea that if he did that he could prove nothing and that the story he had to -tell was completely incredible, restrained him. The captain came forward -slowly. With his eyes now close to his, Powell, spell-bound, numb all over, -managed to lift one finger to the deck above mumbling the explanatory words, -“Boatswain on the poop.” -</p> - -<p> -The captain moved his head slightly as much as to say, “That’s all right”—and -this was all. Powell had no voice, no strength. The air was unbreathable, -thick, sticky, odious, like hot jelly in which all movements became difficult. -He raised the glass a little with immense difficulty and moved his trammelled -lips sufficiently to form the words: -</p> - -<p> -“Doctored.” -</p> - -<p> -Anthony glanced at it for an instant, only for an instant, and again fastened -his eyes on the face of his second mate. Powell added a fervent “I believe” and -put the glass down on the tray. The captain’s glance followed the movement and -returned sternly to his face. The young man pointed a finger once more upwards -and squeezed out of his iron-bound throat six consecutive words of further -explanation. “Through the skylight. The white pane.” -</p> - -<p> -The captain raised his eyebrows very much at this, while young Powell, ashamed -but desperate, nodded insistently several times. He meant to say that: Yes. -Yes. He had done that thing. He had been spying . . . The captain’s gaze became -thoughtful. And, now the confession was over, the iron-bound feeling of -Powell’s throat passed away giving place to a general anxiety which from his -breast seemed to extend to all the limbs and organs of his body. His legs -trembled a little, his vision was confused, his mind became blankly expectant. -But he was alert enough. At a movement of Anthony he screamed in a strangled -whisper. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t, sir! Don’t touch it.” -</p> - -<p> -The captain pushed aside Powell’s extended arm, took up the glass and raised it -slowly against the lamplight. The liquid, of very pale amber colour, was clear, -and by a glance the captain seemed to call Powell’s attention to the fact. -Powell tried to pronounce the word, “dissolved” but he only thought of it with -great energy which however failed to move his lips. Only when Anthony had put -down the glass and turned to him he recovered such a complete command of his -voice that he could keep it down to a hurried, forcible whisper—a whisper that -shook him. -</p> - -<p> -“Doctored! I swear it! I have seen. Doctored! I have seen.” -</p> - -<p> -Not a feature of the captain’s face moved. His was a calm to take one’s breath -away. It did so to young Powell. Then for the first time Anthony made himself -heard to the point. -</p> - -<p> -“You did! . . . Who was it?” -</p> - -<p> -And Powell gasped freely at last. “A hand,” he whispered fearfully, “a hand and -the arm—only the arm—like that.” -</p> - -<p> -He advanced his own, slow, stealthy, tremulous in faithful reproduction, the -tips of two fingers and the thumb pressed together and hovering above the glass -for an instant—then the swift jerk back, after the deed. -</p> - -<p> -“Like that,” he repeated growing excited. “From behind this.” He grasped the -curtain and glaring at the silent Anthony flung it back disclosing the forepart -of the saloon. There was on one to be seen. -</p> - -<p> -Powell had not expected to see anybody. “But,” he said to me, “I knew very well -there was an ear listening and an eye glued to the crack of a cabin door. Awful -thought. And that door was in that part of the saloon remaining in the shadow -of the other half of the curtain. I pointed at it and I suppose that old man -inside saw me pointing. The captain had a wonderful self-command. You couldn’t -have guessed anything from his face. Well, it was perhaps more thoughtful than -usual. And indeed this was something to think about. But I couldn’t think -steadily. My brain would give a sort of jerk and then go dead again. I had lost -all notion of time, and I might have been looking at the captain for days and -months for all I knew before I heard him whisper to me fiercely: “Not a word!” -This jerked me out of that trance I was in and I said “No! No! I didn’t mean -even you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I wanted to explain my conduct, my intentions, but I read in his eyes that he -understood me and I was only too glad to leave off. And there we were looking -at each other, dumb, brought up short by the question “What next?” -</p> - -<p> -“I thought Captain Anthony was a man of iron till I saw him suddenly fling his -head to the right and to the left fiercely, like a wild animal at bay not -knowing which way to break out . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -* * * * * -</p> - -<p> -“Truly,” commented Marlow, “brought to bay was not a bad comparison; a better -one than Mr. Powell was aware of. At that moment the appearance of Flora could -not but bring the tension to the breaking point. She came out in all innocence -but not without vague dread. Anthony’s exclamation on first seeing Powell had -reached her in her cabin, where, it seems, she was brushing her hair. She had -heard the very words. “What are you doing here?” And the unwonted loudness of -the voice—his voice—breaking the habitual stillness of that hour would have -startled a person having much less reason to be constantly apprehensive, than -the captive of Anthony’s masterful generosity. She had no means to guess to -whom the question was addressed and it echoed in her heart, as Anthony’s voice -always did. Followed complete silence. She waited, anxious, expectant, till she -could stand the strain no longer, and with the weary mental appeal of the -overburdened. “My God! What is it now?” she opened the door of her room and -looked into the saloon. Her first glance fell on Powell. For a moment, seeing -only the second officer with Anthony, she felt relieved and made as if to draw -back; but her sharpened perception detected something suspicious in their -attitudes, and she came forward slowly. -</p> - -<p> -“I was the first to see Mrs. Anthony,” related Powell, “because I was facing -aft. The captain, noticing my eyes, looked quickly over his shoulder and at -once put his finger to his lips to caution me. As if I were likely to let out -anything before her! Mrs. Anthony had on a dressing-gown of some grey stuff -with red facings and a thick red cord round her waist. Her hair was down. She -looked a child; a pale-faced child with big blue eyes and a red mouth a little -open showing a glimmer of white teeth. The light fell strongly on her as she -came up to the end of the table. A strange child though; she hardly affected -one like a child, I remember. Do you know,” exclaimed Mr. Powell, who clearly -must have been, like many seamen, an industrious reader, “do you know what she -looked like to me with those big eyes and something appealing in her whole -expression. She looked like a forsaken elf. Captain Anthony had moved towards -her to keep her away from my end of the table, where the tray was. I had never -seen them so near to each other before, and it made a great contrast. It was -wonderful, for, with his beard cut to a point, his swarthy, sunburnt -complexion, thin nose and his lean head there was something African, something -Moorish in Captain Anthony. His neck was bare; he had taken off his coat and -collar and had drawn on his sleeping jacket in the time that he had been absent -from the saloon. I seem to see him now. Mrs. Anthony too. She looked from him -to me—I suppose I looked guilty or frightened—and from me to him, trying to -guess what there was between us two. Then she burst out with a “What has -happened?” which seemed addressed to me. I mumbled “Nothing! Nothing, ma’am,” -which she very likely did not hear. -</p> - -<p> -“You must not think that all this had lasted a long time. She had taken fright -at our behaviour and turned to the captain pitifully. “What is it you are -concealing from me?” A straight question—eh? I don’t know what answer the -captain would have made. Before he could even raise his eyes to her she cried -out “Ah! Here’s papa” in a sharp tone of relief, but directly afterwards she -looked to me as if she were holding her breath with apprehension. I was so -interested in her that, how shall I say it, her exclamation made no connection -in my brain at first. I also noticed that she had sidled up a little nearer to -Captain Anthony, before it occurred to me to turn my head. I can tell you my -neck stiffened in the twisted position from the shock of actually seeing that -old man! He had dared! I suppose you think I ought to have looked upon him as -mad. But I couldn’t. It would have been certainly easier. But I could -<i>not</i>. You should have seen him. First of all he was completely dressed -with his very cap still on his head just as when he left me on deck two hours -before, saying in his soft voice: “The moment has come to go to bed”—while he -meant to go and do that thing and hide in his dark cabin, and watch the stuff -do its work. A cold shudder ran down my back. He had his hands in the pockets -of his jacket, his arms were pressed close to his thin, upright body, and he -shuffled across the cabin with his short steps. There was a red patch on each -of his old soft cheeks as if somebody had been pinching them. He drooped his -head a little, and looked with a sort of underhand expectation at the captain -and Mrs. Anthony standing close together at the other end of the saloon. The -calculating horrible impudence of it! His daughter was there; and I am certain -he had seen the captain putting his finger on his lips to warn me. And then he -had coolly come out! He passed my imagination, I assure you. After that one -shiver his presence killed every faculty in me—wonder, horror, indignation. I -felt nothing in particular just as if he were still the old gentleman who used -to talk to me familiarly every day on deck. Would you believe it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Powell challenged my powers of wonder at this internal phenomenon,” went -on Marlow after a slight pause. “But even if they had not been fully engaged, -together with all my powers of attention in following the facts of the case, I -would not have been astonished by his statements about himself. Taking into -consideration his youth they were by no means incredible; or, at any rate, they -were the least incredible part of the whole. They were also the least -interesting part. The interest was elsewhere, and there of course all he could -do was to look at the surface. The inwardness of what was passing before his -eyes was hidden from him, who had looked on, more impenetrably than from me who -at a distance of years was listening to his words. What presently happened at -this crisis in Flora de Barral’s fate was beyond his power of comment, seemed -in a sense natural. And his own presence on the scene was so strangely motived -that it was left for me to marvel alone at this young man, a completely -chance-comer, having brought it about on that night. -</p> - -<p> -Each situation created either by folly or wisdom has its psychological moment. -The behaviour of young Powell with its mixture of boyish impulses combined with -instinctive prudence, had not created it—I can’t say that—but had discovered it -to the very people involved. What would have happened if he had made a noise -about his discovery? But he didn’t. His head was full of Mrs. Anthony and he -behaved with a discretion beyond his years. Some nice children often do; and -surely it is not from reflection. They have their own inspirations. Young -Powell’s inspiration consisted in being “enthusiastic” about Mrs. Anthony. -‘Enthusiastic’ is really good. And he was amongst them like a child, sensitive, -impressionable, plastic—but unable to find for himself any sort of comment. -</p> - -<p> -I don’t know how much mine may be worth; but I believe that just then the -tension of the false situation was at its highest. Of all the forms offered to -us by life it is the one demanding a couple to realize it fully, which is the -most imperative. Pairing off is the fate of mankind. And if two beings thrown -together, mutually attracted, resist the necessity, fail in understanding and -voluntarily stop short of the—the embrace, in the noblest meaning of the word, -then they are committing a sin against life, the call of which is simple. -Perhaps sacred. And the punishment of it is an invasion of complexity, a -tormenting, forcibly tortuous involution of feelings, the deepest form of -suffering from which indeed something significant may come at last, which may -be criminal or heroic, may be madness or wisdom—or even a straight if -despairing decision. -</p> - -<p> -Powell on taking his eyes off the old gentleman noticed Captain Anthony, -swarthy as an African, by the side of Flora whiter than the lilies, take his -handkerchief out and wipe off his forehead the sweat of anguish—like a man who -is overcome. “And no wonder,” commented Mr. Powell here. Then the captain said, -“Hadn’t you better go back to your room.” This was to Mrs. Anthony. He tried to -smile at her. “Why do you look startled? This night is like any other night.” -</p> - -<p> -“Which,” Powell again commented to me earnestly, “was a lie . . . No wonder he -sweated.” You see from this the value of Powell’s comments. Mrs. Anthony then -said: “Why are you sending me away?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why! That you should go to sleep. That you should rest.” And Captain Anthony -frowned. Then sharply, “You stay here, Mr. Powell. I shall want you presently.” -</p> - -<p> -As a matter of fact Powell had not moved. Flora did not mind his presence. He -himself had the feeling of being of no account to those three people. He was -looking at Mrs. Anthony as unabashed as the proverbial cat looking at a king. -Mrs. Anthony glanced at him. She did not move, gripped by an inexplicable -premonition. She had arrived at the very limit of her endurance as the object -of Anthony’s magnanimity; she was the prey of an intuitive dread of she did not -know what mysterious influence; she felt herself being pushed back into that -solitude, that moral loneliness, which had made all her life intolerable. And -then, in that close communion established again with Anthony, she felt—as on -that night in the garden—the force of his personal fascination. The passive -quietness with which she looked at him gave her the appearance of a person -bewitched—or, say, mesmerically put to sleep—beyond any notion of her -surroundings. -</p> - -<p> -After telling Mr. Powell not to go away the captain remained silent. Suddenly -Mrs. Anthony pushed back her loose hair with a decisive gesture of her arms and -moved still nearer to him. “Here’s papa up yet,” she said, but she did not look -towards Mr. Smith. “Why is it? And you? I can’t go on like this, -Roderick—between you two. Don’t.” -</p> - -<p> -Anthony interrupted her as if something had untied his tongue. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes. Here’s your father. And . . . Why not. Perhaps it is just as well you -came out. Between us two? Is that it? I won’t pretend I don’t understand. I am -not blind. But I can’t fight any longer for what I haven’t got. I don’t know -what you imagine has happened. Something has though. Only you needn’t be -afraid. No shadow can touch you—because I give up. I can’t say we had much talk -about it, your father and I, but, the long and the short of it is, that I must -learn to live without you—which I have told you was impossible. I was speaking -the truth. But I have done fighting, or waiting, or hoping. Yes. You shall go.” -</p> - -<p> -At this point Mr. Powell who (he confessed to me) was listening with -uncomprehending awe, heard behind his back a triumphant chuckling sound. It -gave him the shudders, he said, to mention it now; but at the time, except for -another chill down the spine, it had not the power to destroy his absorption in -the scene before his eyes, and before his ears too, because just then Captain -Anthony raised his voice grimly. Perhaps he too had heard the chuckle of the -old man. -</p> - -<p> -“Your father has found an argument which makes me pause, if it does not -convince me. No! I can’t answer it. I—I don’t want to answer it. I simply -surrender. He shall have his way with you—and with me. Only,” he added in a -gloomy lowered tone which struck Mr. Powell as if a pedal had been put down, -“only it shall take a little time. I have never lied to you. Never. I renounce -not only my chance but my life. In a few days, directly we get into port, the -very moment we do, I, who have said I could never let you go, I shall let you -go.” -</p> - -<p> -To the innocent beholder Anthony seemed at this point to become physically -exhausted. My view is that the utter falseness of his, I may say, aspirations, -the vanity of grasping the empty air, had come to him with an overwhelming -force, leaving him disarmed before the other’s mad and sinister sincerity. As -he had said himself he could not fight for what he did not possess; he could -not face such a thing as this for the sake of his mere magnanimity. The normal -alone can overcome the abnormal. He could not even reproach that man over -there. “I own myself beaten,” he said in a firmer tone. “You are free. I let -you off since I must.” -</p> - -<p> -Powell, the onlooker, affirms that at these incomprehensible words Mrs. Anthony -stiffened into the very image of astonishment, with a frightened stare and -frozen lips. But next minute a cry came out from her heart, not very loud but -of a quality which made not only Captain Anthony (he was not looking at her), -not only him but also the more distant (and equally unprepared) young man, -catch their breath: “But I don’t want to be let off,” she cried. -</p> - -<p> -She was so still that one asked oneself whether the cry had come from her. The -restless shuffle behind Powell’s back stopped short, the intermittent shadowy -chuckling ceased too. Young Powell, glancing round, saw Mr. Smith raise his -head with his faded eyes very still, puckered at the corners, like a man -perceiving something coming at him from a great distance. And Mrs. Anthony’s -voice reached Powell’s ears, entreating and indignant. -</p> - -<p> -“You can’t cast me off like this, Roderick. I won’t go away from you. I won’t—” -</p> - -<p> -Powell turned about and discovered then that what Mr. Smith was puckering his -eyes at, was the sight of his daughter clinging round Captain Anthony’s neck—a -sight not in itself improper, but which had the power to move young Powell with -a bashfully profound emotion. It was different from his emotion while spying at -the revelations of the skylight, but in this case too he felt the discomfort, -if not the guilt, of an unseen beholder. Experience was being piled up on his -young shoulders. Mrs. Anthony’s hair hung back in a dark mass like the hair of -a drowned woman. She looked as if she would let go and sink to the floor if the -captain were to withhold his sustaining arm. But the captain obviously had no -such intention. Standing firm and still he gazed with sombre eyes at Mr. Smith. -For a time the low convulsive sobbing of Mr. Smith’s daughter was the only -sound to trouble the silence. The strength of Anthony’s clasp pressing Flora to -his breast could not be doubted even at that distance, and suddenly, awakening -to his opportunity, he began to partly support her, partly carry her in the -direction of her cabin. His head was bent over her solicitously, then -recollecting himself, with a glance full of unwonted fire, his voice ringing in -a note unknown to Mr. Powell, he cried to him, “Don’t you go on deck yet. I -want you to stay down here till I come back. There are some instructions I want -to give you.” -</p> - -<p> -And before the young man could answer, Anthony had disappeared in the -stern-cabin, burdened and exulting. -</p> - -<p> -“Instructions,” commented Mr. Powell. “That was all right. Very likely; but -they would be such instructions as, I thought to myself, no ship’s officer -perhaps had ever been given before. It made me feel a little sick to think what -they would be dealing with, probably. But there! Everything that happens on -board ship on the high seas has got to be dealt with somehow. There are no -special people to fly to for assistance. And there I was with that old man left -in my charge. When he noticed me looking at him he started to shuffle again -athwart the saloon. He kept his hands rammed in his pockets, he was as -stiff-backed as ever, only his head hung down. After a bit he says in his -gentle soft tone: “Did you see it?” -</p> - -<p> -There were in Powell’s head no special words to fit the horror of his feelings. -So he said—he had to say something, “Good God! What were you thinking of, Mr. -Smith, to try to . . . ” And then he left off. He dared not utter the awful -word poison. Mr. Smith stopped his prowl. -</p> - -<p> -“Think! What do you know of thinking. I don’t think. There is something in my -head that thinks. The thoughts in men, it’s like being drunk with liquor or—You -can’t stop them. A man who thinks will think anything. No! But have you seen -it. Have you?” -</p> - -<p> -“I tell you I have! I am certain!” said Powell forcibly. “I was looking at you -all the time. You’ve done something to the drink in that glass.” -</p> - -<p> -Then Powell lost his breath somehow. Mr. Smith looked at him curiously, with -mistrust. -</p> - -<p> -“My good young man, I don’t know what you are talking about. I ask you—have you -seen? Who would have believed it? with her arms round his neck. When! Oh! Ha! -Ha! You did see! Didn’t you? It wasn’t a delusion—was it? Her arms round . . . -But I have never wholly trusted her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then I flew out at him, said Mr. Powell. I told him he was jolly lucky to have -fallen upon Captain Anthony. A man in a million. He started again shuffling to -and fro. “You too,” he said mournfully, keeping his eyes down. “Eh? Wonderful -man? But have you a notion who I am? Listen! I have been the Great Mr. de -Barral. So they printed it in the papers while they were getting up a -conspiracy. And I have been doing time. And now I am brought low.” His voice -died down to a mere breath. “Brought low.” -</p> - -<p> -He took his hands out of his pocket, dragged the cap down on his head and stuck -them back into his pockets, exactly as if preparing himself to go out into a -great wind. “But not so low as to put up with this disgrace, to see her, fast -in this fellow’s clutches, without doing something. She wouldn’t listen to me. -Frightened? Silly? I had to think of some way to get her out of this. Did you -think she cared for him? No! Would anybody have thought so? No! She pretended -it was for my sake. She couldn’t understand that if I hadn’t been an old man I -would have flown at his throat months ago. As it was I was tempted every time -he looked at her. My girl. Ough! Any man but this. And all the time the wicked -little fool was lying to me. It was their plot, their conspiracy! These -conspiracies are the devil. She has been leading me on, till she has fairly put -my head under the heel of that jailer, of that scoundrel, of her husband . . . -Treachery! Bringing me low. Lower than herself. In the dirt. That’s what it -means. Doesn’t it? Under his heel!” -</p> - -<p> -He paused in his restless shuffle and again, seizing his cap with both hands, -dragged it furiously right down on his ears. Powell had lost himself in -listening to these broken ravings, in looking at that old feverish face when, -suddenly, quick as lightning, Mr. Smith spun round, snatched up the captain’s -glass and with a stifled, hurried exclamation, “Here’s luck,” tossed the liquor -down his throat. -</p> - -<p> -“I know now the meaning of the word ‘Consternation,’” went on Mr. Powell. “That -was exactly my state of mind. I thought to myself directly: There’s nothing in -that drink. I have been dreaming, I have made the awfulest mistake! . . .” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Smith put the glass down. He stood before Powell unharmed, quieted down, in -a listening attitude, his head inclined on one side, chewing his thin lips. -Suddenly he blinked queerly, grabbed Powell’s shoulder and collapsed, subsiding -all at once as though he had gone soft all over, as a piece of silk stuff -collapses. Powell seized his arm instinctively and checked his fall; but as -soon as Mr. Smith was fairly on the floor he jerked himself free and backed -away. Almost as quick he rushed forward again and tried to lift up the body. -But directly he raised his shoulders he knew that the man was dead! Dead! -</p> - -<p> -He lowered him down gently. He stood over him without fear or any other -feeling, almost indifferent, far away, as it were. And then he made another -start and, if he had not kept Mrs. Anthony always in his mind, he would have -let out a yell for help. He staggered to her cabin-door, and, as it was, his -call for “Captain Anthony” burst out of him much too loud; but he made a great -effort of self-control. “I am waiting for my orders, sir,” he said outside that -door distinctly, in a steady tone. -</p> - -<p> -It was very still in there; still as death. Then he heard a shuffle of feet and -the captain’s voice “All right. Coming.” He leaned his back against the -bulkhead as you see a drunken man sometimes propped up against a wall, half -doubled up. In that attitude the captain found him, when he came out, pulling -the door to after him quickly. At once Anthony let his eyes run all over the -cabin. Powell, without a word, clutched his forearm, led him round the end of -the table and began to justify himself. “I couldn’t stop him,” he whispered -shakily. “He was too quick for me. He drank it up and fell down.” But the -captain was not listening. He was looking down at Mr. Smith, thinking perhaps -that it was a mere chance his own body was not lying there. They did not want -to speak. They made signs to each other with their eyes. The captain grasped -Powell’s shoulder as if in a vice and glanced at Mrs. Anthony’s cabin door, and -it was enough. He knew that the young man understood him. Rather! Silence! -Silence for ever about this. Their very glances became stealthy. Powell looked -from the body to the door of the dead man’s state-room. The captain nodded and -let him go; and then Powell crept over, hooked the door open and crept back -with fearful glances towards Mrs. Anthony’s cabin. They stooped over the -corpse. Captain Anthony lifted up the shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell shuddered. “I’ll never forget that interminable journey across the -saloon, step by step, holding our breath. For part of the way the drawn half of -the curtain concealed us from view had Mrs. Anthony opened her door; but I -didn’t draw a free breath till after we laid the body down on the swinging cot. -The reflection of the saloon light left most of the cabin in the shadow. Mr. -Smith’s rigid, extended body looked shadowy too, shadowy and alive. You know he -always carried himself as stiff as a poker. We stood by the cot as though -waiting for him to make us a sign that he wanted to be left alone. The captain -threw his arm over my shoulder and said in my very ear: “The steward’ll find -him in the morning.” -</p> - -<p> -“I made no answer. It was for him to say. It was perhaps the best way. It’s no -use talking about my thoughts. They were not concerned with myself, nor yet -with that old man who terrified me more now than when he was alive. Him whom I -pitied was the captain. He whispered. “I am certain of you, Mr. Powell. You had -better go on deck now. As to me . . . ” and I saw him raise his hands to his -head as if distracted. But his last words before we stole out that cabin stick -to my mind with the very tone of his mutter—to himself, not to me: -</p> - -<p> -“No! No! I am not going to stumble now over that corpse.” -</p> - -<p> -* * * -</p> - -<p> -“This is what our Mr. Powell had to tell me,” said Marlow, changing his tone. I -was glad to learn that Flora de Barral had been saved from <i>that</i> sinister -shadow at least falling upon her path. -</p> - -<p> -We sat silent then, my mind running on the end of de Barral, on the -irresistible pressure of imaginary griefs, crushing conscience, scruples, -prudence, under their ever-expanding volume; on the sombre and venomous irony -in the obsession which had mastered that old man. -</p> - -<p> -“Well,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -“The steward found him,” Mr. Powell roused himself. “He went in there with a -cup of tea at five and of course dropped it. I was on watch again. He reeled up -to me on deck pale as death. I had been expecting it; and yet I could hardly -speak. “Go and tell the captain quietly,” I managed to say. He ran off -muttering “My God! My God!” and I’m hanged if he didn’t get hysterical while -trying to tell the captain, and start screaming in the saloon, “Fully dressed! -Dead! Fully dressed!” Mrs. Anthony ran out of course but she didn’t get -hysterical. Franklin, who was there too, told me that she hid her face on the -captain’s breast and then he went out and left them there. It was days before -Mrs. Anthony was seen on deck. The first time I spoke to her she gave me her -hand and said, “My poor father was quite fond of you, Mr. Powell.” She started -wiping her eyes and I fled to the other side of the deck. One would like to -forget all this had ever come near her.” -</p> - -<p> -But clearly he could not, because after lighting his pipe he began musing -aloud: “Very strong stuff it must have been. I wonder where he got it. It could -hardly be at a common chemist. Well, he had it from somewhere—a mere pinch it -must have been, no more.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have my theory,” observed Marlow, “which to a certain extent does away with -the added horror of a coldly premeditated crime. Chance had stepped in there -too. It was not Mr. Smith who obtained the poison. It was the Great de Barral. -And it was not meant for the obscure, magnanimous conqueror of Flora de Barral; -it was meant for the notorious financier whose enterprises had nothing to do -with magnanimity. He had his physician in his days of greatness. I even seem to -remember that the man was called at the trial on some small point or other. I -can imagine that de Barral went to him when he saw, as he could hardly help -seeing, the possibility of a “triumph of envious rivals”—a heavy sentence. -</p> - -<p> -I doubt if for love or even for money, but I think possibly, from pity that man -provided him with what Mr. Powell called “strong stuff.” From what Powell saw -of the very act I am fairly certain it must have been contained in a capsule -and that he had it about him on the last day of his trial, perhaps secured by a -stitch in his waistcoat pocket. He didn’t use it. Why? Did he think of his -child at the last moment? Was it want of courage? We can’t tell. But he found -it in his clothes when he came out of jail. It had escaped investigation if -there was any. Chance had armed him. And chance alone, the chance of Mr. -Powell’s life, forced him to turn the abominable weapon against himself. -</p> - -<p> -I imparted my theory to Mr. Powell who accepted it at once as, in a sense, -favourable to the father of Mrs. Anthony. Then he waved his hand. “Don’t let us -think of it.” -</p> - -<p> -I acquiesced and very soon he observed dreamily: -</p> - -<p> -“I was with Captain and Mrs. Anthony sailing all over the world for near on six -years. Almost as long as Franklin.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes! What about Franklin?” I asked. -</p> - -<p> -Powell smiled. “He left the <i>Ferndale</i> a year or so afterwards, and I took -his place. Captain Anthony recommended him for a command. You don’t think -Captain Anthony would chuck a man aside like an old glove. But of course Mrs. -Anthony did not like him very much. I don’t think she ever let out a whisper -against him but Captain Anthony could read her thoughts. -</p> - -<p> -And again Powell seemed to lose himself in the past. I asked, for suddenly the -vision of the Fynes passed through my mind. -</p> - -<p> -“Any children?” -</p> - -<p> -Powell gave a start. “No! No! Never had any children,” and again subsided, -puffing at his short briar pipe. -</p> - -<p> -“Where are they now?” I inquired next as if anxious to ascertain that all -Fyne’s fears had been misplaced and vain as our fears often are; that there -were no undesirable cousins for his dear girls, no danger of intrusion on their -spotless home. Powell looked round at me slowly, his pipe smouldering in his -hand. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you know?” he uttered in a deep voice. -</p> - -<p> -“Know what?” -</p> - -<p> -“That the <i>Ferndale</i> was lost this four years or more. Sunk. Collision. -And Captain Anthony went down with her.” -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t say so!” I cried quite affected as if I had known Captain Anthony -personally. “Was—was Mrs. Anthony lost too?” -</p> - -<p> -“You might as well ask if I was lost,” Mr. Powell rejoined so testily as to -surprise me. “You see me here,—don’t you.” -</p> - -<p> -He was quite huffy, but noticing my wondering stare he smoothed his ruffled -plumes. And in a musing tone. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Good men go out as if there was no use for them in the world. It seems as -if there were things that, as the Turks say, are written. Or else fate has a -try and sometimes misses its mark. You remember that close shave we had of -being run down at night, I told you of, my first voyage with them. This go it -was just at dawn. A flat calm and a fog thick enough to slice with a knife. -Only there were no explosives on board. I was on deck and I remember the -cursed, murderous thing looming up alongside and Captain Anthony (we were both -on deck) calling out, “Good God! What’s this! Shout for all hands, Powell, to -save themselves. There’s no dynamite on board now. I am going to get the wife! -. . ” I yelled, all the watch on deck yelled. Crash!” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell gasped at the recollection. “It was a Belgian Green Star liner, the -<i>Westland</i>,” he went on, “commanded by one of those stop-for-nothing -skippers. Flaherty was his name and I hope he will die without absolution. She -cut half through the old <i>Ferndale</i> and after the blow there was a silence -like death. Next I heard the captain back on deck shouting, “Set your engines -slow ahead,” and a howl of “Yes, yes,” answering him from her forecastle; and -then a whole crowd of people up there began making a row in the fog. They were -throwing ropes down to us in dozens, I must say. I and the captain fastened one -of them under Mrs. Anthony’s arms: I remember she had a sort of dim smile on -her face.” -</p> - -<p> -“Haul up carefully,” I shouted to the people on the steamer’s deck. “You’ve got -a woman on that line.” -</p> - -<p> -The captain saw her landed up there safe. And then we made a rush round our -decks to see no one was left behind. As we got back the captain says: “Here -she’s gone at last, Powell; the dear old thing! Run down at sea.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed she is gone,” I said. “But it might have been worse. Shin up this rope, -sir, for God’s sake. I will steady it for you.” -</p> - -<p> -“What are you thinking about,” he says angrily. “It isn’t my turn. Up with -you.” -</p> - -<p> -These were the last words he ever spoke on earth I suppose. I knew he meant to -be the last to leave his ship, so I swarmed up as quick as I could, and those -damned lunatics up there grab at me from above, lug me in, drag me along aft -through the row and the riot of the silliest excitement I ever did see. -Somebody hails from the bridge, “Have you got them all on board?” and a dozen -silly asses start yelling all together, “All saved! All saved,” and then that -accursed Irishman on the bridge, with me roaring No! No! till I thought my head -would burst, rings his engines astern. He rings the engines astern—I fighting -like mad to make myself heard! And of course . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -I saw tears, a shower of them fall down Mr. Powell’s face. His voice broke. -</p> - -<p> -“The <i>Ferndale</i> went down like a stone and Captain Anthony went down with -her, the finest man’s soul that ever left a sailor’s body. I raved like a -maniac, like a devil, with a lot of fools crowding round me and asking, “Aren’t -you the captain?” -</p> - -<p> -“I wasn’t fit to tie the shoe-strings of the man you have drowned,” I screamed -at them . . . Well! Well! I could see for myself that it was no good lowering a -boat. You couldn’t have seen her alongside. No use. And only think, Marlow, it -was I who had to go and tell Mrs. Anthony. They had taken her down below -somewhere, first-class saloon. I had to go and tell her! That Flaherty, God -forgive him, comes to me as white as a sheet, “I think you are the proper -person.” God forgive him. I wished to die a hundred times. A lot of kind -ladies, passengers, were chattering excitedly around Mrs. Anthony—a real parrot -house. The ship’s doctor went before me. He whispers right and left and then -there falls a sudden hush. Yes, I wished myself dead. But Mrs. Anthony was a -brick. -</p> - -<p> -Here Mr. Powell fairly burst into tears. “No one could help loving Captain -Anthony. I leave you to imagine what he was to her. Yet before the week was out -it was she who was helping me to pull myself together.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is Mrs. Anthony in England now?” I asked after a while. -</p> - -<p> -He wiped his eyes without any false shame. “Oh yes.” He began to look for -matches, and while diving for the box under the table added: “And not very far -from here either. That little village up there—you know.” -</p> - -<p> -“No! Really! Oh I see!” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Powell smoked austerely, very detached. But I could not let him off like -this. The sly beggar. So this was the secret of his passion for sailing about -the river, the reason of his fondness for that creek. -</p> - -<p> -“And I suppose,” I said, “that you are still as ‘enthusiastic’ as ever. Eh? If -I were you I would just mention my enthusiasm to Mrs. Anthony. Why not?” -</p> - -<p> -He caught his falling pipe neatly. But if what the French call -<i>effarement</i> was ever expressed on a human countenance it was on this -occasion, testifying to his modesty, his sensibility and his innocence. He -looked afraid of somebody overhearing my audacious—almost sacrilegious hint—as -if there had not been a mile and a half of lonely marshland and dykes between -us and the nearest human habitation. And then perhaps he remembered the -soothing fact for he allowed a gleam to light up his eyes, like the reflection -of some inward fire tended in the sanctuary of his heart by a devotion as pure -as that of any vestal. -</p> - -<p> -It flashed and went out. He smiled a bashful smile, sighed: -</p> - -<p> -“Pah! Foolishness. You ought to know better,” he said, more sad than annoyed. -“But I forgot that you never knew Captain Anthony,” he added indulgently. -</p> - -<p> -I reminded him that I knew Mrs. Anthony; even before he—an old friend now—had -ever set eyes on her. And as he told me that Mrs. Anthony had heard of our -meetings I wondered whether she would care to see me. Mr. Powell volunteered no -opinion then; but next time we lay in the creek he said, “She will be very -pleased. You had better go to-day.” -</p> - -<p> -The afternoon was well advanced before I approached the cottage. The amenity of -a fine day in its decline surrounded me with a beneficent, a calming influence; -I felt it in the silence of the shady lane, in the pure air, in the blue sky. -It is difficult to retain the memory of the conflicts, miseries, temptations -and crimes of men’s self-seeking existence when one is alone with the charming -serenity of the unconscious nature. Breathing the dreamless peace around the -picturesque cottage I was approaching, it seemed to me that it must reign -everywhere, over all the globe of water and land and in the hearts of all the -dwellers on this earth. -</p> - -<p> -Flora came down to the garden gate to meet me, no longer the perversely -tempting, sorrowful, wisp of white mist drifting in the complicated bad dream -of existence. Neither did she look like a forsaken elf. I stammered out -stupidly, “Again in the country, Miss . . . Mrs . . . ” She was very good, -returned the pressure of my hand, but we were slightly embarrassed. Then we -laughed a little. Then we became grave. -</p> - -<p> -I am no lover of day-breaks. You know how thin, equivocal, is the light of the -dawn. But she was now her true self, she was like a fine tranquil afternoon—and -not so very far advanced either. A woman not much over thirty, with a dazzling -complexion and a little colour, a lot of hair, a smooth brow, a fine chin, and -only the eyes of the Flora of the old days, absolutely unchanged. -</p> - -<p> -In the room into which she led me we found a Miss Somebody—I didn’t catch the -name,—an unobtrusive, even an indistinct, middle-aged person in black. A -companion. All very proper. She came and went and even sat down at times in the -room, but a little apart, with some sewing. By the time she had brought in a -lighted lamp I had heard all the details which really matter in this story. -Between me and her who was once Flora de Barral the conversation was not likely -to keep strictly to the weather. -</p> - -<p> -The lamp had a rosy shade; and its glow wreathed her in perpetual blushes, made -her appear wonderfully young as she sat before me in a deep, high-backed -arm-chair. I asked: -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me what is it you said in that famous letter which so upset Mrs. Fyne, -and caused little Fyne to interfere in this offensive manner?” -</p> - -<p> -“It was simply crude,” she said earnestly. “I was feeling reckless and I wrote -recklessly. I knew she would disapprove and I wrote foolishly. It was the echo -of her own stupid talk. I said that I did not love her brother but that I had -no scruples whatever in marrying him.” -</p> - -<p> -She paused, hesitating, then with a shy half-laugh: -</p> - -<p> -“I really believed I was selling myself, Mr. Marlow. And I was proud of it. -What I suffered afterwards I couldn’t tell you; because I only discovered my -love for my poor Roderick through agonies of rage and humiliation. I came to -suspect him of despising me; but I could not put it to the test because of my -father. Oh! I would not have been too proud. But I had to spare poor papa’s -feelings. Roderick was perfect, but I felt as though I were on the rack and not -allowed even to cry out. Papa’s prejudice against Roderick was my greatest -grief. It was distracting. It frightened me. Oh! I have been miserable! That -night when my poor father died suddenly I am certain they had some sort of -discussion, about me. But I did not want to hold out any longer against my own -heart! I could not.” -</p> - -<p> -She stopped short, then impulsively: -</p> - -<p> -“Truth will out, Mr. Marlow.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” I said. -</p> - -<p> -She went on musingly. -</p> - -<p> -“Sorrow and happiness were mingled at first like darkness and light. For months -I lived in a dusk of feelings. But it was quiet. It was warm . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -Again she paused, then going back in her thoughts. “No! There was no harm in -that letter. It was simply foolish. What did I know of life then? Nothing. But -Mrs. Fyne ought to have known better. She wrote a letter to her brother, a -little later. Years afterwards Roderick allowed me to glance at it. I found in -it this sentence: ‘For years I tried to make a friend of that girl; but I warn -you once more that she has the nature of a heartless adventuress . . . ’ -Adventuress!” repeated Flora slowly. “So be it. I have had a fine adventure.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was fine, then,” I said interested. -</p> - -<p> -“The finest in the world! Only think! I loved and I was loved, untroubled, at -peace, without remorse, without fear. All the world, all life were transformed -for me. And how much I have seen! How good people were to me! Roderick was so -much liked everywhere. Yes, I have known kindness and safety. The most familiar -things appeared lighted up with a new light, clothed with a loveliness I had -never suspected. The sea itself! . . . You are a sailor. You have lived your -life on it. But do you know how beautiful it is, how strong, how charming, how -friendly, how mighty . . . ” -</p> - -<p> -I listened amazed and touched. She was silent only a little while. -</p> - -<p> -“It was too good to last. But nothing can rob me of it now . . . Don’t think -that I repine. I am not even sad now. Yes, I have been happy. But I remember -also the time when I was unhappy beyond endurance, beyond desperation. Yes. You -remember that. And later on, too. There was a time on board the <i>Ferndale</i> -when the only moments of relief I knew were when I made Mr. Powell talk to me a -little on the poop. You like him?—Don’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Excellent fellow,” I said warmly. “You see him often?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course. I hardly know another soul in the world. I am alone. And he has -plenty of time on his hands. His aunt died a few years ago. He’s doing nothing, -I believe.” -</p> - -<p> -“He is fond of the sea,” I remarked. “He loves it.” -</p> - -<p> -“He seems to have given it up,” she murmured. -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder why?” -</p> - -<p> -She remained silent. “Perhaps it is because he loves something else better,” I -went on. “Come, Mrs. Anthony, don’t let me carry away from here the idea that -you are a selfish person, hugging the memory of your past happiness, like a -rich man his treasure, forgetting the poor at the gate.” -</p> - -<p> -I rose to go, for it was getting late. She got up in some agitation and went -out with me into the fragrant darkness of the garden. She detained my hand for -a moment and then in the very voice of the Flora of old days, with the exact -intonation, showing the old mistrust, the old doubt of herself, the old scar of -the blow received in childhood, pathetic and funny, she murmured, “Do you think -it possible that he should care for me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Just ask him yourself. You are brave.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I am brave enough,” she said with a sigh. -</p> - -<p> -“Then do. For if you don’t you will be wronging that patient man cruelly.” -</p> - -<p> -I departed leaving her dumb. Next day, seeing Powell making preparations to go -ashore, I asked him to give my regards to Mrs. Anthony. He promised he would. -</p> - -<p> -“Listen, Powell,” I said. “We got to know each other by chance?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, quite!” he admitted, adjusting his hat. -</p> - -<p> -“And the science of life consists in seizing every chance that presents -itself,” I pursued. “Do you believe that?” -</p> - -<p> -“Gospel truth,” he declared innocently. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, don’t forget it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I! I don’t expect now anything to present itself,” he said, jumping -ashore. -</p> - -<p> -He didn’t turn up at high water. I set my sail and just as I had cast off from -the bank, round the black barn, in the dusk, two figures appeared and stood -silent, indistinct. -</p> - -<p> -“Is that you, Powell?” I hailed. -</p> - -<p> -“And Mrs. Anthony,” his voice came impressively through the silence of the -great marsh. “I am not sailing to-night. I have to see Mrs. Anthony home.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then I must even go alone,” I cried. -</p> - -<p> -Flora’s voice wished me “<i>bon voyage</i>” in a most friendly but tremulous -tone. -</p> - -<p> -“You shall hear from me before long,” shouted Powell, suddenly, just as my boat -had cleared the mouth of the creek. -</p> - -<p> -“This was yesterday,” added Marlow, lolling in the arm-chair lazily. “I haven’t -heard yet; but I expect to hear any moment . . . What on earth are you grinning -at in this sarcastic manner? I am not afraid of going to church with a friend. -Hang it all, for all my belief in Chance I am not exactly a pagan . . . ” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1476 ***</div> -</body> -</html> diff --git a/old/old/1476.txt b/old/old/1476.txt deleted file mode 100644 index db66b48..0000000 --- a/old/old/1476.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,13977 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Chance, by Joseph Conrad - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - - - - -Title: Chance - -Author: Joseph Conrad - -Release Date: March 17, 2005 [eBook #1476] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHANCE*** - - - - - -Transcribed form the 1914 Methuen & Co. edition by David Price, email -ccx074@coventry.ac.uk - - - - - -CHANCE--A TALE IN TWO PARTS - - - Those that hold that all things are governed by Fortune had not erred, - had they not persisted there - - SIR THOMAS BROWNE - -TO SIR HUGH CLIFFORD, K.C.M.G. WHO STEADFAST FRIENDSHIP IS RESPONSIBLE -FOR THE EXISTENCE OF THESE PAGES - - - - -PART I--THE DAMSEL - - -CHAPTER ONE--YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE - - -I believe he had seen us out of the window coming off to dine in the -dinghy of a fourteen-ton yawl belonging to Marlow my host and skipper. We -helped the boy we had with us to haul the boat up on the landing-stage -before we went up to the riverside inn, where we found our new -acquaintance eating his dinner in dignified loneliness at the head of a -long table, white and inhospitable like a snow bank. - -The red tint of his clear-cut face with trim short black whiskers under a -cap of curly iron-grey hair was the only warm spot in the dinginess of -that room cooled by the cheerless tablecloth. We knew him already by -sight as the owner of a little five-ton cutter, which he sailed alone -apparently, a fellow yachtsman in the unpretending band of fanatics who -cruise at the mouth of the Thames. But the first time he addressed the -waiter sharply as 'steward' we knew him at once for a sailor as well as a -yachtsman. - -Presently he had occasion to reprove that same waiter for the slovenly -manner in which the dinner was served. He did it with considerable -energy and then turned to us. - -"If we at sea," he declared, "went about our work as people ashore high -and low go about theirs we should never make a living. No one would -employ us. And moreover no ship navigated and sailed in the happy-go- -lucky manner people conduct their business on shore would ever arrive -into port." - -Since he had retired from the sea he had been astonished to discover that -the educated people were not much better than the others. No one seemed -to take any proper pride in his work: from plumbers who were simply -thieves to, say, newspaper men (he seemed to think them a specially -intellectual class) who never by any chance gave a correct version of the -simplest affair. This universal inefficiency of what he called "the -shore gang" he ascribed in general to the want of responsibility and to a -sense of security. - -"They see," he went on, "that no matter what they do this tight little -island won't turn turtle with them or spring a leak and go to the bottom -with their wives and children." - -From this point the conversation took a special turn relating exclusively -to sea-life. On that subject he got quickly in touch with Marlow who in -his time had followed the sea. They kept up a lively exchange of -reminiscences while I listened. They agreed that the happiest time in -their lives was as youngsters in good ships, with no care in the world -but not to lose a watch below when at sea and not a moment's time in -going ashore after work hours when in harbour. They agreed also as to -the proudest moment they had known in that calling which is never -embraced on rational and practical grounds, because of the glamour of its -romantic associations. It was the moment when they had passed -successfully their first examination and left the seamanship Examiner -with the little precious slip of blue paper in their hands. - -"That day I wouldn't have called the Queen my cousin," declared our new -acquaintance enthusiastically. - -At that time the Marine Board examinations took place at the St. -Katherine's Dock House on Tower Hill, and he informed us that he had a -special affection for the view of that historic locality, with the -Gardens to the left, the front of the Mint to the right, the miserable -tumble-down little houses farther away, a cabstand, boot-blacks squatting -on the edge of the pavement and a pair of big policemen gazing with an -air of superiority at the doors of the Black Horse public-house across -the road. This was the part of the world, he said, his eyes first took -notice of, on the finest day of his life. He had emerged from the main -entrance of St. Katherine's Dock House a full-fledged second mate after -the hottest time of his life with Captain R-, the most dreaded of the -three seamanship Examiners who at the time were responsible for the -merchant service officers qualifying in the Port of London. - -"We all who were preparing to pass," he said, "used to shake in our shoes -at the idea of going before him. He kept me for an hour and a half in -the torture chamber and behaved as though he hated me. He kept his eyes -shaded with one of his hands. Suddenly he let it drop saying, "You will -do!" Before I realised what he meant he was pushing the blue slip across -the table. I jumped up as if my chair had caught fire. - -"Thank you, sir," says I, grabbing the paper. - -"Good morning, good luck to you," he growls at me. - -"The old doorkeeper fussed out of the cloak-room with my hat. They -always do. But he looked very hard at me before he ventured to ask in a -sort of timid whisper: "Got through all right, sir?" For all answer I -dropped a half-crown into his soft broad palm. "Well," says he with a -sudden grin from ear to ear, "I never knew him keep any of you gentlemen -so long. He failed two second mates this morning before your turn came. -Less than twenty minutes each: that's about his usual time." - -"I found myself downstairs without being aware of the steps as if I had -floated down the staircase. The finest day in my life. The day you get -your first command is nothing to it. For one thing a man is not so young -then and for another with us, you know, there is nothing much more to -expect. Yes, the finest day of one's life, no doubt, but then it is just -a day and no more. What comes after is about the most unpleasant time -for a youngster, the trying to get an officer's berth with nothing much -to show but a brand-new certificate. It is surprising how useless you -find that piece of ass's skin that you have been putting yourself in such -a state about. It didn't strike me at the time that a Board of Trade -certificate does not make an officer, not by a long long way. But the -slippers of the ships I was haunting with demands for a job knew that -very well. I don't wonder at them now, and I don't blame them either. -But this 'trying to get a ship' is pretty hard on a youngster all the -same . . . " - -He went on then to tell us how tired he was and how discouraged by this -lesson of disillusion following swiftly upon the finest day of his life. -He told us how he went the round of all the ship-owners' offices in the -City where some junior clerk would furnish him with printed forms of -application which he took home to fill up in the evening. He used to run -out just before midnight to post them in the nearest pillar-box. And -that was all that ever came of it. In his own words: he might just as -well have dropped them all properly addressed and stamped into the sewer -grating. - -Then one day, as he was wending his weary way to the docks, he met a -friend and former shipmate a little older than himself outside the -Fenchurch Street Railway Station. - -He craved for sympathy but his friend had just "got a ship" that very -morning and was hurrying home in a state of outward joy and inward -uneasiness usual to a sailor who after many days of waiting suddenly gets -a berth. This friend had the time to condole with him but briefly. He -must be moving. Then as he was running off, over his shoulder as it -were, he suggested: "Why don't you go and speak to Mr. Powell in the -Shipping Office." Our friend objected that he did not know Mr. Powell -from Adam. And the other already pretty near round the corner shouted -back advice: "Go to the private door of the Shipping Office and walk -right up to him. His desk is by the window. Go up boldly and say I sent -you." - -Our new acquaintance looking from one to the other of us declared: "Upon -my word, I had grown so desperate that I'd have gone boldly up to the -devil himself on the mere hint that he had a second mate's job to give -away." - -It was at this point that interrupting his flow of talk to light his pipe -but holding us with his eye he inquired whether we had known Powell. -Marlow with a slight reminiscent smile murmured that he "remembered him -very well." - -Then there was a pause. Our new acquaintance had become involved in a -vexatious difficulty with his pipe which had suddenly betrayed his trust -and disappointed his anticipation of self-indulgence. To keep the ball -rolling I asked Marlow if this Powell was remarkable in any way. - -"He was not exactly remarkable," Marlow answered with his usual -nonchalance. "In a general way it's very difficult for one to become -remarkable. People won't take sufficient notice of one, don't you know. -I remember Powell so well simply because as one of the Shipping Masters -in the Port of London he dispatched me to sea on several long stages of -my sailor's pilgrimage. He resembled Socrates. I mean he resembled him -genuinely: that is in the face. A philosophical mind is but an accident. -He reproduced exactly the familiar bust of the immortal sage, if you will -imagine the bust with a high top hat riding far on the back of the head, -and a black coat over the shoulders. As I never saw him except from the -other side of the long official counter bearing the five writing desks of -the five Shipping Masters, Mr. Powell has remained a bust to me." - -Our new acquaintance advanced now from the mantelpiece with his pipe in -good working order. - -"What was the most remarkable about Powell," he enunciated dogmatically -with his head in a cloud of smoke, "is that he should have had just that -name. You see, my name happens to be Powell too." - -It was clear that this intelligence was not imparted to us for social -purposes. It required no acknowledgment. We continued to gaze at him -with expectant eyes. - -He gave himself up to the vigorous enjoyment of his pipe for a silent -minute or two. Then picking up the thread of his story he told us how he -had started hot foot for Tower Hill. He had not been that way since the -day of his examination--the finest day of his life--the day of his -overweening pride. It was very different now. He would not have called -the Queen his cousin, still, but this time it was from a sense of -profound abasement. He didn't think himself good enough for anybody's -kinship. He envied the purple-nosed old cab-drivers on the stand, the -boot-black boys at the edge of the pavement, the two large bobbies pacing -slowly along the Tower Gardens railings in the consciousness of their -infallible might, and the bright scarlet sentries walking smartly to and -fro before the Mint. He envied them their places in the scheme of -world's labour. And he envied also the miserable sallow, thin-faced -loafers blinking their obscene eyes and rubbing their greasy shoulders -against the door-jambs of the Black Horse pub, because they were too far -gone to feel their degradation. - -I must render the man the justice that he conveyed very well to us the -sense of his youthful hopelessness surprised at not finding its place in -the sun and no recognition of its right to live. - -He went up the outer steps of St. Katherine's Dock House, the very steps -from which he had some six weeks before surveyed the cabstand, the -buildings, the policemen, the boot-blacks, the paint, gilt, and -plateglass of the Black Horse, with the eye of a Conqueror. At the time -he had been at the bottom of his heart surprised that all this had not -greeted him with songs and incense, but now (he made no secret of it) he -made his entry in a slinking fashion past the doorkeeper's glass box. "I -hadn't any half-crowns to spare for tips," he remarked grimly. The man, -however, ran out after him asking: "What do you require?" but with a -grateful glance up at the first floor in remembrance of Captain R-'s -examination room (how easy and delightful all that had been) he bolted -down a flight leading to the basement and found himself in a place of -dusk and mystery and many doors. He had been afraid of being stopped by -some rule of no-admittance. However he was not pursued. - -The basement of St. Katherine's Dock House is vast in extent and -confusing in its plan. Pale shafts of light slant from above into the -gloom of its chilly passages. Powell wandered up and down there like an -early Christian refugee in the catacombs; but what little faith he had in -the success of his enterprise was oozing out at his finger-tips. At a -dark turn under a gas bracket whose flame was half turned down his self- -confidence abandoned him altogether. - -"I stood there to think a little," he said. "A foolish thing to do -because of course I got scared. What could you expect? It takes some -nerve to tackle a stranger with a request for a favour. I wished my -namesake Powell had been the devil himself. I felt somehow it would have -been an easier job. You see, I never believed in the devil enough to be -scared of him; but a man can make himself very unpleasant. I looked at a -lot of doors, all shut tight, with a growing conviction that I would -never have the pluck to open one of them. Thinking's no good for one's -nerve. I concluded I would give up the whole business. But I didn't -give up in the end, and I'll tell you what stopped me. It was the -recollection of that confounded doorkeeper who had called after me. I -felt sure the fellow would be on the look-out at the head of the stairs. -If he asked me what I had been after, as he had the right to do, I -wouldn't know what to answer that wouldn't make me look silly if no -worse. I got very hot. There was no chance of slinking out of this -business. - -"I had lost my bearings somehow down there. Of the many doors of various -sizes, right and left, a good few had glazed lights above; some however -must have led merely into lumber rooms or such like, because when I -brought myself to try one or two I was disconcerted to find that they -were locked. I stood there irresolute and uneasy like a baffled thief. -The confounded basement was as still as a grave and I became aware of my -heart beats. Very uncomfortable sensation. Never happened to me before -or since. A bigger door to the left of me, with a large brass handle -looked as if it might lead into the Shipping Office. I tried it, setting -my teeth. "Here goes!" - -"It came open quite easily. And lo! the place it opened into was hardly -any bigger than a cupboard. Anyhow it wasn't more than ten feet by -twelve; and as I in a way expected to see the big shadowy cellar-like -extent of the Shipping Office where I had been once or twice before, I -was extremely startled. A gas bracket hung from the middle of the -ceiling over a dark, shabby writing-desk covered with a litter of -yellowish dusty documents. Under the flame of the single burner which -made the place ablaze with light, a plump, little man was writing hard, -his nose very near the desk. His head was perfectly bald and about the -same drab tint as the papers. He appeared pretty dusty too. - -"I didn't notice whether there were any cobwebs on him, but I shouldn't -wonder if there were because he looked as though he had been imprisoned -for years in that little hole. The way he dropped his pen and sat -blinking my way upset me very much. And his dungeon was hot and musty; -it smelt of gas and mushrooms, and seemed to be somewhere 120 feet below -the ground. Solid, heavy stacks of paper filled all the corners half-way -up to the ceiling. And when the thought flashed upon me that these were -the premises of the Marine Board and that this fellow must be connected -in some way with ships and sailors and the sea, my astonishment took my -breath away. One couldn't imagine why the Marine Board should keep that -bald, fat creature slaving down there. For some reason or other I felt -sorry and ashamed to have found him out in his wretched captivity. I -asked gently and sorrowfully: "The Shipping Office, please." - -He piped up in a contemptuous squeaky voice which made me start: "Not -here. Try the passage on the other side. Street side. This is the Dock -side. You've lost your way . . . " - -He spoke in such a spiteful tone that I thought he was going to round off -with the words: "You fool" . . . and perhaps he meant to. But what he -finished sharply with was: "Shut the door quietly after you." - -And I did shut it quietly--you bet. Quick and quiet. The indomitable -spirit of that chap impressed me. I wonder sometimes whether he has -succeeded in writing himself into liberty and a pension at last, or had -to go out of his gas-lighted grave straight into that other dark one -where nobody would want to intrude. My humanity was pleased to discover -he had so much kick left in him, but I was not comforted in the least. It -occurred to me that if Mr. Powell had the same sort of temper . . . -However, I didn't give myself time to think and scuttled across the space -at the foot of the stairs into the passage where I'd been told to try. -And I tried the first door I came to, right away, without any hanging -back, because coming loudly from the hall above an amazed and scandalized -voice wanted to know what sort of game I was up to down there. "Don't -you know there's no admittance that way?" it roared. But if there was -anything more I shut it out of my hearing by means of a door marked -_Private_ on the outside. It let me into a six-feet wide strip between a -long counter and the wall, taken off a spacious, vaulted room with a -grated window and a glazed door giving daylight to the further end. The -first thing I saw right in front of me were three middle-aged men having -a sort of romp together round about another fellow with a thin, long neck -and sloping shoulders who stood up at a desk writing on a large sheet of -paper and taking no notice except that he grinned quietly to himself. -They turned very sour at once when they saw me. I heard one of them -mutter 'Hullo! What have we here?' - -"'I want to see Mr. Powell, please,' I said, very civil but firm; I would -let nothing scare me away now. This was the Shipping Office right -enough. It was after 3 o'clock and the business seemed over for the day -with them. The long-necked fellow went on with his writing steadily. I -observed that he was no longer grinning. The three others tossed their -heads all together towards the far end of the room where a fifth man had -been looking on at their antics from a high stool. I walked up to him as -boldly as if he had been the devil himself. With one foot raised up and -resting on the cross-bar of his seat he never stopped swinging the other -which was well clear of the stone floor. He had unbuttoned the top of -his waistcoat and he wore his tall hat very far at the back of his head. -He had a full unwrinkled face and such clear-shining eyes that his grey -beard looked quite false on him, stuck on for a disguise. You said just -now he resembled Socrates--didn't you? I don't know about that. This -Socrates was a wise man, I believe?" - -"He was," assented Marlow. "And a true friend of youth. He lectured -them in a peculiarly exasperating manner. It was a way he had." - -"Then give me Powell every time," declared our new acquaintance sturdily. -"He didn't lecture me in any way. Not he. He said: 'How do you do?' -quite kindly to my mumble. Then says he looking very hard at me: 'I -don't think I know you--do I?' - -"No, sir," I said and down went my heart sliding into my boots, just as -the time had come to summon up all my cheek. There's nothing meaner in -the world than a piece of impudence that isn't carried off well. For -fear of appearing shamefaced I started about it so free and easy as -almost to frighten myself. He listened for a while looking at my face -with surprise and curiosity and then held up his hand. I was glad enough -to shut up, I can tell you. - -"Well, you are a cool hand," says he. "And that friend of yours too. He -pestered me coming here every day for a fortnight till a captain I'm -acquainted with was good enough to give him a berth. And no sooner he's -provided for than he turns you on. You youngsters don't seem to mind -whom you get into trouble." - -"It was my turn now to stare with surprise and curiosity. He hadn't been -talking loud but he lowered his voice still more. - -"Don't you know it's illegal?" - -"I wondered what he was driving at till I remembered that procuring a -berth for a sailor is a penal offence under the Act. That clause was -directed of course against the swindling practices of the boarding-house -crimps. It had never struck me it would apply to everybody alike no -matter what the motive, because I believed then that people on shore did -their work with care and foresight. - -"I was confounded at the idea, but Mr. Powell made me soon see that an -Act of Parliament hasn't any sense of its own. It has only the sense -that's put into it; and that's precious little sometimes. He didn't mind -helping a young man to a ship now and then, he said, but if we kept on -coming constantly it would soon get about that he was doing it for money. - -"A pretty thing that would be: the Senior Shipping-Master of the Port of -London hauled up in a police court and fined fifty pounds," says he. -"I've another four years to serve to get my pension. It could be made to -look very black against me and don't you make any mistake about it," he -says. - -"And all the time with one knee well up he went on swinging his other leg -like a boy on a gate and looking at me very straight with his shining -eyes. I was confounded I tell you. It made me sick to hear him imply -that somebody would make a report against him. - -"Oh!" I asked shocked, "who would think of such a scurvy trick, sir?" I -was half disgusted with him for having the mere notion of it. - -"Who?" says he, speaking very low. "Anybody. One of the office -messengers maybe. I've risen to be the Senior of this office and we are -all very good friends here, but don't you think that my colleague that -sits next to me wouldn't like to go up to this desk by the window four -years in advance of the regulation time? Or even one year for that -matter. It's human nature." - -"I could not help turning my head. The three fellows who had been -skylarking when I came in were now talking together very soberly, and the -long-necked chap was going on with his writing still. He seemed to me -the most dangerous of the lot. I saw him sideface and his lips were set -very tight. I had never looked at mankind in that light before. When -one's young human nature shocks one. But what startled me most was to -see the door I had come through open slowly and give passage to a head in -a uniform cap with a Board of Trade badge. It was that blamed old -doorkeeper from the hall. He had run me to earth and meant to dig me out -too. He walked up the office smirking craftily, cap in hand. - -"What is it, Symons?" asked Mr. Powell. - -"I was only wondering where this 'ere gentleman 'ad gone to, sir. He -slipped past me upstairs, sir." - -I felt mighty uncomfortable. - -"That's all right, Symons. I know the gentleman," says Mr. Powell as -serious as a judge. - -"Very well, sir. Of course, sir. I saw the gentleman running races all -by 'isself down 'ere, so I . . ." - -"It's all right I tell you," Mr. Powell cut him short with a wave of his -hand; and, as the old fraud walked off at last, he raised his eyes to me. -I did not know what to do: stay there, or clear out, or say that I was -sorry. - -"Let's see," says he, "what did you tell me your name was?" - -"Now, observe, I hadn't given him my name at all and his question -embarrassed me a bit. Somehow or other it didn't seem proper for me to -fling his own name at him as it were. So I merely pulled out my new -certificate from my pocket and put it into his hand unfolded, so that he -could read _Charles Powell_ written very plain on the parchment. - -"He dropped his eyes on to it and after a while laid it quietly on the -desk by his side. I didn't know whether he meant to make any remark on -this coincidence. Before he had time to say anything the glass door came -open with a bang and a tall, active man rushed in with great strides. His -face looked very red below his high silk hat. You could see at once he -was the skipper of a big ship. - -"Mr. Powell after telling me in an undertone to wait a little addressed -him in a friendly way. - -"I've been expecting you in every moment to fetch away your Articles, -Captain. Here they are all ready for you." And turning to a pile of -agreements lying at his elbow he took up the topmost of them. From where -I stood I could read the words: "Ship _Ferndale_" written in a large -round hand on the first page. - -"No, Mr. Powell, they aren't ready, worse luck," says that skipper. "I've -got to ask you to strike out my second officer." He seemed excited and -bothered. He explained that his second mate had been working on board -all the morning. At one o'clock he went out to get a bit of dinner and -didn't turn up at two as he ought to have done. Instead there came a -messenger from the hospital with a note signed by a doctor. Collar bone -and one arm broken. Let himself be knocked down by a pair horse van -while crossing the road outside the dock gate, as if he had neither eyes -nor ears. And the ship ready to leave the dock at six o'clock to-morrow -morning! - -"Mr. Powell dipped his pen and began to turn the leaves of the agreement -over. "We must then take his name off," he says in a kind of unconcerned -sing-song. - -"What am I to do?" burst out the skipper. "This office closes at four -o'clock. I can't find a man in half an hour." - -"This office closes at four," repeats Mr. Powell glancing up and down the -pages and touching up a letter here and there with perfect indifference. - -"Even if I managed to lay hold some time to-day of a man ready to go at -such short notice I couldn't ship him regularly here--could I?" - -"Mr. Powell was busy drawing his pen through the entries relating to that -unlucky second mate and making a note in the margin. - -"You could sign him on yourself on board," says he without looking up. -"But I don't think you'll find easily an officer for such a pier-head -jump." - -"Upon this the fine-looking skipper gave signs of distress. The ship -mustn't miss the next morning's tide. He had to take on board forty tons -of dynamite and a hundred and twenty tons of gunpowder at a place down -the river before proceeding to sea. It was all arranged for next day. -There would be no end of fuss and complications if the ship didn't turn -up in time . . . I couldn't help hearing all this, while wishing him to -take himself off, because I wanted to know why Mr. Powell had told me to -wait. After what he had been saying there didn't seem any object in my -hanging about. If I had had my certificate in my pocket I should have -tried to slip away quietly; but Mr. Powell had turned about into the same -position I found him in at first and was again swinging his leg. My -certificate open on the desk was under his left elbow and I couldn't very -well go up and jerk it away. - -"I don't know," says he carelessly, addressing the helpless captain but -looking fixedly at me with an expression as if I hadn't been there. "I -don't know whether I ought to tell you that I know of a disengaged second -mate at hand." - -"Do you mean you've got him here?" shouts the other looking all over the -empty public part of the office as if he were ready to fling himself -bodily upon anything resembling a second mate. He had been so full of -his difficulty that I verify believe he had never noticed me. Or perhaps -seeing me inside he may have thought I was some understrapper belonging -to the place. But when Mr. Powell nodded in my direction he became very -quiet and gave me a long stare. Then he stooped to Mr. Powell's ear--I -suppose he imagined he was whispering, but I heard him well enough. - -"Looks very respectable." - -"Certainly," says the shipping-master quite calm and staring all the time -at me. "His name's Powell." - -"Oh, I see!" says the skipper as if struck all of a heap. "But is he -ready to join at once?" - -"I had a sort of vision of my lodgings--in the North of London, too, -beyond Dalston, away to the devil--and all my gear scattered about, and -my empty sea-chest somewhere in an outhouse the good people I was staying -with had at the end of their sooty strip of garden. I heard the Shipping -Master say in the coolest sort of way: - -"He'll sleep on board to-night." - -"He had better," says the Captain of the _Ferndale_ very businesslike, as -if the whole thing were settled. I can't say I was dumb for joy as you -may suppose. It wasn't exactly that. I was more by way of being out of -breath with the quickness of it. It didn't seem possible that this was -happening to me. But the skipper, after he had talked for a while with -Mr. Powell, too low for me to hear became visibly perplexed. - -"I suppose he had heard I was freshly passed and without experience as an -officer, because he turned about and looked me over as if I had been -exposed for sale. - -"He's young," he mutters. "Looks smart, though . . . You're smart and -willing (this to me very sudden and loud) and all that, aren't you?" - -"I just managed to open and shut my mouth, no more, being taken unawares. -But it was enough for him. He made as if I had deafened him with -protestations of my smartness and willingness. - -"Of course, of course. All right." And then turning to the Shipping -Master who sat there swinging his leg, he said that he certainly couldn't -go to sea without a second officer. I stood by as if all these things -were happening to some other chap whom I was seeing through with it. Mr. -Powell stared at me with those shining eyes of his. But that bothered -skipper turns upon me again as though he wanted to snap my head off. - -"You aren't too big to be told how to do things--are you? You've a lot -to learn yet though you mayn't think so." - -"I had half a mind to save my dignity by telling him that if it was my -seamanship he was alluding to I wanted him to understand that a fellow -who had survived being turned inside out for an hour and a half by -Captain R- was equal to any demand his old ship was likely to make on his -competence. However he didn't give me a chance to make that sort of fool -of myself because before I could open my mouth he had gone round on -another tack and was addressing himself affably to Mr. Powell who -swinging his leg never took his eyes off me. - -"I'll take your young friend willingly, Mr. Powell. If you let him sign -on as second-mate at once I'll take the Articles away with me now." - -"It suddenly dawned upon me that the innocent skipper of the _Ferndale_ -had taken it for granted that I was a relative of the Shipping Master! I -was quite astonished at this discovery, though indeed the mistake was -natural enough under the circumstances. What I ought to have admired was -the reticence with which this misunderstanding had been established and -acted upon. But I was too stupid then to admire anything. All my -anxiety was that this should be cleared up. I was ass enough to wonder -exceedingly at Mr. Powell failing to notice the misapprehension. I saw a -slight twitch come and go on his face; but instead of setting right that -mistake the Shipping Master swung round on his stool and addressed me as -'Charles.' He did. And I detected him taking a hasty squint at my -certificate just before, because clearly till he did so he was not sure -of my christian name. "Now then come round in front of the desk, -Charles," says he in a loud voice. - -"Charles! At first, I declare to you, it didn't seem possible that he -was addressing himself to me. I even looked round for that Charles but -there was nobody behind me except the thin-necked chap still hard at his -writing, and the other three Shipping Masters who were changing their -coats and reaching for their hats, making ready to go home. It was the -industrious thin-necked man who without laying down his pen lifted with -his left hand a flap near his desk and said kindly: - -"Pass this way." - -I walked through in a trance, faced Mr. Powell, from whom I learned that -we were bound to Port Elizabeth first, and signed my name on the Articles -of the ship _Ferndale_ as second mate--the voyage not to exceed two -years. - -"You won't fail to join--eh?" says the captain anxiously. "It would -cause no end of trouble and expense if you did. You've got a good six -hours to get your gear together, and then you'll have time to snatch a -sleep on board before the crew joins in the morning." - -"It was easy enough for him to talk of getting ready in six hours for a -voyage that was not to exceed two years. He hadn't to do that trick -himself, and with his sea-chest locked up in an outhouse the key of which -had been mislaid for a week as I remembered. But neither was I much -concerned. The idea that I was absolutely going to sea at six o'clock -next morning hadn't got quite into my head yet. It had been too sudden. - -"Mr. Powell, slipping the Articles into a long envelope, spoke up with a -sort of cold half-laugh without looking at either of us. - -"Mind you don't disgrace the name, Charles." - -"And the skipper chimes in very kindly: - -"He'll do well enough I dare say. I'll look after him a bit." - -"Upon this he grabs the Articles, says something about trying to run in -for a minute to see that poor devil in the hospital, and off he goes with -his heavy swinging step after telling me sternly: "Don't you go like that -poor fellow and get yourself run over by a cart as if you hadn't either -eyes or ears." - -"Mr. Powell," says I timidly (there was by then only the thin-necked man -left in the office with us and he was already by the door, standing on -one leg to turn the bottom of his trousers up before going away). "Mr. -Powell," says I, "I believe the Captain of the _Ferndale_ was thinking -all the time that I was a relation of yours." - -"I was rather concerned about the propriety of it, you know, but Mr. -Powell didn't seem to be in the least. - -"Did he?" says he. "That's funny, because it seems to me too that I've -been a sort of good uncle to several of you young fellows lately. Don't -you think so yourself? However, if you don't like it you may put him -right--when you get out to sea." At this I felt a bit queer. Mr. Powell -had rendered me a very good service:- because it's a fact that with us -merchant sailors the first voyage as officer is the real start in life. -He had given me no less than that. I told him warmly that he had done -for me more that day than all my relations put together ever did. - -"Oh, no, no," says he. "I guess it's that shipment of explosives waiting -down the river which has done most for you. Forty tons of dynamite have -been your best friend to-day, young man." - -"That was true too, perhaps. Anyway I saw clearly enough that I had -nothing to thank myself for. But as I tried to thank him, he checked my -stammering. - -"Don't be in a hurry to thank me," says he. "The voyage isn't finished -yet." - -Our new acquaintance paused, then added meditatively: "Queer man. As if -it made any difference. Queer man." - -"It's certainly unwise to admit any sort of responsibility for our -actions, whose consequences we are never able to foresee," remarked -Marlow by way of assent. - -"The consequence of his action was that I got a ship," said the other. -"That could not do much harm," he added with a laugh which argued a -probably unconscious contempt of general ideas. - -But Marlow was not put off. He was patient and reflective. He had been -at sea many years and I verily believe he liked sea-life because upon the -whole it is favourable to reflection. I am speaking of the now nearly -vanished sea-life under sail. To those who may be surprised at the -statement I will point out that this life secured for the mind of him who -embraced it the inestimable advantages of solitude and silence. Marlow -had the habit of pursuing general ideas in a peculiar manner, between -jest and earnest. - -"Oh, I wouldn't suggest," he said, "that your namesake Mr. Powell, the -Shipping Master, had done you much harm. Such was hardly his intention. -And even if it had been he would not have had the power. He was but a -man, and the incapacity to achieve anything distinctly good or evil is -inherent in our earthly condition. Mediocrity is our mark. And perhaps -it's just as well, since, for the most part, we cannot be certain of the -effect of our actions." - -"I don't know about the effect," the other stood up to Marlow manfully. -"What effect did you expect anyhow? I tell you he did something -uncommonly kind." - -"He did what he could," Marlow retorted gently, "and on his own showing -that was not a very great deal. I cannot help thinking that there was -some malice in the way he seized the opportunity to serve you. He -managed to make you uncomfortable. You wanted to go to sea, but he -jumped at the chance of accommodating your desire with a vengeance. I am -inclined to think your cheek alarmed him. And this was an excellent -occasion to suppress you altogether. For if you accepted he was relieved -of you with every appearance of humanity, and if you made objections -(after requesting his assistance, mind you) it was open to him to drop -you as a sort of impostor. You might have had to decline that berth for -some very valid reason. From sheer necessity perhaps. The notice was -too uncommonly short. But under the circumstances you'd have covered -yourself with ignominy." - -Our new friend knocked the ashes out of his pipe. - -"Quite a mistake," he said. "I am not of the declining sort, though I'll -admit it was something like telling a man that you would like a bath and -in consequence being instantly knocked overboard to sink or swim with -your clothes on. However, I didn't feel as if I were in deep water at -first. I left the shipping office quietly and for a time strolled along -the street as easy as if I had a week before me to fit myself out. But -by and by I reflected that the notice was even shorter than it looked. -The afternoon was well advanced; I had some things to get, a lot of small -matters to attend to, one or two persons to see. One of them was an aunt -of mine, my only relation, who quarrelled with poor father as long as he -lived about some silly matter that had neither right nor wrong to it. She -left her money to me when she died. I used always to go and see her for -decency's sake. I had so much to do before night that I didn't know -where to begin. I felt inclined to sit down on the kerb and hold my head -in my hands. It was as if an engine had been started going under my -skull. Finally I sat down in the first cab that came along and it was a -hard matter to keep on sitting there I can tell you, while we rolled up -and down the streets, pulling up here and there, the parcels accumulating -round me and the engine in my head gathering more way every minute. The -composure of the people on the pavements was provoking to a degree, and -as to the people in shops, they were benumbed, more than half -frozen--imbecile. Funny how it affects you to be in a peculiar state of -mind: everybody that does not act up to your excitement seems so -confoundedly unfriendly. And my state of mind what with the hurry, the -worry and a growing exultation was peculiar enough. That engine in my -head went round at its top speed hour after hour till eleven at about at -night it let up on me suddenly at the entrance to the Dock before large -iron gates in a dead wall." - -* * * * * - -These gates were closed and locked. The cabby, after shooting his things -off the roof of his machine into young Powell's arms, drove away leaving -him alone with his sea-chest, a sail cloth bag and a few parcels on the -pavement about his feet. It was a dark, narrow thoroughfare he told us. -A mean row of houses on the other side looked empty: there wasn't the -smallest gleam of light in them. The white-hot glare of a gin palace a -good way off made the intervening piece of the street pitch black. Some -human shapes appearing mysteriously, as if they had sprung up from the -dark ground, shunned the edge of the faint light thrown down by the -gateway lamps. These figures were wary in their movements and perfectly -silent of foot, like beasts of prey slinking about a camp fire. Powell -gathered up his belongings and hovered over them like a hen over her -brood. A gruffly insinuating voice said: - -"Let's carry your things in, Capt'in! I've got my pal 'ere." - -He was a tall, bony, grey-haired ruffian with a bulldog jaw, in a torn -cotton shirt and moleskin trousers. The shadow of his hobnailed boots -was enormous and coffinlike. His pal, who didn't come up much higher -than his elbow, stepping forward exhibited a pale face with a long -drooping nose and no chin to speak of. He seemed to have just scrambled -out of a dust-bin in a tam-o'shanter cap and a tattered soldier's coat -much too long for him. Being so deadly white he looked like a horrible -dirty invalid in a ragged dressing gown. The coat flapped open in front -and the rest of his apparel consisted of one brace which crossed his -naked, bony chest, and a pair of trousers. He blinked rapidly as if -dazed by the faint light, while his patron, the old bandit, glowered at -young Powell from under his beetling brow. - -"Say the word, Capt'in. The bobby'll let us in all right. 'E knows both -of us." - -"I didn't answer him," continued Mr. Powell. "I was listening to -footsteps on the other side of the gate, echoing between the walls of the -warehouses as if in an uninhabited town of very high buildings dark from -basement to roof. You could never have guessed that within a stone's -throw there was an open sheet of water and big ships lying afloat. The -few gas lamps showing up a bit of brick work here and there, appeared in -the blackness like penny dips in a range of cellars--and the solitary -footsteps came on, tramp, tramp. A dock policeman strode into the light -on the other side of the gate, very broad-chested and stern. - -"Hallo! What's up here?" - -"He was really surprised, but after some palaver he let me in together -with the two loafers carrying my luggage. He grumbled at them however -and slammed the gate violently with a loud clang. I was startled to -discover how many night prowlers had collected in the darkness of the -street in such a short time and without my being aware of it. Directly -we were through they came surging against the bars, silent, like a mob of -ugly spectres. But suddenly, up the street somewhere, perhaps near that -public-house, a row started as if Bedlam had broken loose: shouts, yells, -an awful shrill shriek--and at that noise all these heads vanished from -behind the bars. - -"Look at this," marvelled the constable. "It's a wonder to me they -didn't make off with your things while you were waiting." - -"I would have taken good care of that," I said defiantly. But the -constable wasn't impressed. - -"Much you would have done. The bag going off round one dark corner; the -chest round another. Would you have run two ways at once? And anyhow -you'd have been tripped up and jumped upon before you had run three -yards. I tell you you've had a most extraordinary chance that there -wasn't one of them regular boys about to-night, in the High Street, to -twig your loaded cab go by. Ted here is honest . . . You are on the -honest lay, Ted, ain't you?" - -"Always was, orficer," said the big ruffian with feeling. The other -frail creature seemed dumb and only hopped about with the edge of its -soldier coat touching the ground. - -"Oh yes, I dare say," said the constable. "Now then, forward, march . . . -He's that because he ain't game for the other thing," he confided to -me. "He hasn't got the nerve for it. However, I ain't going to lose -sight of them two till they go out through the gate. That little chap's -a devil. He's got the nerve for anything, only he hasn't got the muscle. -Well! Well! You've had a chance to get in with a whole skin and with -all your things." - -"I was incredulous a little. It seemed impossible that after getting -ready with so much hurry and inconvenience I should have lost my chance -of a start in life from such a cause. I asked: - -"Does that sort of thing happen often so near the dock gates?" - -"Often! No! Of course not often. But it ain't often either that a man -comes along with a cabload of things to join a ship at this time of -night. I've been in the dock police thirteen years and haven't seen it -done once." - -"Meantime we followed my sea-chest which was being carried down a sort of -deep narrow lane, separating two high warehouses, between honest Ted and -his little devil of a pal who had to keep up a trot to the other's -stride. The skirt of his soldier's coat floating behind him nearly swept -the ground so that he seemed to be running on castors. At the corner of -the gloomy passage a rigged jib boom with a dolphin-striker ending in an -arrow-head stuck out of the night close to a cast iron lamp-post. It was -the quay side. They set down their load in the light and honest Ted -asked hoarsely: - -"Where's your ship, guv'nor?" - -"I didn't know. The constable was interested at my ignorance. - -"Don't know where your ship is?" he asked with curiosity. "And you the -second officer! Haven't you been working on board of her?" - -"I couldn't explain that the only work connected with my appointment was -the work of chance. I told him briefly that I didn't know her at all. At -this he remarked: - -"So I see. Here she is, right before you. That's her." - -"At once the head-gear in the gas light inspired me with interest and -respect; the spars were big, the chains and ropes stout and the whole -thing looked powerful and trustworthy. Barely touched by the light her -bows rose faintly alongside the narrow strip of the quay; the rest of her -was a black smudge in the darkness. Here I was face to face with my -start in life. We walked in a body a few steps on a greasy pavement -between her side and the towering wall of a warehouse and I hit my shins -cruelly against the end of the gangway. The constable hailed her quietly -in a bass undertone '_Ferndale_ there!' A feeble and dismal sound, -something in the nature of a buzzing groan, answered from behind the -bulwarks. - -"I distinguished vaguely an irregular round knob, of wood, perhaps, -resting on the rail. It did not move in the least; but as another broken- -down buzz like a still fainter echo of the first dismal sound proceeded -from it I concluded it must be the head of the ship-keeper. The stalwart -constable jeered in a mock-official manner. - -"Second officer coming to join. Move yourself a bit." - -"The truth of the statement touched me in the pit of the stomach (you -know that's the spot where emotion gets home on a man) for it was borne -upon me that really and truly I was nothing but a second officer of a -ship just like any other second officer, to that constable. I was moved -by this solid evidence of my new dignity. Only his tone offended me. -Nevertheless I gave him the tip he was looking for. Thereupon he lost -all interest in me, humorous or otherwise, and walked away driving -sternly before him the honest Ted, who went off grumbling to himself like -a hungry ogre, and his horrible dumb little pal in the soldier's coat, -who, from first to last, never emitted the slightest sound. - -"It was very dark on the quarter deck of the _Ferndale_ between the deep -bulwarks overshadowed by the break of the poop and frowned upon by the -front of the warehouse. I plumped down on to my chest near the after -hatch as if my legs had been jerked from under me. I felt suddenly very -tired and languid. The ship-keeper, whom I could hardly make out hung -over the capstan in a fit of weak pitiful coughing. He gasped out very -low 'Oh! dear! Oh! dear!' and struggled for breath so long that I got up -alarmed and irresolute. - -"I've been took like this since last Christmas twelvemonth. It ain't -nothing." - -"He seemed a hundred years old at least. I never saw him properly -because he was gone ashore and out of sight when I came on deck in the -morning; but he gave me the notion of the feeblest creature that ever -breathed. His voice was thin like the buzzing of a mosquito. As it -would have been cruel to demand assistance from such a shadowy wreck I -went to work myself, dragging my chest along a pitch-black passage under -the poop deck, while he sighed and moaned around me as if my exertions -were more than his weakness could stand. At last as I banged pretty -heavily against the bulkheads he warned me in his faint breathless wheeze -to be more careful. - -"What's the matter?" I asked rather roughly, not relishing to be -admonished by this forlorn broken-down ghost. - -"Nothing! Nothing, sir," he protested so hastily that he lost his poor -breath again and I felt sorry for him. "Only the captain and his missus -are sleeping on board. She's a lady that mustn't be disturbed. They -came about half-past eight, and we had a permit to have lights in the -cabin till ten to-night." - -"This struck me as a considerable piece of news. I had never been in a -ship where the captain had his wife with him. I'd heard fellows say that -captains' wives could work a lot of mischief on board ship if they -happened to take a dislike to anyone; especially the new wives if young -and pretty. The old and experienced wives on the other hand fancied they -knew more about the ship than the skipper himself and had an eye like a -hawk's for what went on. They were like an extra chief mate of a -particularly sharp and unfeeling sort who made his report in the evening. -The best of them were a nuisance. In the general opinion a skipper with -his wife on board was more difficult to please; but whether to show off -his authority before an admiring female or from loving anxiety for her -safety or simply from irritation at her presence--nobody I ever heard on -the subject could tell for certain. - -"After I had bundled in my things somehow I struck a match and had a -dazzling glimpse of my berth; then I pitched the roll of my bedding into -the bunk but took no trouble to spread it out. I wasn't sleepy now, -neither was I tired. And the thought that I was done with the earth for -many many months to come made me feel very quiet and self-contained as it -were. Sailors will understand what I mean." - -Marlow nodded. "It is a strictly professional feeling," he commented. -"But other professions or trades know nothing of it. It is only this -calling whose primary appeal lies in the suggestion of restless adventure -which holds out that deep sensation to those who embrace it. It is -difficult to define, I admit." - -"I should call it the peace of the sea," said Mr. Charles Powell in an -earnest tone but looking at us as though he expected to be met by a laugh -of derision and were half prepared to salve his reputation for common -sense by joining in it. But neither of us laughed at Mr. Charles Powell -in whose start in life we had been called to take a part. He was lucky -in his audience. - -"A very good name," said Marlow looking at him approvingly. "A sailor -finds a deep feeling of security in the exercise of his calling. The -exacting life of the sea has this advantage over the life of the earth -that its claims are simple and cannot be evaded." - -"Gospel truth," assented Mr. Powell. "No! they cannot be evaded." - -That an excellent understanding should have established itself between my -old friend and our new acquaintance was remarkable enough. For they were -exactly dissimilar--one individuality projecting itself in length and the -other in breadth, which is already a sufficient ground for irreconcilable -difference. Marlow who was lanky, loose, quietly composed in varied -shades of brown robbed of every vestige of gloss, had a narrow, veiled -glance, the neutral bearing and the secret irritability which go together -with a predisposition to congestion of the liver. The other, compact, -broad and sturdy of limb, seemed extremely full of sound organs -functioning vigorously all the time in order to keep up the brilliance of -his colouring, the light curl of his coal-black hair and the lustre of -his eyes, which asserted themselves roundly in an open, manly face. -Between two such organisms one would not have expected to find the -slightest temperamental accord. But I have observed that profane men -living in ships like the holy men gathered together in monasteries -develop traits of profound resemblance. This must be because the service -of the sea and the service of a temple are both detached from the -vanities and errors of a world which follows no severe rule. The men of -the sea understand each other very well in their view of earthly things, -for simplicity is a good counsellor and isolation not a bad educator. A -turn of mind composed of innocence and scepticism is common to them all, -with the addition of an unexpected insight into motives, as of -disinterested lookers-on at a game. Mr. Powell took me aside to say, - -"I like the things he says." - -"You understand each other pretty well," I observed. - -"I know his sort," said Powell, going to the window to look at his cutter -still riding to the flood. "He's the sort that's always chasing some -notion or other round and round his head just for the fun of the thing." - -"Keeps them in good condition," I said. - -"Lively enough I dare say," he admitted. - -"Would you like better a man who let his notions lie curled up?" - -"That I wouldn't," answered our new acquaintance. Clearly he was not -difficult to get on with. "I like him, very well," he continued, "though -it isn't easy to make him out. He seems to be up to a thing or two. -What's he doing?" - -I informed him that our friend Marlow had retired from the sea in a sort -of half-hearted fashion some years ago. - -Mr. Powell's comment was: "Fancied had enough of it?" - -"Fancied's the very word to use in this connection," I observed, -remembering the subtly provisional character of Marlow's long sojourn -amongst us. From year to year he dwelt on land as a bird rests on the -branch of a tree, so tense with the power of brusque flight into its true -element that it is incomprehensible why it should sit still minute after -minute. The sea is the sailor's true element, and Marlow, lingering on -shore, was to me an object of incredulous commiseration like a bird, -which, secretly, should have lost its faith in the high virtue of flying. - - - -CHAPTER TWO--THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND - - -We were on our feet in the room by then, and Marlow, brown and -deliberate, approached the window where Mr. Powell and I had retired. -"What was the name of your chance again?" he asked. Mr. Powell stared -for a moment. - -"Oh! The _Ferndale_. A Liverpool ship. Composite built." - -"_Ferndale_," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "_Ferndale_." - -"Know her?" - -"Our friend," I said, "knows something of every ship. He seems to have -gone about the seas prying into things considerably." - -Marlow smiled. - -"I've seen her, at least once." - -"The finest sea-boat ever launched," declared Mr. Powell sturdily. -"Without exception." - -"She looked a stout, comfortable ship," assented Marlow. "Uncommonly -comfortable. Not very fast tho'." - -"She was fast enough for any reasonable man--when I was in her," growled -Mr. Powell with his back to us. - -"Any ship is that--for a reasonable man," generalized Marlow in a -conciliatory tone. "A sailor isn't a globe-trotter." - -"No," muttered Mr. Powell. - -"Time's nothing to him," advanced Marlow. - -"I don't suppose it's much," said Mr. Powell. "All the same a quick -passage is a feather in a man's cap." - -"True. But that ornament is for the use of the master only. And by the -by what was his name?" - -"The master of the _Ferndale_? Anthony. Captain Anthony." - -"Just so. Quite right," approved Marlow thoughtfully. Our new -acquaintance looked over his shoulder. - -"What do you mean? Why is it more right than if it had been Brown?" - -"He has known him probably," I explained. "Marlow here appears to know -something of every soul that ever went afloat in a sailor's body." - -Mr. Powell seemed wonderfully amenable to verbal suggestions for looking -again out of the window, he muttered: - -"He was a good soul." - -This clearly referred to Captain Anthony of the _Ferndale_. Marlow -addressed his protest to me. - -"I did not know him. I really didn't. He was a good soul. That's -nothing very much out of the way--is it? And I didn't even know that -much of him. All I knew of him was an accident called Fyne. - -At this Mr. Powell who evidently could be rebellious too turned his back -squarely on the window. - -"What on earth do you mean?" he asked. "An--accident--called Fyne," he -repeated separating the words with emphasis. - -Marlow was not disconcerted. - -"I don't mean accident in the sense of a mishap. Not in the least. Fyne -was a good little man in the Civil Service. By accident I mean that -which happens blindly and without intelligent design. That's generally -the way a brother-in-law happens into a man's life." - -Marlow's tone being apologetic and our new acquaintance having again -turned to the window I took it upon myself to say: - -"You are justified. There is very little intelligent design in the -majority of marriages; but they are none the worse for that. Intelligence -leads people astray as far as passion sometimes. I know you are not a -cynic." - -Marlow smiled his retrospective smile which was kind as though he bore no -grudge against people he used to know. - -"Little Fyne's marriage was quite successful. There was no design at all -in it. Fyne, you must know, was an enthusiastic pedestrian. He spent -his holidays tramping all over our native land. His tastes were simple. -He put infinite conviction and perseverance into his holidays. At the -proper season you would meet in the fields, Fyne, a serious-faced, broad- -chested, little man, with a shabby knap-sack on his back, making for some -church steeple. He had a horror of roads. He wrote once a little book -called the 'Tramp's Itinerary,' and was recognised as an authority on the -footpaths of England. So one year, in his favourite over-the-fields, -back-way fashion he entered a pretty Surrey village where he met Miss -Anthony. Pure accident, you see. They came to an understanding, across -some stile, most likely. Little Fyne held very solemn views as to the -destiny of women on this earth, the nature of our sublunary love, the -obligations of this transient life and so on. He probably disclosed them -to his future wife. Miss Anthony's views of life were very decided too -but in a different way. I don't know the story of their wooing. I -imagine it was carried on clandestinely and, I am certain, with -portentous gravity, at the back of copses, behind hedges . . . - -"Why was it carried on clandestinely?" I inquired. - -"Because of the lady's father. He was a savage sentimentalist who had -his own decided views of his paternal prerogatives. He was a terror; but -the only evidence of imaginative faculty about Fyne was his pride in his -wife's parentage. It stimulated his ingenuity too. Difficult--is it -not?--to introduce one's wife's maiden name into general conversation. -But my simple Fyne made use of Captain Anthony for that purpose, or else -I would never even have heard of the man. "My wife's sailor-brother" was -the phrase. He trotted out the sailor-brother in a pretty wide range of -subjects: Indian and colonial affairs, matters of trade, talk of travels, -of seaside holidays and so on. Once I remember "My wife's sailor-brother -Captain Anthony" being produced in connection with nothing less recondite -than a sunset. And little Fyne never failed to add "The son of Carleon -Anthony, the poet--you know." He used to lower his voice for that -statement, and people were impressed or pretended to be." - -The late Carleon Anthony, the poet, sang in his time of the domestic and -social amenities of our age with a most felicitous versification, his -object being, in his own words, "to glorify the result of six thousand -years' evolution towards the refinement of thought, manners and -feelings." Why he fixed the term at six thousand years I don't know. His -poems read like sentimental novels told in verse of a really superior -quality. You felt as if you were being taken out for a delightful -country drive by a charming lady in a pony carriage. But in his domestic -life that same Carleon Anthony showed traces of the primitive -cave-dweller's temperament. He was a massive, implacable man with a -handsome face, arbitrary and exacting with his dependants, but -marvellously suave in his manner to admiring strangers. These contrasted -displays must have been particularly exasperating to his long-suffering -family. After his second wife's death his boy, whom he persisted by a -mere whim in educating at home, ran away in conventional style and, as if -disgusted with the amenities of civilization, threw himself, figuratively -speaking, into the sea. The daughter (the elder of the two children) -either from compassion or because women are naturally more enduring, -remained in bondage to the poet for several years, till she too seized a -chance of escape by throwing herself into the arms, the muscular arms, of -the pedestrian Fyne. This was either great luck or great sagacity. A -civil servant is, I should imagine, the last human being in the world to -preserve those traits of the cave-dweller from which she was fleeing. Her -father would never consent to see her after the marriage. Such -unforgiving selfishness is difficult to understand unless as a perverse -sort of refinement. There were also doubts as to Carleon Anthony's -complete sanity for some considerable time before he died. - -Most of the above I elicited from Marlow, for all I knew of Carleon -Anthony was his unexciting but fascinating verse. Marlow assured me that -the Fyne marriage was perfectly successful and even happy, in an earnest, -unplayful fashion, being blessed besides by three healthy, active, self- -reliant children, all girls. They were all pedestrians too. Even the -youngest would wander away for miles if not restrained. Mrs. Fyne had a -ruddy out-of-doors complexion and wore blouses with a starched front like -a man's shirt, a stand-up collar and a long necktie. Marlow had made -their acquaintance one summer in the country, where they were accustomed -to take a cottage for the holidays . . . - -At this point we were interrupted by Mr. Powell who declared that he must -leave us. The tide was on the turn, he announced coming away from the -window abruptly. He wanted to be on board his cutter before she swung -and of course he would sleep on board. Never slept away from the cutter -while on a cruise. He was gone in a moment, unceremoniously, but giving -us no offence and leaving behind an impression as though we had known him -for a long time. The ingenuous way he had told us of his start in life -had something to do with putting him on that footing with us. I gave no -thought to seeing him again. - -Marlow expressed a confident hope of coming across him before long. - -"He cruises about the mouth of the river all the summer. He will be easy -to find any week-end," he remarked ringing the bell so that we might -settle up with the waiter. - -* * * * * - -Later on I asked Marlow why he wished to cultivate this chance -acquaintance. He confessed apologetically that it was the commonest sort -of curiosity. I flatter myself that I understand all sorts of curiosity. -Curiosity about daily facts, about daily things, about daily men. It is -the most respectable faculty of the human mind--in fact I cannot conceive -the uses of an incurious mind. It would be like a chamber perpetually -locked up. But in this particular case Mr. Powell seemed to have given -us already a complete insight into his personality such as it was; a -personality capable of perception and with a feeling for the vagaries of -fate, but essentially simple in itself. - -Marlow agreed with me so far. He explained however that his curiosity -was not excited by Mr. Powell exclusively. It originated a good way -further back in the fact of his accidental acquaintance with the Fynes, -in the country. This chance meeting with a man who had sailed with -Captain Anthony had revived it. It had revived it to some purpose, to -such purpose that to me too was given the knowledge of its origin and of -its nature. It was given to me in several stages, at intervals which are -not indicated here. On this first occasion I remarked to Marlow with -some surprise: - -"But, if I remember rightly you said you didn't know Captain Anthony." - -"No. I never saw the man. It's years ago now, but I seem to hear solemn -little Fyne's deep voice announcing the approaching visit of his wife's -brother "the son of the poet, you know." He had just arrived in London -from a long voyage, and, directly his occupations permitted, was coming -down to stay with his relatives for a few weeks. No doubt we two should -find many things to talk about by ourselves in reference to our common -calling, added little Fyne portentously in his grave undertones, as if -the Mercantile Marine were a secret society. - -You must understand that I cultivated the Fynes only in the country, in -their holiday time. This was the third year. Of their existence in town -I knew no more than may be inferred from analogy. I played chess with -Fyne in the late afternoon, and sometimes came over to the cottage early -enough to have tea with the whole family at a big round table. They sat -about it, an unsmiling, sunburnt company of very few words indeed. Even -the children were silent and as if contemptuous of each other and of -their elders. Fyne muttered sometimes deep down in his chest some -insignificant remark. Mrs. Fyne smiled mechanically (she had splendid -teeth) while distributing tea and bread and butter. A something which -was not coldness, nor yet indifference, but a sort of peculiar -self-possession gave her the appearance of a very trustworthy, very -capable and excellent governess; as if Fyne were a widower and the -children not her own but only entrusted to her calm, efficient, -unemotional care. One expected her to address Fyne as Mr. When she -called him John it surprised one like a shocking familiarity. The -atmosphere of that holiday was--if I may put it so--brightly dull. -Healthy faces, fair complexions, clear eyes, and never a frank smile in -the whole lot, unless perhaps from a girl-friend. - -The girl-friend problem exercised me greatly. How and where the Fynes -got all these pretty creatures to come and stay with them I can't -imagine. I had at first the wild suspicion that they were obtained to -amuse Fyne. But I soon discovered that he could hardly tell one from the -other, though obviously their presence met with his solemn approval. -These girls in fact came for Mrs. Fyne. They treated her with admiring -deference. She answered to some need of theirs. They sat at her feet. -They were like disciples. It was very curious. Of Fyne they took but -scanty notice. As to myself I was made to feel that I did not exist. - -After tea we would sit down to chess and then Fyne's everlasting gravity -became faintly tinged by an attenuated gleam of something inward which -resembled sly satisfaction. Of the divine frivolity of laughter he was -only capable over a chess-board. Certain positions of the game struck -him as humorous, which nothing else on earth could do . . . - -"He used to beat you," I asserted with confidence. - -"Yes. He used to beat me," Marlow owned up hastily. - -So he and Fyne played two games after tea. The children romped together -outside, gravely, unplayfully, as one would expect from Fyne's children, -and Mrs. Fyne would be gone to the bottom of the garden with the girl- -friend of the week. She always walked off directly after tea with her -arm round the girl-friend's waist. Marlow said that there was only one -girl-friend with whom he had conversed at all. It had happened quite -unexpectedly, long after he had given up all hope of getting into touch -with these reserved girl-friends. - -One day he saw a woman walking about on the edge of a high quarry, which -rose a sheer hundred feet, at least, from the road winding up the hill -out of which it had been excavated. He shouted warningly to her from -below where he happened to be passing. She was really in considerable -danger. At the sound of his voice she started back and retreated out of -his sight amongst some young Scotch firs growing near the very brink of -the precipice. - -"I sat down on a bank of grass," Marlow went on. "She had given me a -turn. The hem of her skirt seemed to float over that awful sheer drop, -she was so close to the edge. An absurd thing to do. A perfectly mad -trick--for no conceivable object! I was reflecting on the foolhardiness -of the average girl and remembering some other instances of the kind, -when she came into view walking down the steep curve of the road. She -had Mrs. Fyne's walking-stick and was escorted by the Fyne dog. Her dead -white face struck me with astonishment, so that I forgot to raise my hat. -I just sat and stared. The dog, a vivacious and amiable animal which for -some inscrutable reason had bestowed his friendship on my unworthy self, -rushed up the bank demonstratively and insinuated himself under my arm. - -The girl-friend (it was one of them) went past some way as though she had -not seen me, then stopped and called the dog to her several times; but he -only nestled closer to my side, and when I tried to push him away -developed that remarkable power of internal resistance by which a dog -makes himself practically immovable by anything short of a kick. She -looked over her shoulder and her arched eyebrows frowned above her -blanched face. It was almost a scowl. Then the expression changed. She -looked unhappy. "Come here!" she cried once more in an angry and -distressed tone. I took off my hat at last, but the dog hanging out his -tongue with that cheerfully imbecile expression some dogs know so well -how to put on when it suits their purpose, pretended to be deaf. - -She cried from the distance desperately. - -"Perhaps you will take him to the cottage then. I can't wait." - -"I won't be responsible for that dog," I protested getting down the bank -and advancing towards her. She looked very hurt, apparently by the -desertion of the dog. "But if you let me walk with you he will follow us -all right," I suggested. - -She moved on without answering me. The dog launched himself suddenly -full speed down the road receding from us in a small cloud of dust. It -vanished in the distance, and presently we came up with him lying on the -grass. He panted in the shade of the hedge with shining eyes but -pretended not to see us. We had not exchanged a word so far. The girl -by my side gave him a scornful glance in passing. - -"He offered to come with me," she remarked bitterly. - -"And then abandoned you!" I sympathized. "It looks very unchivalrous. -But that's merely his want of tact. I believe he meant to protest -against your reckless proceedings. What made you come so near the edge -of that quarry? The earth might have given way. Haven't you noticed a -smashed fir tree at the bottom? Tumbled over only the other morning -after a night's rain." - -"I don't see why I shouldn't be as reckless as I please." - -I was nettled by her brusque manner of asserting her folly, and I told -her that neither did I as far as that went, in a tone which almost -suggested that she was welcome to break her neck for all I cared. This -was considerably more than I meant, but I don't like rude girls. I had -been introduced to her only the day before--at the round tea-table--and -she had barely acknowledged the introduction. I had not caught her name -but I had noticed her fine, arched eyebrows which, so the physiognomists -say, are a sign of courage. - -I examined her appearance quietly. Her hair was nearly black, her eyes -blue, deeply shaded by long dark eyelashes. She had a little colour now. -She looked straight before her; the corner of her lip on my side drooped -a little; her chin was fine, somewhat pointed. I went on to say that -some regard for others should stand in the way of one's playing with -danger. I urged playfully the distress of the poor Fynes in case of -accident, if nothing else. I told her that she did not know the bucolic -mind. Had she given occasion for a coroner's inquest the verdict would -have been suicide, with the implication of unhappy love. They would -never be able to understand that she had taken the trouble to climb over -two post-and-rail fences only for the fun of being reckless. Indeed even -as I talked chaffingly I was greatly struck myself by the fact. - -She retorted that once one was dead what horrid people thought of one did -not matter. It was said with infinite contempt; but something like a -suppressed quaver in the voice made me look at her again. I perceived -then that her thick eyelashes were wet. This surprising discovery -silenced me as you may guess. She looked unhappy. And--I don't know how -to say it--well--it suited her. The clouded brow, the pained mouth, the -vague fixed glance! A victim. And this characteristic aspect made her -attractive; an individual touch--you know. - -The dog had run on ahead and now gazed at us by the side of the Fyne's -garden-gate in a tense attitude and wagging his stumpy tail very, very -slowly, with an air of concentrated attention. The girl-friend of the -Fynes bolted violently through the aforesaid gate and into the cottage -leaving me on the road--astounded. - -A couple of hours afterwards I returned to the cottage for chess as -usual. I saw neither the girl nor Mrs. Fyne then. We had our two games -and on parting I warned Fyne that I was called to town on business and -might be away for some time. He regretted it very much. His brother-in- -law was expected next day but he didn't know whether he was a -chess-player. Captain Anthony ("the son of the poet--you know") was of a -retiring disposition, shy with strangers, unused to society and very much -devoted to his calling, Fyne explained. All the time they had been -married he could be induced only once before to come and stay with them -for a few days. He had had a rather unhappy boyhood; and it made him a -silent man. But no doubt, concluded Fyne, as if dealing portentously -with a mystery, we two sailors should find much to say to one another. - -This point was never settled. I was detained in town from week to week -till it seemed hardly worth while to go back. But as I had kept on my -rooms in the farmhouse I concluded to go down again for a few days. - -It was late, deep dusk, when I got out at our little country station. My -eyes fell on the unmistakable broad back and the muscular legs in cycling -stockings of little Fyne. He passed along the carriages rapidly towards -the rear of the train, which presently pulled out and left him solitary -at the end of the rustic platform. When he came back to where I waited I -perceived that he was much perturbed, so perturbed as to forget the -convention of the usual greetings. He only exclaimed Oh! on recognizing -me, and stopped irresolute. When I asked him if he had been expecting -somebody by that train he didn't seem to know. He stammered -disconnectedly. I looked hard at him. To all appearances he was -perfectly sober; moreover to suspect Fyne of a lapse from the proprieties -high or low, great or small, was absurd. He was also a too serious and -deliberate person to go mad suddenly. But as he seemed to have forgotten -that he had a tongue in his head I concluded I would leave him to his -mystery. To my surprise he followed me out of the station and kept by my -side, though I did not encourage him. I did not however repulse his -attempts at conversation. He was no longer expecting me, he said. He -had given me up. The weather had been uniformly fine--and so on. I -gathered also that the son of the poet had curtailed his stay somewhat -and gone back to his ship the day before. - -That information touched me but little. Believing in heredity in -moderation I knew well how sea-life fashions a man outwardly and stamps -his soul with the mark of a certain prosaic fitness--because a sailor is -not an adventurer. I expressed no regret at missing Captain Anthony and -we proceeded in silence till, on approaching the holiday cottage, Fyne -suddenly and unexpectedly broke it by the hurried declaration that he -would go on with me a little farther. - -"Go with you to your door," he mumbled and started forward to the little -gate where the shadowy figure of Mrs. Fyne hovered, clearly on the -lookout for him. She was alone. The children must have been already in -bed and I saw no attending girl-friend shadow near her vague but -unmistakable form, half-lost in the obscurity of the little garden. - -I heard Fyne exclaim "Nothing" and then Mrs. Fyne's well-trained, -responsible voice uttered the words, "It's what I have said," with -incisive equanimity. By that time I had passed on, raising my hat. -Almost at once Fyne caught me up and slowed down to my strolling gait -which must have been infinitely irksome to his high pedestrian faculties. -I am sure that all his muscular person must have suffered from awful -physical boredom; but he did not attempt to charm it away by -conversation. He preserved a portentous and dreary silence. And I was -bored too. Suddenly I perceived the menace of even worse boredom. Yes! -He was so silent because he had something to tell me. - -I became extremely frightened. But man, reckless animal, is so made that -in him curiosity, the paltriest curiosity, will overcome all terrors, -every disgust, and even despair itself. To my laconic invitation to come -in for a drink he answered by a deep, gravely accented: "Thanks, I will" -as though it were a response in church. His face as seen in the -lamplight gave me no clue to the character of the impending -communication; as indeed from the nature of things it couldn't do, its -normal expression being already that of the utmost possible seriousness. -It was perfect and immovable; and for a certainty if he had something -excruciatingly funny to tell me it would be all the same. - -He gazed at me earnestly and delivered himself of some weighty remarks on -Mrs. Fyne's desire to befriend, counsel, and guide young girls of all -sorts on the path of life. It was a voluntary mission. He approved his -wife's action and also her views and principles in general. - -All this with a solemn countenance and in deep measured tones. Yet -somehow I got an irresistible conviction that he was exasperated by -something in particular. In the unworthy hope of being amused by the -misfortunes of a fellow-creature I asked him point-blank what was wrong -now. - -What was wrong was that a girl-friend was missing. She had been missing -precisely since six o'clock that morning. The woman who did the work of -the cottage saw her going out at that hour, for a walk. The pedestrian -Fyne's ideas of a walk were extensive, but the girl did not turn up for -lunch, nor yet for tea, nor yet for dinner. She had not turned up by -footpath, road or rail. He had been reluctant to make inquiries. It -would have set all the village talking. The Fynes had expected her to -reappear every moment, till the shades of the night and the silence of -slumber had stolen gradually over the wide and peaceful rural landscape -commanded by the cottage. - -After telling me that much Fyne sat helpless in unconclusive agony. Going -to bed was out of the question--neither could any steps be taken just -then. What to do with himself he did not know! - -I asked him if this was the same young lady I saw a day or two before I -went to town? He really could not remember. Was she a girl with dark -hair and blue eyes? I asked further. He really couldn't tell what -colour her eyes were. He was very unobservant except as to the -peculiarities of footpaths, on which he was an authority. - -I thought with amazement and some admiration that Mrs. Fyne's young -disciples were to her husband's gravity no more than evanescent shadows. -However, with but little hesitation Fyne ventured to affirm that--yes, -her hair was of some dark shade. - -"We had a good deal to do with that girl first and last," he explained -solemnly; then getting up as if moved by a spring he snatched his cap off -the table. "She may be back in the cottage," he cried in his bass voice. -I followed him out on the road. - -It was one of those dewy, clear, starry nights, oppressing our spirit, -crushing our pride, by the brilliant evidence of the awful loneliness, of -the hopeless obscure insignificance of our globe lost in the splendid -revelation of a glittering, soulless universe. I hate such skies. -Daylight is friendly to man toiling under a sun which warms his heart; -and cloudy soft nights are more kindly to our littleness. I nearly ran -back again to my lighted parlour; Fyne fussing in a knicker-bocker suit -before the hosts of heaven, on a shadowy earth, about a transient, -phantom-like girl, seemed too ridiculous to associate with. On the other -hand there was something fascinating in the very absurdity. He cut along -in his best pedestrian style and I found myself let in for a spell of -severe exercise at eleven o'clock at night. - -In the distance over the fields and trees smudging and blotching the vast -obscurity, one lighted window of the cottage with the blind up was like a -bright beacon kept alight to guide the lost wanderer. Inside, at the -table bearing the lamp, we saw Mrs. Fyne sitting with folded arms and not -a hair of her head out of place. She looked exactly like a governess who -had put the children to bed; and her manner to me was just the neutral -manner of a governess. To her husband, too, for that matter. - -Fyne told her that I was fully informed. Not a muscle of her ruddy -smooth handsome face moved. She had schooled herself into that sort of -thing. Having seen two successive wives of the delicate poet chivied and -worried into their graves, she had adopted that cool, detached manner to -meet her gifted father's outbreaks of selfish temper. It had now become -a second nature. I suppose she was always like that; even in the very -hour of elopement with Fyne. That transaction when one remembered it in -her presence acquired a quaintly marvellous aspect to one's imagination. -But somehow her self-possession matched very well little Fyne's -invariable solemnity. - -I was rather sorry for him. Wasn't he worried! The agony of solemnity. -At the same time I was amused. I didn't take a gloomy view of that -"vanishing girl" trick. Somehow I couldn't. But I said nothing. None -of us said anything. We sat about that big round table as if assembled -for a conference and looked at each other in a sort of fatuous -consternation. I would have ended by laughing outright if I had not been -saved from that impropriety by poor Fyne becoming preposterous. - -He began with grave anguish to talk of going to the police in the -morning, of printing descriptive bills, of setting people to drag the -ponds for miles around. It was extremely gruesome. I murmured something -about communicating with the young lady's relatives. It seemed to me a -very natural suggestion; but Fyne and his wife exchanged such a -significant glance that I felt as though I had made a tactless remark. - -But I really wanted to help poor Fyne; and as I could see that, manlike, -he suffered from the present inability to act, the passive waiting, I -said: "Nothing of this can be done till to-morrow. But as you have given -me an insight into the nature of your thoughts I can tell you what may be -done at once. We may go and look at the bottom of the old quarry which -is on the level of the road, about a mile from here." - -The couple made big eyes at this, and then I told them of my meeting with -the girl. You may be surprised but I assure you I had not perceived this -aspect of it till that very moment. It was like a startling revelation; -the past throwing a sinister light on the future. Fyne opened his mouth -gravely and as gravely shut it. Nothing more. Mrs. Fyne said, "You had -better go," with an air as if her self-possession had been pricked with a -pin in some secret place. - -And I--you know how stupid I can be at times--I perceived with dismay for -the first time that by pandering to Fyne's morbid fancies I had let -myself in for some more severe exercise. And wasn't I sorry I spoke! You -know how I hate walking--at least on solid, rural earth; for I can walk a -ship's deck a whole foggy night through, if necessary, and think little -of it. There is some satisfaction too in playing the vagabond in the -streets of a big town till the sky pales above the ridges of the roofs. I -have done that repeatedly for pleasure--of a sort. But to tramp the -slumbering country-side in the dark is for me a wearisome nightmare of -exertion. - -With perfect detachment Mrs. Fyne watched me go out after her husband. -That woman was flint. - -* * * * * - -The fresh night had a smell of soil, of turned-up sods like a grave--an -association particularly odious to a sailor by its idea of confinement -and narrowness; yes, even when he has given up the hope of being buried -at sea; about the last hope a sailor gives up consciously after he has -been, as it does happen, decoyed by some chance into the toils of the -land. A strong grave-like sniff. The ditch by the side of the road must -have been freshly dug in front of the cottage. - -Once clear of the garden Fyne gathered way like a racing cutter. What -was a mile to him--or twenty miles? You think he might have gone -shrinkingly on such an errand. But not a bit of it. The force of -pedestrian genius I suppose. I raced by his side in a mood of profound -self-derision, and infinitely vexed with that minx. Because dead or -alive I thought of her as a minx . . ." - -I smiled incredulously at Marlow's ferocity; but Marlow pausing with a -whimsically retrospective air, never flinched. - -"Yes, yes. Even dead. And now you are shocked. You see, you are such a -chivalrous masculine beggar. But there is enough of the woman in my -nature to free my judgment of women from glamorous reticency. And then, -why should I upset myself? A woman is not necessarily either a doll or -an angel to me. She is a human being, very much like myself. And I have -come across too many dead souls lying so to speak at the foot of high -unscaleable places for a merely possible dead body at the bottom of a -quarry to strike my sincerity dumb. - -The cliff-like face of the quarry looked forbiddingly impressive. I will -admit that Fyne and I hung back for a moment before we made a plunge off -the road into the bushes growing in a broad space at the foot of the -towering limestone wall. These bushes were heavy with dew. There were -also concealed mudholes in there. We crept and tumbled and felt about -with our hands along the ground. We got wet, scratched, and plastered -with mire all over our nether garments. Fyne fell suddenly into a -strange cavity--probably a disused lime-kiln. His voice uplifted in -grave distress sounded more than usually rich, solemn and profound. This -was the comic relief of an absurdly dramatic situation. While hauling -him out I permitted myself to laugh aloud at last. Fyne, of course, -didn't. - -I need not tell you that we found nothing after a most conscientious -search. Fyne even pushed his way into a decaying shed half-buried in dew- -soaked vegetation. He struck matches, several of them too, as if to make -absolutely sure that the vanished girl-friend of his wife was not hiding -there. The short flares illuminated his grave, immovable countenance -while I let myself go completely and laughed in peals. - -I asked him if he really and truly supposed that any sane girl would go -and hide in that shed; and if so why? - -Disdainful of my mirth he merely muttered his basso-profundo thankfulness -that we had not found her anywhere about there. Having grown extremely -sensitive (an effect of irritation) to the tonalities, I may say, of this -affair, I felt that it was only an imperfect, reserved, thankfulness, -with one eye still on the possibilities of the several ponds in the -neighbourhood. And I remember I snorted, I positively snorted, at that -poor Fyne. - -What really jarred upon me was the rate of his walking. Differences in -politics, in ethics and even in aesthetics need not arouse angry -antagonism. One's opinion may change; one's tastes may alter--in fact -they do. One's very conception of virtue is at the mercy of some -felicitous temptation which may be sprung on one any day. All these -things are perpetually on the swing. But a temperamental difference, -temperament being immutable, is the parent of hate. That's why religious -quarrels are the fiercest of all. My temperament, in matters pertaining -to solid land, is the temperament of leisurely movement, of deliberate -gait. And there was that little Fyne pounding along the road in a most -offensive manner; a man wedded to thick-soled, laced boots; whereas my -temperament demands thin shoes of the lightest kind. Of course there -could never have been question of friendship between us; but under the -provocation of having to keep up with his pace I began to dislike him -actively. I begged sarcastically to know whether he could tell me if we -were engaged in a farce or in a tragedy. I wanted to regulate my -feelings which, I told him, were in an unbecoming state of confusion. - -But Fyne was as impervious to sarcasm as a turtle. He tramped on, and -all he did was to ejaculate twice out of his deep chest, vaguely, -doubtfully. - -"I am afraid . . . I am afraid! . . . " - -This was tragic. The thump of his boots was the only sound in a shadowy -world. I kept by his side with a comparatively ghostly, silent tread. By -a strange illusion the road appeared to run up against a lot of low stars -at no very great distance, but as we advanced new stretches of whitey- -brown ribbon seemed to come up from under the black ground. I observed, -as we went by, the lamp in my parlour in the farmhouse still burning. But -I did not leave Fyne to run in and put it out. The impetus of his -pedestrian excellence carried me past in his wake before I could make up -my mind. - -"Tell me, Fyne," I cried, "you don't think the girl was mad--do you?" - -He answered nothing. Soon the lighted beacon-like window of the cottage -came into view. Then Fyne uttered a solemn: "Certainly not," with -profound assurance. But immediately after he added a "Very highly strung -young person indeed," which unsettled me again. Was it a tragedy? - -"Nobody ever got up at six o'clock in the morning to commit suicide," I -declared crustily. "It's unheard of! This is a farce." - -As a matter of fact it was neither farce nor tragedy. - -Coming up to the cottage we had a view of Mrs. Fyne inside still sitting -in the strong light at the round table with folded arms. It looked as -though she had not moved her very head by as much as an inch since we -went away. She was amazing in a sort of unsubtle way; crudely amazing--I -thought. Why crudely? I don't know. Perhaps because I saw her then in -a crude light. I mean this materially--in the light of an unshaded lamp. -Our mental conclusions depend so much on momentary physical -sensations--don't they? If the lamp had been shaded I should perhaps -have gone home after expressing politely my concern at the Fynes' -unpleasant predicament. - -Losing a girl-friend in that manner is unpleasant. It is also -mysterious. So mysterious that a certain mystery attaches to the people -to whom such a thing does happen. Moreover I had never really understood -the Fynes; he with his solemnity which extended to the very eating of -bread and butter; she with that air of detachment and resolution in -breasting the common-place current of their unexciting life, in which the -cutting of bread and butter appeared to me, by a long way, the most -dangerous episode. Sometimes I amused myself by supposing that to their -minds this world of ours must be wearing a perfectly overwhelming aspect, -and that their heads contained respectively awfully serious and extremely -desperate thoughts--and trying to imagine what an exciting time they must -be having of it in the inscrutable depths of their being. This last was -difficult to a volatile person (I am sure that to the Fynes I was a -volatile person) and the amusement in itself was not very great; but -still--in the country--away from all mental stimulants! . . . My efforts -had invested them with a sort of amusing profundity. - -But when Fyne and I got back into the room, then in the searching, -domestic, glare of the lamp, inimical to the play of fancy, I saw these -two stripped of every vesture it had amused me to put on them for fun. -Queer enough they were. Is there a human being that isn't that--more or -less secretly? But whatever their secret, it was manifest to me that it -was neither subtle nor profound. They were a good, stupid, earnest -couple and very much bothered. They were that--with the usual unshaded -crudity of average people. There was nothing in them that the lamplight -might not touch without the slightest risk of indiscretion. - -Directly we had entered the room Fyne announced the result by saying -"Nothing" in the same tone as at the gate on his return from the railway -station. And as then Mrs. Fyne uttered an incisive "It's what I've -said," which might have been the veriest echo of her words in the garden. -We three looked at each other as if on the brink of a disclosure. I -don't know whether she was vexed at my presence. It could hardly be -called intrusion--could it? Little Fyne began it. It had to go on. We -stood before her, plastered with the same mud (Fyne was a sight!), -scratched by the same brambles, conscious of the same experience. Yes. -Before her. And she looked at us with folded arms, with an extraordinary -fulness of assumed responsibility. I addressed her. - -"You don't believe in an accident, Mrs. Fyne, do you?" - -She shook her head in curt negation while, caked in mud and inexpressibly -serious-faced, Fyne seemed to be backing her up with all the weight of -his solemn presence. Nothing more absurd could be conceived. It was -delicious. And I went on in deferential accents: "Am I to understand -then that you entertain the theory of suicide?" - -I don't know that I am liable to fits of delirium but by a sudden and -alarming aberration while waiting for her answer I became mentally aware -of three trained dogs dancing on their hind legs. I don't know why. -Perhaps because of the pervading solemnity. There's nothing more solemn -on earth than a dance of trained dogs. - -"She has chosen to disappear. That's all." - -In these words Mrs. Fyne answered me. The aggressive tone was too much -for my endurance. In an instant I found myself out of the dance and down -on all-fours so to speak, with liberty to bark and bite. - -"The devil she has," I cried. "Has chosen to . . . Like this, all at -once, anyhow, regardless . . . I've had the privilege of meeting that -reckless and brusque young lady and I must say that with her air of an -angry victim . . . " - -"Precisely," Mrs. Fyne said very unexpectedly like a steel trap going -off. I stared at her. How provoking she was! So I went on to finish my -tirade. "She struck me at first sight as the most inconsiderate wrong- -headed girl that I ever . . . " - -"Why should a girl be more considerate than anyone else? More than any -man, for instance?" inquired Mrs. Fyne with a still greater assertion of -responsibility in her bearing. - -Of course I exclaimed at this, not very loudly it is true, but forcibly. -Were then the feelings of friends, relations and even of strangers to be -disregarded? I asked Mrs. Fyne if she did not think it was a sort of -duty to show elementary consideration not only for the natural feelings -but even for the prejudices of one's fellow-creatures. - -Her answer knocked me over. - -"Not for a woman." - -Just like that. I confess that I went down flat. And while in that -collapsed state I learned the true nature of Mrs. Fyne's feminist -doctrine. It was not political, it was not social. It was a knock-me- -down doctrine--a practical individualistic doctrine. You would not thank -me for expounding it to you at large. Indeed I think that she herself -did not enlighten me fully. There must have been things not fit for a -man to hear. But shortly, and as far as my bewilderment allowed me to -grasp its naive atrociousness, it was something like this: that no -consideration, no delicacy, no tenderness, no scruples should stand in -the way of a woman (who by the mere fact of her sex was the predestined -victim of conditions created by men's selfish passions, their vices and -their abominable tyranny) from taking the shortest cut towards securing -for herself the easiest possible existence. She had even the right to go -out of existence without considering anyone's feelings or convenience -since some women's existences were made impossible by the shortsighted -baseness of men. - -I looked at her, sitting before the lamp at one o'clock in the morning, -with her mature, smooth-cheeked face of masculine shape robbed of its -freshness by fatigue; at her eyes dimmed by this senseless vigil. I -looked also at Fyne; the mud was drying on him; he was obviously tired. -The weariness of solemnity. But he preserved an unflinching, endorsing, -gravity of expression. Endorsing it all as became a good, convinced -husband. - -"Oh! I see," I said. "No consideration . . . Well I hope you like it." - -They amused me beyond the wildest imaginings of which I was capable. -After the first shock, you understand, I recovered very quickly. The -order of the world was safe enough. He was a civil servant and she his -good and faithful wife. But when it comes to dealing with human beings -anything, anything may be expected. So even my astonishment did not last -very long. How far she developed and illustrated that conscienceless and -austere doctrine to the girl-friends, who were mere transient shadows to -her husband, I could not tell. Any length I supposed. And he looked on, -acquiesced, approved, just for that very reason--because these pretty -girls were but shadows to him. O! Most virtuous Fyne! He cast his eyes -down. He didn't like it. But I eyed him with hidden animosity for he -had got me to run after him under somewhat false pretences. - -Mrs. Fyne had only smiled at me very expressively, very self-confidently. -"Oh I quite understand that you accept the fullest responsibility," I -said. "I am the only ridiculous person in this--this--I don't know how -to call it--performance. However, I've nothing more to do here, so I'll -say good-night--or good morning, for it must be past one." - -But before departing, in common decency, I offered to take any wires they -might write. My lodgings were nearer the post-office than the cottage -and I would send them off the first thing in the morning. I supposed -they would wish to communicate, if only as to the disposal of the -luggage, with the young lady's relatives . . . - -Fyne, he looked rather downcast by then, thanked me and declined. - -"There is really no one," he said, very grave. - -"No one," I exclaimed. - -"Practically," said curt Mrs. Fyne. - -And my curiosity was aroused again. - -"Ah! I see. An orphan." - -Mrs. Fyne looked away weary and sombre, and Fyne said "Yes" impulsively, -and then qualified the affirmative by the quaint statement: "To a certain -extent." - -I became conscious of a languid, exhausted embarrassment, bowed to Mrs. -Fyne, and went out of the cottage to be confronted outside its door by -the bespangled, cruel revelation of the Immensity of the Universe. The -night was not sufficiently advanced for the stars to have paled; and the -earth seemed to me more profoundly asleep--perhaps because I was alone -now. Not having Fyne with me to set the pace I let myself drift, rather -than walk, in the direction of the farmhouse. To drift is the only -reposeful sort of motion (ask any ship if it isn't) and therefore -consistent with thoughtfulness. And I pondered: How is one an orphan "to -a certain extent"? - -No amount of solemnity could make such a statement other than bizarre. -What a strange condition to be in. Very likely one of the parents only -was dead? But no; it couldn't be, since Fyne had said just before that -"there was really no one" to communicate with. No one! And then -remembering Mrs. Fyne's snappy "Practically" my thoughts fastened upon -that lady as a more tangible object of speculation. - -I wondered--and wondering I doubted--whether she really understood -herself the theory she had propounded to me. Everything may be -said--indeed ought to be said--providing we know how to say it. She -probably did not. She was not intelligent enough for that. She had no -knowledge of the world. She had got hold of words as a child might get -hold of some poisonous pills and play with them for "dear, tiny little -marbles." No! The domestic-slave daughter of Carleon Anthony and the -little Fyne of the Civil Service (that flower of civilization) were not -intelligent people. They were commonplace, earnest, without smiles and -without guile. But he had his solemnities and she had her reveries, her -lurid, violent, crude reveries. And I thought with some sadness that all -these revolts and indignations, all these protests, revulsions of -feeling, pangs of suffering and of rage, expressed but the uneasiness of -sensual beings trying for their share in the joys of form, colour, -sensations--the only riches of our world of senses. A poet may be a -simple being but he is bound to be various and full of wiles, ingenious -and irritable. I reflected on the variety of ways the ingenuity of the -late bard of civilization would be able to invent for the tormenting of -his dependants. Poets not being generally foresighted in practical -affairs, no vision of consequences would restrain him. Yes. The Fynes -were excellent people, but Mrs. Fyne wasn't the daughter of a domestic -tyrant for nothing. There were no limits to her revolt. But they were -excellent people. It was clear that they must have been extremely good -to that girl whose position in the world seemed somewhat difficult, with -her face of a victim, her obvious lack of resignation and the bizarre -status of orphan "to a certain extent." - -Such were my thoughts, but in truth I soon ceased to trouble about all -these people. I found that my lamp had gone out leaving behind an awful -smell. I fled from it up the stairs and went to bed in the dark. My -slumbers--I suppose the one good in pedestrian exercise, confound it, is -that it helps our natural callousness--my slumbers were deep, dreamless -and refreshing. - -My appetite at breakfast was not affected by my ignorance of the facts, -motives, events and conclusions. I think that to understand everything -is not good for the intellect. A well-stocked intelligence weakens the -impulse to action; an overstocked one leads gently to idiocy. But Mrs. -Fyne's individualist woman-doctrine, naively unscrupulous, flitted -through my mind. The salad of unprincipled notions she put into these -girl-friends' heads! Good innocent creature, worthy wife, excellent -mother (of the strict governess type), she was as guileless of -consequences as any determinist philosopher ever was. - -As to honour--you know--it's a very fine medieval inheritance which women -never got hold of. It wasn't theirs. Since it may be laid as a general -principle that women always get what they want we must suppose they -didn't want it. In addition they are devoid of decency. I mean -masculine decency. Cautiousness too is foreign to them--the heavy -reasonable cautiousness which is our glory. And if they had it they -would make of it a thing of passion, so that its own mother--I mean the -mother of cautiousness--wouldn't recognize it. Prudence with them is a -matter of thrill like the rest of sublunary contrivances. "Sensation at -any cost," is their secret device. All the virtues are not enough for -them; they want also all the crimes for their own. And why? Because in -such completeness there is power--the kind of thrill they love most . . . -" - -"Do you expect me to agree to all this?" I interrupted. - -"No, it isn't necessary," said Marlow, feeling the check to his eloquence -but with a great effort at amiability. "You need not even understand it. -I continue: with such disposition what prevents women--to use the phrase -an old boatswain of my acquaintance applied descriptively to his -captain--what prevents them from "coming on deck and playing hell with -the ship" generally, is that something in them precise and mysterious, -acting both as restraint and as inspiration; their femininity in short -which they think they can get rid of by trying hard, but can't, and never -will. Therefore we may conclude that, for all their enterprises, the -world is and remains safe enough. Feeling, in my character of a lover of -peace, soothed by that conclusion I prepared myself to enjoy a fine day. - -And it was a fine day; a delicious day, with the horror of the Infinite -veiled by the splendid tent of blue; a day innocently bright like a child -with a washed face, fresh like an innocent young girl, suave in welcoming -one's respects like--like a Roman prelate. I love such days. They are -perfection for remaining indoors. And I enjoyed it temperamentally in a -chair, my feet up on the sill of the open window, a book in my hands and -the murmured harmonies of wind and sun in my heart making an -accompaniment to the rhythms of my author. Then looking up from the page -I saw outside a pair of grey eyes thatched by ragged yellowy-white -eyebrows gazing at me solemnly over the toes of my slippers. There was a -grave, furrowed brow surmounting that portentous gaze, a brown tweed cap -set far back on the perspiring head. - -"Come inside," I cried as heartily as my sinking heart would permit. - -After a short but severe scuffle with his dog at the outer door, Fyne -entered. I treated him without ceremony and only waved my hand towards a -chair. Even before he sat down he gasped out: - -"We've heard--midday post." - -Gasped out! The grave, immovable Fyne of the Civil Service, gasped! This -was enough, you'll admit, to cause me to put my feet to the ground -swiftly. That fellow was always making me do things in subtle discord -with my meditative temperament. No wonder that I had but a qualified -liking for him. I said with just a suspicion of jeering tone: - -"Of course. I told you last night on the road that it was a farce we -were engaged in." - -He made the little parlour resound to its foundations with a note of -anger positively sepulchral in its depth of tone. "Farce be hanged! She -has bolted with my wife's brother, Captain Anthony." This outburst was -followed by complete subsidence. He faltered miserably as he added from -force of habit: "The son of the poet, you know." - -A silence fell. Fyne's several expressions were so many examples of -varied consistency. This was the discomfiture of solemnity. My interest -of course was revived. - -"But hold on," I said. "They didn't go together. Is it a suspicion or -does she actually say that . . . " - -"She has gone after him," stated Fyne in comminatory tones. "By previous -arrangement. She confesses that much." - -He added that it was very shocking. I asked him whether he should have -preferred them going off together; and on what ground he based that -preference. This was sheer fun for me in regard of the fact that Fyne's -too was a runaway match, which even got into the papers in its time, -because the late indignant poet had no discretion and sought to avenge -this outrage publicly in some absurd way before a bewigged judge. The -dejected gesture of little Fyne's hand disarmed my mocking mood. But I -could not help expressing my surprise that Mrs. Fyne had not detected at -once what was brewing. Women were supposed to have an unerring eye. - -He told me that his wife had been very much engaged in a certain work. I -had always wondered how she occupied her time. It was in writing. Like -her husband she too published a little book. Much later on I came upon -it. It had nothing to do with pedestrianism. It was a sort of hand-book -for women with grievances (and all women had them), a sort of compendious -theory and practice of feminine free morality. It made you laugh at its -transparent simplicity. But that authorship was revealed to me much -later. I didn't of course ask Fyne what work his wife was engaged on; -but I marvelled to myself at her complete ignorance of the world, of her -own sex and of the other kind of sinners. Yet, where could she have got -any experience? Her father had kept her strictly cloistered. Marriage -with Fyne was certainly a change but only to another kind of -claustration. You may tell me that the ordinary powers of observation -ought to have been enough. Why, yes! But, then, as she had set up for a -guide and teacher, there was nothing surprising for me in the discovery -that she was blind. That's quite in order. She was a profoundly -innocent person; only it would not have been proper to tell her husband -so. - - - -CHAPTER THREE--THRIFT--AND THE CHILD - - -But there was nothing improper in my observing to Fyne that, last night, -Mrs. Fyne seemed to have some idea where that enterprising young lady had -gone to. Fyne shook his head. No; his wife had been by no means so -certain as she had pretended to be. She merely had her reasons to think, -to hope, that the girl might have taken a room somewhere in London, had -buried herself in town--in readiness or perhaps in horror of the -approaching day-- - -He ceased and sat solemnly dejected, in a brown study. "What day?" I -asked at last; but he did not hear me apparently. He diffused such -portentous gloom into the atmosphere that I lost patience with him. - -"What on earth are you so dismal about?" I cried, being genuinely -surprised and puzzled. "One would think the girl was a state prisoner -under your care." - -And suddenly I became still more surprised at myself, at the way I had -somehow taken for granted things which did appear queer when one thought -them out. - -"But why this secrecy? Why did they elope--if it is an elopement? Was -the girl afraid of your wife? And your brother-in-law? What on earth -possesses him to make a clandestine match of it? Was he afraid of your -wife too?" - -Fyne made an effort to rouse himself. - -"Of course my brother-in-law, Captain Anthony, the son of . . . " He -checked himself as if trying to break a bad habit. "He would be -persuaded by her. We have been most friendly to the girl!" - -"She struck me as a foolish and inconsiderate little person. But why -should you and your wife take to heart so strongly mere folly--or even a -want of consideration?" - -"It's the most unscrupulous action," declared Fyne weightily--and sighed. - -"I suppose she is poor," I observed after a short silence. "But after -all . . . " - -"You don't know who she is." Fyne had regained his average solemnity. - -I confessed that I had not caught her name when his wife had introduced -us to each other. "It was something beginning with an S- wasn't it?" And -then with the utmost coolness Fyne remarked that it did not matter. The -name was not her name. - -"Do you mean to say that you made a young lady known to me under a false -name?" I asked, with the amused feeling that the days of wonders and -portents had not passed away yet. That the eminently serious Fynes -should do such an exceptional thing was simply staggering. With a more -hasty enunciation than usual little Fyne was sure that I would not demand -an apology for this irregularity if I knew what her real name was. A -sort of warmth crept into his deep tone. - -"We have tried to befriend that girl in every way. She is the daughter -and only child of de Barral." - -Evidently he expected to produce a sensation; he kept his eyes fixed upon -me prepared for some sign of it. But I merely returned his intense, -awaiting gaze. For a time we stared at each other. Conscious of being -reprehensibly dense I groped in the darkness of my mind: De Barral, De -Barral--and all at once noise and light burst on me as if a window of my -memory had been suddenly flung open on a street in the City. De Barral! -But could it be the same? Surely not! - -"The financier?" I suggested half incredulous. - -"Yes," said Fyne; and in this instance his native solemnity of tone -seemed to be strangely appropriate. "The convict." - -Marlow looked at me, significantly, and remarked in an explanatory tone: - -"One somehow never thought of de Barral as having any children, or any -other home than the offices of the "Orb"; or any other existence, -associations or interests than financial. I see you remember the crash -. . . " - -"I was away in the Indian Seas at the time," I said. "But of course--" - -"Of course," Marlow struck in. "All the world . . . You may wonder at my -slowness in recognizing the name. But you know that my memory is merely -a mausoleum of proper names. There they lie inanimate, awaiting the -magic touch--and not very prompt in arising when called, either. The -name is the first thing I forget of a man. It is but just to add that -frequently it is also the last, and this accounts for my possession of a -good many anonymous memories. In de Barral's case, he got put away in my -mausoleum in company with so many names of his own creation that really -he had to throw off a monstrous heap of grisly bones before he stood -before me at the call of the wizard Fyne. The fellow had a pretty fancy -in names: the "Orb" Deposit Bank, the "Sceptre" Mutual Aid Society, the -"Thrift and Independence" Association. Yes, a very pretty taste in -names; and nothing else besides--absolutely nothing--no other merit. Well -yes. He had another name, but that's pure luck--his own name of de -Barral which he did not invent. I don't think that a mere Jones or Brown -could have fished out from the depths of the Incredible such a colossal -manifestation of human folly as that man did. But it may be that I am -underestimating the alacrity of human folly in rising to the bait. No -doubt I am. The greed of that absurd monster is incalculable, -unfathomable, inconceivable. The career of de Barral demonstrates that -it will rise to a naked hook. He didn't lure it with a fairy tale. He -hadn't enough imagination for it . . . " - -"Was he a foreigner?" I asked. "It's clearly a French name. I suppose -it _was_ his name?" - -"Oh, he didn't invent it. He was born to it, in Bethnal Green, as it -came out during the proceedings. He was in the habit of alluding to his -Scotch connections. But every great man has done that. The mother, I -believe, was Scotch, right enough. The father de Barral whatever his -origins retired from the Customs Service (tide-waiter I think), and -started lending money in a very, very small way in the East End to people -connected with the docks, stevedores, minor barge-owners, ship-chandlers, -tally clerks, all sorts of very small fry. He made his living at it. He -was a very decent man I believe. He had enough influence to place his -only son as junior clerk in the account department of one of the Dock -Companies. "Now, my boy," he said to him, "I've given you a fine start." -But de Barral didn't start. He stuck. He gave perfect satisfaction. At -the end of three years he got a small rise of salary and went out -courting in the evenings. He went courting the daughter of an old sea- -captain who was a churchwarden of his parish and lived in an old badly -preserved Georgian house with a garden: one of these houses standing in a -reduced bit of "grounds" that you discover in a labyrinth of the most -sordid streets, exactly alike and composed of six-roomed hutches. - -Some of them were the vicarages of slum parishes. The old sailor had got -hold of one cheap, and de Barral got hold of his daughter--which was a -good bargain for him. The old sailor was very good to the young couple -and very fond of their little girl. Mrs. de Barral was an equable, -unassuming woman, at that time with a fund of simple gaiety, and with no -ambitions; but, woman-like, she longed for change and for something -interesting to happen now and then. It was she who encouraged de Barral -to accept the offer of a post in the west-end branch of a great bank. It -appears he shrank from such a great adventure for a long time. At last -his wife's arguments prevailed. Later on she used to say: 'It's the only -time he ever listened to me; and I wonder now if it hadn't been better -for me to die before I ever made him go into that bank.' - -You may be surprised at my knowledge of these details. Well, I had them -ultimately from Mrs. Fyne. Mrs. Fyne while yet Miss Anthony, in her days -of bondage, knew Mrs. de Barral in her days of exile. Mrs. de Barral was -living then in a big stone mansion with mullioned windows in a large damp -park, called the Priory, adjoining the village where the refined poet had -built himself a house. - -These were the days of de Barral's success. He had bought the place -without ever seeing it and had packed off his wife and child at once -there to take possession. He did not know what to do with them in -London. He himself had a suite of rooms in an hotel. He gave there -dinner parties followed by cards in the evening. He had developed the -gambling passion--or else a mere card mania--but at any rate he played -heavily, for relaxation, with a lot of dubious hangers on. - -Meantime Mrs. de Barral, expecting him every day, lived at the Priory, -with a carriage and pair, a governess for the child and many servants. -The village people would see her through the railings wandering under the -trees with her little girl lost in her strange surroundings. Nobody ever -came near her. And there she died as some faithful and delicate animals -die--from neglect, absolutely from neglect, rather unexpectedly and -without any fuss. The village was sorry for her because, though -obviously worried about something, she was good to the poor and was -always ready for a chat with any of the humble folks. Of course they -knew that she wasn't a lady--not what you would call a real lady. And -even her acquaintance with Miss Anthony was only a cottage-door, a -village-street acquaintance. Carleon Anthony was a tremendous aristocrat -(his father had been a "restoring" architect) and his daughter was not -allowed to associate with anyone but the county young ladies. -Nevertheless in defiance of the poet's wrathful concern for undefiled -refinement there were some quiet, melancholy strolls to and fro in the -great avenue of chestnuts leading to the park-gate, during which Mrs. de -Barral came to call Miss Anthony 'my dear'--and even 'my poor dear.' The -lonely soul had no one to talk to but that not very happy girl. The -governess despised her. The housekeeper was distant in her manner. -Moreover Mrs. de Barral was no foolish gossiping woman. But she made -some confidences to Miss Anthony. Such wealth was a terrific thing to -have thrust upon one she affirmed. Once she went so far as to confess -that she was dying with anxiety. Mr. de Barral (so she referred to him) -had been an excellent husband and an exemplary father but "you see my -dear I have had a great experience of him. I am sure he won't know what -to do with all that money people are giving to him to take care of for -them. He's as likely as not to do something rash. When he comes here I -must have a good long serious talk with him, like the talks we often used -to have together in the good old times of our life." And then one day a -cry of anguish was wrung from her: 'My dear, he will never come here, he -will never, never come!' - -She was wrong. He came to the funeral, was extremely cut up, and holding -the child tightly by the hand wept bitterly at the side of the grave. -Miss Anthony, at the cost of a whole week of sneers and abuse from the -poet, saw it all with her own eyes. De Barral clung to the child like a -drowning man. He managed, though, to catch the half-past five fast -train, travelling to town alone in a reserved compartment, with all the -blinds down . . . " - -"Leaving the child?" I said interrogatively. - -"Yes. Leaving . . . He shirked the problem. He was born that way. He -had no idea what to do with her or for that matter with anything or -anybody including himself. He bolted back to his suite of rooms in the -hotel. He was the most helpless . . . She might have been left in the -Priory to the end of time had not the high-toned governess threatened to -send in her resignation. She didn't care for the child a bit, and the -lonely, gloomy Priory had got on her nerves. She wasn't going to put up -with such a life and, having just come out of some ducal family, she -bullied de Barral in a very lofty fashion. To pacify her he took a -splendidly furnished house in the most expensive part of Brighton for -them, and now and then ran down for a week-end, with a trunk full of -exquisite sweets and with his hat full of money. The governess spent it -for him in extra ducal style. She was nearly forty and harboured a -secret taste for patronizing young men of sorts--of a certain sort. But -of that Mrs. Fyne of course had no personal knowledge then; she told me -however that even in the Priory days she had suspected her of being an -artificial, heartless, vulgar-minded woman with the lowest possible -ideals. But de Barral did not know it. He literally did not know -anything . . . " - -"But tell me, Marlow," I interrupted, "how do you account for this -opinion? He must have been a personality in a sense--in some one sense -surely. You don't work the greatest material havoc of a decade at least, -in a commercial community, without having something in you." - -Marlow shook his head. - -"He was a mere sign, a portent. There was nothing in him. Just about -that time the word Thrift was to the fore. You know the power of words. -We pass through periods dominated by this or that word--it may be -development, or it may be competition, or education, or purity or -efficiency or even sanctity. It is the word of the time. Well just then -it was the word Thrift which was out in the streets walking arm in arm -with righteousness, the inseparable companion and backer up of all such -national catch-words, looking everybody in the eye as it were. The very -drabs of the pavement, poor things, didn't escape the fascination . . . -However! . . . Well the greatest portion of the press were screeching in -all possible tones, like a confounded company of parrots instructed by -some devil with a taste for practical jokes, that the financier de Barral -was helping the great moral evolution of our character towards the newly- -discovered virtue of Thrift. He was helping it by all these great -establishments of his, which made the moral merits of Thrift manifest to -the most callous hearts, simply by promising to pay ten per cent. -interest on all deposits. And you didn't want necessarily to belong to -the well-to-do classes in order to participate in the advantages of -virtue. If you had but a spare sixpence in the world and went and gave -it to de Barral it was Thrift! It's quite likely that he himself -believed it. He must have. It's inconceivable that he alone should -stand out against the infatuation of the whole world. He hadn't enough -intelligence for that. But to look at him one couldn't tell . . . " - -"You did see him then?" I said with some curiosity. - -"I did. Strange, isn't it? It was only once, but as I sat with the -distressed Fyne who had suddenly resuscitated his name buried in my -memory with other dead labels of the past, I may say I saw him again, I -saw him with great vividness of recollection, as he appeared in the days -of his glory or splendour. No! Neither of these words will fit his -success. There was never any glory or splendour about that figure. Well, -let us say in the days when he was, according to the majority of the -daily press, a financial force working for the improvement of the -character of the people. I'll tell you how it came about. - -At that time I used to know a podgy, wealthy, bald little man having -chambers in the Albany; a financier too, in his way, carrying out -transactions of an intimate nature and of no moral character; mostly with -young men of birth and expectations--though I dare say he didn't withhold -his ministrations from elderly plebeians either. He was a true democrat; -he would have done business (a sharp kind of business) with the devil -himself. Everything was fly that came into his web. He received the -applicants in an alert, jovial fashion which was quite surprising. It -gave relief without giving too much confidence, which was just as well -perhaps. His business was transacted in an apartment furnished like a -drawing-room, the walls hung with several brown, heavily-framed, oil -paintings. I don't know if they were good, but they were big, and with -their elaborate, tarnished gilt-frames had a melancholy dignity. The man -himself sat at a shining, inlaid writing table which looked like a rare -piece from a museum of art; his chair had a high, oval, carved back, -upholstered in faded tapestry; and these objects made of the costly black -Havana cigar, which he rolled incessantly from the middle to the left -corner of his mouth and back again, an inexpressibly cheap and nasty -object. I had to see him several times in the interest of a poor devil -so unlucky that he didn't even have a more competent friend than myself -to speak for him at a very difficult time in his life. - -I don't know at what hour my private financier began his day, but he used -to give one appointments at unheard of times: such as a quarter to eight -in the morning, for instance. On arriving one found him busy at that -marvellous writing table, looking very fresh and alert, exhaling a faint -fragrance of scented soap and with the cigar already well alight. You -may believe that I entered on my mission with many unpleasant -forebodings; but there was in that fat, admirably washed, little man such -a profound contempt for mankind that it amounted to a species of good -nature; which, unlike the milk of genuine kindness, was never in danger -of turning sour. Then, once, during a pause in business, while we were -waiting for the production of a document for which he had sent (perhaps -to the cellar?) I happened to remark, glancing round the room, that I had -never seen so many fine things assembled together out of a collection. -Whether this was unconscious diplomacy on my part, or not, I shouldn't -like to say--but the remark was true enough, and it pleased him -extremely. "It _is_ a collection," he said emphatically. "Only I live -right in it, which most collectors don't. But I see that you know what -you are looking at. Not many people who come here on business do. Stable -fittings are more in their way." - -I don't know whether my appreciation helped to advance my friend's -business but at any rate it helped our intercourse. He treated me with a -shade of familiarity as one of the initiated. - -The last time I called on him to conclude the transaction we were -interrupted by a person, something like a cross between a bookmaker and a -private secretary, who, entering through a door which was not the -anteroom door, walked up and stooped to whisper into his ear. - -"Eh? What? Who, did you say?" - -The nondescript person stooped and whispered again, adding a little -louder: "Says he won't detain you a moment." - -My little man glanced at me, said "Ah! Well," irresolutely. I got up -from my chair and offered to come again later. He looked whimsically -alarmed. "No, no. It's bad enough to lose my money but I don't want to -waste any more of my time over your friend. We must be done with this to- -day. Just go and have a look at that _garniture de cheminee_ yonder. -There's another, something like it, in the castle of Laeken, but mine's -much superior in design." - -I moved accordingly to the other side of that big room. The _garniture_ -was very fine. But while pretending to examine it I watched my man going -forward to meet a tall visitor, who said, "I thought you would be -disengaged so early. It's only a word or two"--and after a whispered -confabulation of no more than a minute, reconduct him to the door and -shake hands ceremoniously. "Not at all, not at all. Very pleased to be -of use. You can depend absolutely on my information"--"Oh thank you, -thank you. I just looked in." "Certainly, quite right. Any time . . . -Good morning." - -I had a good look at the visitor while they were exchanging these -civilities. He was clad in black. I remember perfectly that he wore a -flat, broad, black satin tie in which was stuck a large cameo pin; and a -small turn down collar. His hair, discoloured and silky, curled slightly -over his ears. His cheeks were hairless and round, and apparently soft. -He held himself very upright, walked with small steps and spoke gently in -an inward voice. Perhaps from contrast with the magnificent polish of -the room and the neatness of its owner, he struck me as dingy, indigent, -and, if not exactly humble, then much subdued by evil fortune. - -I wondered greatly at my fat little financier's civility to that dubious -personage when he asked me, as we resumed our respective seats, whether I -knew who it was that had just gone out. On my shaking my head negatively -he smiled queerly, said "De Barral," and enjoyed my surprise. Then -becoming grave: "That's a deep fellow, if you like. We all know where he -started from and where he got to; but nobody knows what he means to do." -He became thoughtful for a moment and added as if speaking to himself, "I -wonder what his game is." - -And, you know, there was no game, no game of any sort, or shape or kind. -It came out plainly at the trial. As I've told you before, he was a -clerk in a bank, like thousands of others. He got that berth as a second -start in life and there he stuck again, giving perfect satisfaction. Then -one day as though a supernatural voice had whispered into his ear or some -invisible fly had stung him, he put on his hat, went out into the street -and began advertising. That's absolutely all that there was to it. He -caught in the street the word of the time and harnessed it to his -preposterous chariot. - -One remembers his first modest advertisements headed with the magic word -Thrift, Thrift, Thrift, thrice repeated; promising ten per cent. on all -deposits and giving the address of the Thrift and Independence Aid -Association in Vauxhall Bridge Road. Apparently nothing more was -necessary. He didn't even explain what he meant to do with the money he -asked the public to pour into his lap. Of course he meant to lend it out -at high rates of interest. He did so--but he did it without system, -plan, foresight or judgment. And as he frittered away the sums that -flowed in, he advertised for more--and got it. During a period of -general business prosperity he set up The Orb Bank and The Sceptre Trust, -simply, it seems for advertising purposes. They were mere names. He was -totally unable to organize anything, to promote any sort of enterprise if -it were only for the purpose of juggling with the shares. At that time -he could have had for the asking any number of Dukes, retired Generals, -active M.P.'s, ex-ambassadors and so on as Directors to sit at the -wildest boards of his invention. But he never tried. He had no real -imagination. All he could do was to publish more advertisements and open -more branch offices of the Thrift and Independence, of The Orb, of The -Sceptre, for the receipt of deposits; first in this town, then in that -town, north and south--everywhere where he could find suitable premises -at a moderate rent. For this was the great characteristic of the -management. Modesty, moderation, simplicity. Neither The Orb nor The -Sceptre nor yet their parent the Thrift and Independence had built for -themselves the usual palaces. For this abstention they were praised in -silly public prints as illustrating in their management the principle of -Thrift for which they were founded. The fact is that de Barral simply -didn't think of it. Of course he had soon moved from Vauxhall Bridge -Road. He knew enough for that. What he got hold of next was an old, -enormous, rat-infested brick house in a small street off the Strand. -Strangers were taken in front of the meanest possible, begrimed, yellowy, -flat brick wall, with two rows of unadorned window-holes one above the -other, and were exhorted with bated breath to behold and admire the -simplicity of the head-quarters of the great financial force of the day. -The word THRIFT perched right up on the roof in giant gilt letters, and -two enormous shield-like brass-plates curved round the corners on each -side of the doorway were the only shining spots in de Barral's business -outfit. Nobody knew what operations were carried on inside except -this--that if you walked in and tendered your money over the counter it -would be calmly taken from you by somebody who would give you a printed -receipt. That and no more. It appears that such knowledge is -irresistible. People went in and tendered; and once it was taken from -their hands their money was more irretrievably gone from them than if -they had thrown it into the sea. This then, and nothing else was being -carried on in there . . . " - -"Come, Marlow," I said, "you exaggerate surely--if only by your way of -putting things. It's too startling." - -"I exaggerate!" he defended himself. "My way of putting things! My dear -fellow I have merely stripped the rags of business verbiage and financial -jargon off my statements. And you are startled! I am giving you the -naked truth. It's true too that nothing lays itself open to the charge -of exaggeration more than the language of naked truth. What comes with a -shock is admitted with difficulty. But what will you say to the end of -his career? - -It was of course sensational and tolerably sudden. It began with the Orb -Deposit Bank. Under the name of that institution de Barral with the -frantic obstinacy of an unimaginative man had been financing an Indian -prince who was prosecuting a claim for immense sums of money against the -government. It was an enormous number of scores of lakhs--a miserable -remnant of his ancestors' treasures--that sort of thing. And it was all -authentic enough. There was a real prince; and the claim too was -sufficiently real--only unfortunately it was not a valid claim. So the -prince lost his case on the last appeal and the beginning of de Barral's -end became manifest to the public in the shape of a half-sheet of note -paper wafered by the four corners on the closed door of The Orb offices -notifying that payment was stopped at that establishment. - -Its consort The Sceptre collapsed within the week. I won't say in -American parlance that suddenly the bottom fell out of the whole of de -Barral concerns. There never had been any bottom to it. It was like the -cask of Danaides into which the public had been pleased to pour its -deposits. That they were gone was clear; and the bankruptcy proceedings -which followed were like a sinister farce, bursts of laughter in a -setting of mute anguish--that of the depositors; hundreds of thousands of -them. The laughter was irresistible; the accompaniment of the bankrupt's -public examination. - -I don't know if it was from utter lack of all imagination or from the -possession in undue proportion of a particular kind of it, or from -both--and the three alternatives are possible--but it was discovered that -this man who had been raised to such a height by the credulity of the -public was himself more gullible than any of his depositors. He had been -the prey of all sorts of swindlers, adventurers, visionaries and even -lunatics. Wrapping himself up in deep and imbecile secrecy he had gone -in for the most fantastic schemes: a harbour and docks on the coast of -Patagonia, quarries in Labrador--such like speculations. Fisheries to -feed a canning Factory on the banks of the Amazon was one of them. A -principality to be bought in Madagascar was another. As the grotesque -details of these incredible transactions came out one by one ripples of -laughter ran over the closely packed court--each one a little louder than -the other. The audience ended by fairly roaring under the cumulative -effect of absurdity. The Registrar laughed, the barristers laughed, the -reporters laughed, the serried ranks of the miserable depositors watching -anxiously every word, laughed like one man. They laughed -hysterically--the poor wretches--on the verge of tears. - -There was only one person who remained unmoved. It was de Barral -himself. He preserved his serene, gentle expression, I am told (for I -have not witnessed those scenes myself), and looked around at the people -with an air of placid sufficiency which was the first hint to the world -of the man's overweening, unmeasurable conceit, hidden hitherto under a -diffident manner. It could be seen too in his dogged assertion that if -he had been given enough time and a lot more money everything would have -come right. And there were some people (yes, amongst his very victims) -who more than half believed him, even after the criminal prosecution -which soon followed. When placed in the dock he lost his steadiness as -if some sustaining illusion had gone to pieces within him suddenly. He -ceased to be himself in manner completely, and even in disposition, in so -far that his faded neutral eyes matching his discoloured hair so well, -were discovered then to be capable of expressing a sort of underhand -hate. He was at first defiant, then insolent, then broke down and burst -into tears; but it might have been from rage. Then he calmed down, -returned to his soft manner of speech and to that unassuming quiet -bearing which had been usual with him even in his greatest days. But it -seemed as though in this moment of change he had at last perceived what a -power he had been; for he remarked to one of the prosecuting counsel who -had assumed a lofty moral tone in questioning him, that--yes, he had -gambled--he liked cards. But that only a year ago a host of smart people -would have been only too pleased to take a hand at cards with him. Yes--he -went on--some of the very people who were there accommodated with seats -on the bench; and turning upon the counsel "You yourself as well," he -cried. He could have had half the town at his rooms to fawn upon him if -he had cared for that sort of thing. "Why, now I think of it, it took me -most of my time to keep people, just of your sort, off me," he ended with -a good humoured--quite unobtrusive, contempt, as though the fact had -dawned upon him for the first time. - -This was the moment, the only moment, when he had perhaps all the -audience in Court with him, in a hush of dreary silence. And then the -dreary proceedings were resumed. For all the outside excitement it was -the most dreary of all celebrated trials. The bankruptcy proceedings had -exhausted all the laughter there was in it. Only the fact of wide-spread -ruin remained, and the resentment of a mass of people for having been -fooled by means too simple to save their self-respect from a deep wound -which the cleverness of a consummate scoundrel would not have inflicted. -A shamefaced amazement attended these proceedings in which de Barral was -not being exposed alone. For himself his only cry was: Time! Time! Time -would have set everything right. In time some of these speculations of -his were certain to have succeeded. He repeated this defence, this -excuse, this confession of faith, with wearisome iteration. Everything -he had done or left undone had been to gain time. He had hypnotized -himself with the word. Sometimes, I am told, his appearance was -ecstatic, his motionless pale eyes seemed to be gazing down the vista of -future ages. Time--and of course, more money. "Ah! If only you had -left me alone for a couple of years more," he cried once in accents of -passionate belief. "The money was coming in all right." The deposits -you understand--the savings of Thrift. Oh yes they had been coming in to -the very last moment. And he regretted them. He had arrived to regard -them as his own by a sort of mystical persuasion. And yet it was a -perfectly true cry, when he turned once more on the counsel who was -beginning a question with the words "You have had all these immense sums -. . . " with the indignant retort "_What_ have I had out of them?" - -"It was perfectly true. He had had nothing out of them--nothing of the -prestigious or the desirable things of the earth, craved for by predatory -natures. He had gratified no tastes, had known no luxury; he had built -no gorgeous palaces, had formed no splendid galleries out of these -"immense sums." He had not even a home. He had gone into these rooms in -an hotel and had stuck there for years, giving no doubt perfect -satisfaction to the management. They had twice raised his rent to show I -suppose their high sense of his distinguished patronage. He had bought -for himself out of all the wealth streaming through his fingers neither -adulation nor love, neither splendour nor comfort. There was something -perfect in his consistent mediocrity. His very vanity seemed to miss the -gratification of even the mere show of power. In the days when he was -most fully in the public eye the invincible obscurity of his origins -clung to him like a shadowy garment. He had handled millions without -ever enjoying anything of what is counted as precious in the community of -men, because he had neither the brutality of temperament nor the fineness -of mind to make him desire them with the will power of a masterful -adventurer . . . " - -"You seem to have studied the man," I observed. - -"Studied," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "No! Not studied. I had no -opportunities. You know that I saw him only on that one occasion I told -you of. But it may be that a glimpse and no more is the proper way of -seeing an individuality; and de Barral was that, in virtue of his very -deficiencies for they made of him something quite unlike one's -preconceived ideas. There were also very few materials accessible to a -man like me to form a judgment from. But in such a case I verify believe -that a little is as good as a feast--perhaps better. If one has a taste -for that kind of thing the merest starting-point becomes a coign of -vantage, and then by a series of logically deducted verisimilitudes one -arrives at truth--or very near the truth--as near as any circumstantial -evidence can do. I have not studied de Barral but that is how I -understand him so far as he could be understood through the din of the -crash; the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the newspaper contents bills, -"The Thrift Frauds. Cross-examination of the accused. Extra -special"--blazing fiercely; the charitable appeals for the victims, the -grave tones of the dailies rumbling with compassion as if they were the -national bowels. All this lasted a whole week of industrious sittings. A -pressman whom I knew told me "He's an idiot." Which was possible. Before -that I overheard once somebody declaring that he had a criminal type of -face; which I knew was untrue. The sentence was pronounced by artificial -light in a stifling poisonous atmosphere. Something edifying was said by -the judge weightily, about the retribution overtaking the perpetrator of -"the most heartless frauds on an unprecedented scale." I don't -understand these things much, but it appears that he had juggled with -accounts, cooked balance sheets, had gathered in deposits months after he -ought to have known himself to be hopelessly insolvent, and done enough -of other things, highly reprehensible in the eyes of the law, to earn for -himself seven years' penal servitude. The sentence making its way -outside met with a good reception. A small mob composed mainly of people -who themselves did not look particularly clever and scrupulous, leavened -by a slight sprinkling of genuine pickpockets amused itself by cheering -in the most penetrating, abominable cold drizzle that I remember. I -happened to be passing there on my way from the East End where I had -spent my day about the Docks with an old chum who was looking after the -fitting out of a new ship. I am always eager, when allowed, to call on a -new ship. They interest me like charming young persons. - -I got mixed up in that crowd seething with an animosity as senseless as -things of the street always are, and it was while I was laboriously -making my way out of it that the pressman of whom I spoke was jostled -against me. He did me the justice to be surprised. "What? You here! -The last person in the world . . . If I had known I could have got you -inside. Plenty of room. Interest been over for the last three days. Got -seven years. Well, I am glad." - -"Why are you glad? Because he's got seven years?" I asked, greatly -incommoded by the pressure of a hulking fellow who was remarking to some -of his equally oppressive friends that the "beggar ought to have been -poleaxed." I don't know whether he had ever confided his savings to de -Barral but if so, judging from his appearance, they must have been the -proceeds of some successful burglary. The pressman by my side said 'No,' -to my question. He was glad because it was all over. He had suffered -greatly from the heat and the bad air of the court. The clammy, raw, -chill of the streets seemed to affect his liver instantly. He became -contemptuous and irritable and plied his elbows viciously making way for -himself and me. - -A dull affair this. All such cases were dull. No really dramatic -moments. The book-keeping of The Orb and all the rest of them was -certainly a burlesque revelation but the public did not care for -revelations of that kind. Dull dog that de Barral--he grumbled. He -could not or would not take the trouble to characterize for me the -appearance of that man now officially a criminal (we had gone across the -road for a drink) but told me with a sourly, derisive snigger that, after -the sentence had been pronounced the fellow clung to the dock long enough -to make a sort of protest. 'You haven't given me time. If I had been -given time I would have ended by being made a peer like some of them.' -And he had permitted himself his very first and last gesture in all these -days, raising a hard-clenched fist above his head. - -The pressman disapproved of that manifestation. It was not his business -to understand it. Is it ever the business of any pressman to understand -anything? I guess not. It would lead him too far away from the -actualities which are the daily bread of the public mind. He probably -thought the display worth very little from a picturesque point of view; -the weak voice; the colourless personality as incapable of an attitude as -a bed-post, the very fatuity of the clenched hand so ineffectual at that -time and place--no, it wasn't worth much. And then, for him, an -accomplished craftsman in his trade, thinking was distinctly "bad -business." His business was to write a readable account. But I who had -nothing to write, I permitted myself to use my mind as we sat before our -still untouched glasses. And the disclosure which so often rewards a -moment of detachment from mere visual impressions gave me a thrill very -much approaching a shudder. I seemed to understand that, with the shock -of the agonies and perplexities of his trial, the imagination of that -man, whose moods, notions and motives wore frequently an air of grotesque -mystery--that his imagination had been at last roused into activity. And -this was awful. Just try to enter into the feelings of a man whose -imagination wakes up at the very moment he is about to enter the tomb . . . " - -* * * * * - -"You must not think," went on Marlow after a pause, "that on that morning -with Fyne I went consciously in my mind over all this, let us call it -information; no, better say, this fund of knowledge which I had, or -rather which existed, in me in regard to de Barral. Information is -something one goes out to seek and puts away when found as you might do a -piece of lead: ponderous, useful, unvibrating, dull. Whereas knowledge -comes to one, this sort of knowledge, a chance acquisition preserving in -its repose a fine resonant quality . . . But as such distinctions touch -upon the transcendental I shall spare you the pain of listening to them. -There are limits to my cruelty. No! I didn't reckon up carefully in my -mind all this I have been telling you. How could I have done so, with -Fyne right there in the room? He sat perfectly still, statuesque in -homely fashion, after having delivered himself of his effective assent: -"Yes. The convict," and I, far from indulging in a reminiscent excursion -into the past, remained sufficiently in the present to muse in a vague, -absent-minded way on the respectable proportions and on the (upon the -whole) comely shape of his great pedestrian's calves, for he had thrown -one leg over his knee, carelessly, to conceal the trouble of his mind by -an air of ease. But all the same the knowledge was in me, the awakened -resonance of which I spoke just now; I was aware of it on that beautiful -day, so fresh, so warm and friendly, so accomplished--an exquisite -courtesy of the much abused English climate when it makes up its -meteorological mind to behave like a perfect gentleman. Of course the -English climate is never a rough. It suffers from spleen somewhat -frequently--but that is gentlemanly too, and I don't mind going to meet -him in that mood. He has his days of grey, veiled, polite melancholy, in -which he is very fascinating. How seldom he lapses into a blustering -manner, after all! And then it is mostly in a season when, appropriately -enough, one may go out and kill something. But his fine days are the -best for stopping at home, to read, to think, to muse--even to dream; in -fact to live fully, intensely and quietly, in the brightness of -comprehension, in that receptive glow of the mind, the gift of the clear, -luminous and serene weather. - -That day I had intended to live intensely and quietly, basking in the -weather's glory which would have lent enchantment to the most unpromising -of intellectual prospects. For a companion I had found a book, not -bemused with the cleverness of the day--a fine-weather book, simple and -sincere like the talk of an unselfish friend. But looking at little Fyne -seated in the room I understood that nothing would come of my -contemplative aspirations; that in one way or another I should be let in -for some form of severe exercise. Walking, it would be, I feared, since, -for me, that idea was inseparably associated with the visual impression -of Fyne. Where, why, how, a rapid striding rush could be brought in -helpful relation to the good Fyne's present trouble and perplexity I -could not imagine; except on the principle that senseless pedestrianism -was Fyne's panacea for all the ills and evils bodily and spiritual of the -universe. It could be of no use for me to say or do anything. It was -bound to come. Contemplating his muscular limb encased in a -golf-stocking, and under the strong impression of the information he had -just imparted I said wondering, rather irrationally: - -"And so de Barral had a wife and child! That girl's his daughter. And -how . . . " - -Fyne interrupted me by stating again earnestly, as though it were -something not easy to believe, that his wife and himself had tried to -befriend the girl in every way--indeed they had! I did not doubt him for -a moment, of course, but my wonder at this was more rational. At that -hour of the morning, you mustn't forget, I knew nothing as yet of Mrs. -Fyne's contact (it was hardly more) with de Barral's wife and child -during their exile at the Priory, in the culminating days of that man's -fame. - -Fyne who had come over, it was clear, solely to talk to me on that -subject, gave me the first hint of this initial, merely out of doors, -connection. "The girl was quite a child then," he continued. "Later on -she was removed out of Mrs. Fyne's reach in charge of a governess--a very -unsatisfactory person," he explained. His wife had then--h'm--met him; -and on her marriage she lost sight of the child completely. But after -the birth of Polly (Polly was the third Fyne girl) she did not get on -very well, and went to Brighton for some months to recover her -strength--and there, one day in the street, the child (she wore her hair -down her back still) recognized her outside a shop and rushed, actually -rushed, into Mrs. Fyne's arms. Rather touching this. And so, -disregarding the cold impertinence of that . . . h'm . . . governess, his -wife naturally responded. - -He was solemnly fragmentary. I broke in with the observation that it -must have been before the crash. - -Fyne nodded with deepened gravity, stating in his bass tone-- - -"Just before," and indulged himself with a weighty period of solemn -silence. - -De Barral, he resumed suddenly, was not coming to Brighton for week-ends -regularly, then. Must have been conscious already of the approaching -disaster. Mrs. Fyne avoided being drawn into making his acquaintance, -and this suited the views of the governess person, very jealous of any -outside influence. But in any case it would not have been an easy -matter. Extraordinary, stiff-backed, thin figure all in black, the -observed of all, while walking hand-in-hand with the girl; apparently -shy, but--and here Fyne came very near showing something like -insight--probably nursing under a diffident manner a considerable amount -of secret arrogance. Mrs. Fyne pitied Flora de Barral's fate long before -the catastrophe. Most unfortunate guidance. Very unsatisfactory -surroundings. The girl was known in the streets, was stared at in public -places as if she had been a sort of princess, but she was kept with a -very ominous consistency, from making any acquaintances--though of course -there were many people no doubt who would have been more than willing -to--h'm--make themselves agreeable to Miss de Barral. But this did not -enter into the plans of the governess, an intriguing person hatching a -most sinister plot under her severe air of distant, fashionable -exclusiveness. Good little Fyne's eyes bulged with solemn horror as he -revealed to me, in agitated speech, his wife's more than suspicions, at -the time, of that, Mrs., Mrs. What's her name's perfidious conduct. She -actually seemed to have--Mrs. Fyne asserted--formed a plot already to -marry eventually her charge to an impecunious relation of her own--a -young man with furtive eyes and something impudent in his manner, whom -that woman called her nephew, and whom she was always having down to stay -with her. - -"And perhaps not her nephew. No relation at all"--Fyne emitted with a -convulsive effort this, the most awful part of the suspicions Mrs. Fyne -used to impart to him piecemeal when he came down to spend his week-ends -gravely with her and the children. The Fynes, in their good-natured -concern for the unlucky child of the man busied in stirring casually so -many millions, spent the moments of their weekly reunion in wondering -earnestly what could be done to defeat the most wicked of conspiracies, -trying to invent some tactful line of conduct in such extraordinary -circumstances. I could see them, simple, and scrupulous, worrying -honestly about that unprotected big girl while looking at their own -little girls playing on the sea-shore. Fyne assured me that his wife's -rest was disturbed by the great problem of interference. - -"It was very acute of Mrs. Fyne to spot such a deep game," I said, -wondering to myself where her acuteness had gone to now, to let her be -taken unawares by a game so much simpler and played to the end under her -very nose. But then, at that time, when her nightly rest was disturbed -by the dread of the fate preparing for de Barral's unprotected child, she -was not engaged in writing a compendious and ruthless hand-book on the -theory and practice of life, for the use of women with a grievance. She -could as yet, before the task of evolving the philosophy of rebellious -action had affected her intuitive sharpness, perceive things which were, -I suspect, moderately plain. For I am inclined to believe that the woman -whom chance had put in command of Flora de Barral's destiny took no very -subtle pains to conceal her game. She was conscious of being a complete -master of the situation, having once for all established her ascendancy -over de Barral. She had taken all her measures against outside -observation of her conduct; and I could not help smiling at the thought -what a ghastly nuisance the serious, innocent Fynes must have been to -her. How exasperated she must have been by that couple falling into -Brighton as completely unforeseen as a bolt from the blue--if not so -prompt. How she must have hated them! - -But I conclude she would have carried out whatever plan she might have -formed. I can imagine de Barral accustomed for years to defer to her -wishes and, either through arrogance, or shyness, or simply because of -his unimaginative stupidity, remaining outside the social pale, knowing -no one but some card-playing cronies; I can picture him to myself -terrified at the prospect of having the care of a marriageable girl -thrust on his hands, forcing on him a complete change of habits and the -necessity of another kind of existence which he would not even have known -how to begin. It is evident to me that Mrs. What's her name would have -had her atrocious way with very little trouble even if the excellent -Fynes had been able to do something. She would simply have bullied de -Barral in a lofty style. There's nothing more subservient than an -arrogant man when his arrogance has once been broken in some particular -instance. - -However there was no time and no necessity for any one to do anything. -The situation itself vanished in the financial crash as a building -vanishes in an earthquake--here one moment and gone the next with only an -ill-omened, slight, preliminary rumble. Well, to say 'in a moment' is an -exaggeration perhaps; but that everything was over in just twenty-four -hours is an exact statement. Fyne was able to tell me all about it; and -the phrase that would depict the nature of the change best is: an instant -and complete destitution. I don't understand these matters very well, -but from Fyne's narrative it seemed as if the creditors or the -depositors, or the competent authorities, had got hold in the twinkling -of an eye of everything de Barral possessed in the world, down to his -watch and chain, the money in his trousers' pocket, his spare suits of -clothes, and I suppose the cameo pin out of his black satin cravat. -Everything! I believe he gave up the very wedding ring of his late wife. -The gloomy Priory with its damp park and a couple of farms had been made -over to Mrs. de Barral; but when she died (without making a will) it -reverted to him, I imagine. They got that of course; but it was a mere -crumb in a Sahara of starvation, a drop in the thirsty ocean. I dare say -that not a single soul in the world got the comfort of as much as a -recovered threepenny bit out of the estate. Then, less than crumbs, less -than drops, there were to be grabbed, the lease of the big Brighton -house, the furniture therein, the carriage and pair, the girl's riding -horse, her costly trinkets; down to the heavily gold-mounted collar of -her pedigree St. Bernard. The dog too went: the most noble-looking item -in the beggarly assets. - -What however went first of all or rather vanished was nothing in the -nature of an asset. It was that plotting governess with the trick of a -"perfect lady" manner (severely conventional) and the soul of a -remorseless brigand. When a woman takes to any sort of unlawful -man-trade, there's nothing to beat her in the way of thoroughness. It's -true that you will find people who'll tell you that this terrific -virulence in breaking through all established things, is altogether the -fault of men. Such people will ask you with a clever air why the servile -wars were always the most fierce, desperate and atrocious of all wars. -And you may make such answer as you can--even the eminently feminine one, -if you choose, so typical of the women's literal mind "I don't see what -this has to do with it!" How many arguments have been knocked over (I -won't say knocked down) by these few words! For if we men try to put the -spaciousness of all experiences into our reasoning and would fain put the -Infinite itself into our love, it isn't, as some writer has remarked, "It -isn't women's doing." Oh no. They don't care for these things. That -sort of aspiration is not much in their way; and it shall be a funny -world, the world of their arranging, where the Irrelevant would -fantastically step in to take the place of the sober humdrum Imaginative -. . . " - -I raised my hand to stop my friend Marlow. - -"Do you really believe what you have said?" I asked, meaning no offence, -because with Marlow one never could be sure. - -"Only on certain days of the year," said Marlow readily with a malicious -smile. "To-day I have been simply trying to be spacious and I perceive -I've managed to hurt your susceptibilities which are consecrated to -women. When you sit alone and silent you are defending in your mind the -poor women from attacks which cannot possibly touch them. I wonder what -can touch them? But to soothe your uneasiness I will point out again -that an Irrelevant world would be very amusing, if the women take care to -make it as charming as they alone can, by preserving for us certain well- -known, well-established, I'll almost say hackneyed, illusions, without -which the average male creature cannot get on. And that condition is -very important. For there is nothing more provoking than the Irrelevant -when it has ceased to amuse and charm; and then the danger would be of -the subjugated masculinity in its exasperation, making some brusque, -unguarded movement and accidentally putting its elbow through the fine -tissue of the world of which I speak. And that would be fatal to it. For -nothing looks more irretrievably deplorable than fine tissue which has -been damaged. The women themselves would be the first to become -disgusted with their own creation. - -There was something of women's highly practical sanity and also of their -irrelevancy in the conduct of Miss de Barral's amazing governess. It -appeared from Fyne's narrative that the day before the first rumble of -the cataclysm the questionable young man arrived unexpectedly in Brighton -to stay with his "Aunt." To all outward appearance everything was going -on normally; the fellow went out riding with the girl in the afternoon as -he often used to do--a sight which never failed to fill Mrs. Fyne with -indignation. Fyne himself was down there with his family for a whole -week and was called to the window to behold the iniquity in its progress -and to share in his wife's feelings. There was not even a groom with -them. And Mrs. Fyne's distress was so strong at this glimpse of the -unlucky girl all unconscious of her danger riding smilingly by, that Fyne -began to consider seriously whether it wasn't their plain duty to -interfere at all risks--simply by writing a letter to de Barral. He said -to his wife with a solemnity I can easily imagine "You ought to undertake -that task, my dear. You have known his wife after all. That's something -at any rate." On the other hand the fear of exposing Mrs. Fyne to some -nasty rebuff worried him exceedingly. Mrs. Fyne on her side gave way to -despondency. Success seemed impossible. Here was a woman for more than -five years in charge of the girl and apparently enjoying the complete -confidence of the father. What, that would be effective, could one say, -without proofs, without . . . This Mr. de Barral must be, Mrs. Fyne -pronounced, either a very stupid or a downright bad man, to neglect his -child so. - -You will notice that perhaps because of Fyne's solemn view of our -transient life and Mrs. Fyne's natural capacity for responsibility, it -had never occurred to them that the simplest way out of the difficulty -was to do nothing and dismiss the matter as no concern of theirs. Which -in a strict worldly sense it certainly was not. But they spent, Fyne -told me, a most disturbed afternoon, considering the ways and means of -dealing with the danger hanging over the head of the girl out for a ride -(and no doubt enjoying herself) with an abominable scamp. - - - -CHAPTER FOUR--THE GOVERNESS - - -And the best of it was that the danger was all over already. There was -no danger any more. The supposed nephew's appearance had a purpose. He -had come, full, full to trembling--with the bigness of his news. There -must have been rumours already as to the shaky position of the de -Barral's concerns; but only amongst those in the very inmost know. No -rumour or echo of rumour had reached the profane in the West-End--let -alone in the guileless marine suburb of Hove. The Fynes had no -suspicion; the governess, playing with cold, distinguished exclusiveness -the part of mother to the fabulously wealthy Miss de Barral, had no -suspicion; the masters of music, of drawing, of dancing to Miss de -Barral, had no idea; the minds of her medical man, of her dentist, of the -servants in the house, of the tradesmen proud of having the name of de -Barral on their books, were in a state of absolute serenity. Thus, that -fellow, who had unexpectedly received a most alarming straight tip from -somebody in the City arrived in Brighton, at about lunch-time, with -something very much in the nature of a deadly bomb in his possession. But -he knew better than to throw it on the public pavement. He ate his lunch -impenetrably, sitting opposite Flora de Barral, and then, on some excuse, -closeted himself with the woman whom little Fyne's charity described -(with a slight hesitation of speech however) as his "Aunt." - -What they said to each other in private we can imagine. She came out of -her own sitting-room with red spots on her cheek-bones, which having -provoked a question from her "beloved" charge, were accounted for by a -curt "I have a headache coming on." But we may be certain that the talk -being over she must have said to that young blackguard: "You had better -take her out for a ride as usual." We have proof positive of this in -Fyne and Mrs. Fyne observing them mount at the door and pass under the -windows of their sitting-room, talking together, and the poor girl all -smiles; because she enjoyed in all innocence the company of Charley. She -made no secret of it whatever to Mrs. Fyne; in fact, she had confided to -her, long before, that she liked him very much: a confidence which had -filled Mrs. Fyne with desolation and that sense of powerless anguish -which is experienced in certain kinds of nightmare. For how could she -warn the girl? She did venture to tell her once that she didn't like Mr. -Charley. Miss de Barral heard her with astonishment. How was it -possible not to like Charley? Afterwards with naive loyalty she told -Mrs. Fyne that, immensely as she was fond of her she could not hear a -word against Charley--the wonderful Charley. - -The daughter of de Barral probably enjoyed her jolly ride with the jolly -Charley (infinitely more jolly than going out with a stupid old riding- -master), very much indeed, because the Fynes saw them coming back at a -later hour than usual. In fact it was getting nearly dark. On -dismounting, helped off by the delightful Charley, she patted the neck of -her horse and went up the steps. Her last ride. She was then within a -few days of her sixteenth birthday, a slight figure in a riding habit, -rather shorter than the average height for her age, in a black bowler hat -from under which her fine rippling dark hair cut square at the ends was -hanging well down her back. The delightful Charley mounted again to take -the two horses round to the mews. Mrs. Fyne remaining at the window saw -the house door close on Miss de Barral returning from her last ride. - -And meantime what had the governess (out of a nobleman's family) so -judiciously selected (a lady, and connected with well-known county people -as she said) to direct the studies, guard the health, form the mind, -polish the manners, and generally play the perfect mother to that -luckless child--what had she been doing? Well, having got rid of her -charge by the most natural device possible, which proved her practical -sense, she started packing her belongings, an act which showed her clear -view of the situation. She had worked methodically, rapidly, and well, -emptying the drawers, clearing the tables in her special apartment of -that big house, with something silently passionate in her thoroughness; -taking everything belonging to her and some things of less unquestionable -ownership, a jewelled penholder, an ivory and gold paper knife (the house -was full of common, costly objects), some chased silver boxes presented -by de Barral and other trifles; but the photograph of Flora de Barral, -with the loving inscription, which stood on her writing desk, of the most -modern and expensive style, in a silver-gilt frame, she neglected to -take. Having accidentally, in the course of the operations, knocked it -off on the floor she let it lie there after a downward glance. Thus it, -or the frame at least, became, I suppose, part of the assets in the de -Barral bankruptcy. - -At dinner that evening the child found her company dull and brusque. It -was uncommonly slow. She could get nothing from her governess but -monosyllables, and the jolly Charley actually snubbed the various cheery -openings of his "little chum"--as he used to call her at times,--but not -at that time. No doubt the couple were nervous and preoccupied. For all -this we have evidence, and for the fact that Flora being offended with -the delightful nephew of her profoundly respected governess sulked -through the rest of the evening and was glad to retire early. Mrs., -Mrs.--I've really forgotten her name--the governess, invited her nephew -to her sitting-room, mentioning aloud that it was to talk over some -family matters. This was meant for Flora to hear, and she heard -it--without the slightest interest. In fact there was nothing -sufficiently unusual in such an invitation to arouse in her mind even a -passing wonder. She went bored to bed and being tired with her long ride -slept soundly all night. Her last sleep, I won't say of innocence--that -word would not render my exact meaning, because it has a special meaning -of its own--but I will say: of that ignorance, or better still, of that -unconsciousness of the world's ways, the unconsciousness of danger, of -pain, of humiliation, of bitterness, of falsehood. An unconsciousness -which in the case of other beings like herself is removed by a gradual -process of experience and information, often only partial at that, with -saving reserves, softening doubts, veiling theories. Her unconsciousness -of the evil which lives in the secret thoughts and therefore in the open -acts of mankind, whenever it happens that evil thought meets evil -courage; her unconsciousness was to be broken into with profane violence -with desecrating circumstances, like a temple violated by a mad, vengeful -impiety. Yes, that very young girl, almost no more than a child--this -was what was going to happen to her. And if you ask me, how, wherefore, -for what reason? I will answer you: Why, by chance! By the merest -chance, as things do happen, lucky and unlucky, terrible or tender, -important or unimportant; and even things which are neither, things so -completely neutral in character that you would wonder why they do happen -at all if you didn't know that they, too, carry in their insignificance -the seeds of further incalculable chances. - -Of course, all the chances were that de Barral should have fallen upon a -perfectly harmless, naive, usual, inefficient specimen of respectable -governess for his daughter; or on a commonplace silly adventuress who -would have tried, say, to marry him or work some other sort of common -mischief in a small way. Or again he might have chanced on a model of -all the virtues, or the repository of all knowledge, or anything equally -harmless, conventional, and middle class. All calculations were in his -favour; but, chance being incalculable, he fell upon an individuality -whom it is much easier to define by opprobrious names than to classify in -a calm and scientific spirit--but an individuality certainly, and a -temperament as well. Rare? No. There is a certain amount of what I -would politely call unscrupulousness in all of us. Think for instance of -the excellent Mrs. Fyne, who herself, and in the bosom of her family, -resembled a governess of a conventional type. Only, her mental excesses -were theoretical, hedged in by so much humane feeling and conventional -reserves, that they amounted to no more than mere libertinage of thought; -whereas the other woman, the governess of Flora de Barral, was, as you -may have noticed, severely practical--terribly practical. No! Hers was -not a rare temperament, except in its fierce resentment of repression; a -feeling which like genius or lunacy is apt to drive people into sudden -irrelevancy. Hers was feminine irrelevancy. A male genius, a male -ruffian, or even a male lunatic, would not have behaved exactly as she -did behave. There is a softness in masculine nature, even the most -brutal, which acts as a check. - -While the girl slept those two, the woman of forty, an age in itself -terrible, and that hopeless young "wrong 'un" of twenty-three (also well -connected I believe) had some sort of subdued row in the cleared rooms: -wardrobes open, drawers half pulled out and empty, trunks locked and -strapped, furniture in idle disarray, and not so much as a single scrap -of paper left behind on the tables. The maid, whom the governess and the -pupil shared between them, after finishing with Flora, came to the door -as usual, but was not admitted. She heard the two voices in dispute -before she knocked, and then being sent away retreated at once--the only -person in the house convinced at that time that there was "something up." - -Dark and, so to speak, inscrutable spaces being met with in life there -must be such places in any statement dealing with life. In what I am -telling you of now--an episode of one of my humdrum holidays in the green -country, recalled quite naturally after all the years by our meeting a -man who has been a blue-water sailor--this evening confabulation is a -dark, inscrutable spot. And we may conjecture what we like. I have no -difficulty in imagining that the woman--of forty, and the chief of the -enterprise--must have raged at large. And perhaps the other did not rage -enough. Youth feels deeply it is true, but it has not the same vivid -sense of lost opportunities. It believes in the absolute reality of -time. And then, in that abominable scamp with his youth already soiled, -withered like a plucked flower ready to be flung on some rotting heap of -rubbish, no very genuine feeling about anything could exist--not even -about the hazards of his own unclean existence. A sneering half-laugh -with some such remark as: "We are properly sold and no mistake" would -have been enough to make trouble in that way. And then another sneer, -"Waste time enough over it too," followed perhaps by the bitter retort -from the other party "You seemed to like it well enough though, playing -the fool with that chit of a girl." Something of that sort. Don't you -see it--eh . . . " - -Marlow looked at me with his dark penetrating glance. I was struck by -the absolute verisimilitude of this suggestion. But we were always -tilting at each other. I saw an opening and pushed my uncandid thrust. - -"You have a ghastly imagination," I said with a cheerfully sceptical -smile. - -"Well, and if I have," he returned unabashed. "But let me remind you -that this situation came to me unasked. I am like a puzzle-headed chief- -mate we had once in the dear old _Samarcand_ when I was a youngster. The -fellow went gravely about trying to "account to himself"--his favourite -expression--for a lot of things no one would care to bother one's head -about. He was an old idiot but he was also an accomplished practical -seaman. I was quite a boy and he impressed me. I must have caught the -disposition from him." - -"Well--go on with your accounting then," I said, assuming an air of -resignation. - -"That's just it." Marlow fell into his stride at once. "That's just it. -Mere disappointed cupidity cannot account for the proceedings of the next -morning; proceedings which I shall not describe to you--but which I shall -tell you of presently, not as a matter of conjecture but of actual fact. -Meantime returning to that evening altercation in deadened tones within -the private apartment of Miss de Barral's governess, what if I were to -tell you that disappointment had most likely made them touchy with each -other, but that perhaps the secret of his careless, railing behaviour, -was in the thought, springing up within him with an emphatic oath of -relief "Now there's nothing to prevent me from breaking away from that -old woman." And that the secret of her envenomed rage, not against this -miserable and attractive wretch, but against fate, accident and the whole -course of human life, concentrating its venom on de Barral and including -the innocent girl herself, was in the thought, in the fear crying within -her "Now I have nothing to hold him with . . . " - -I couldn't refuse Marlow the tribute of a prolonged whistle "Phew! So -you suppose that . . . " - -He waved his hand impatiently. - -"I don't suppose. It was so. And anyhow why shouldn't you accept the -supposition. Do you look upon governesses as creatures above suspicion -or necessarily of moral perfection? I suppose their hearts would not -stand looking into much better than other people's. Why shouldn't a -governess have passions, all the passions, even that of libertinage, and -even ungovernable passions; yet suppressed by the very same means which -keep the rest of us in order: early training--necessity--circumstances--fear -of consequences; till there comes an age, a time when the restraint of -years becomes intolerable--and infatuation irresistible . . . " - -"But if infatuation--quite possible I admit," I argued, "how do you -account for the nature of the conspiracy." - -"You expect a cogency of conduct not usual in women," said Marlow. "The -subterfuges of a menaced passion are not to be fathomed. You think it is -going on the way it looks, whereas it is capable, for its own ends, of -walking backwards into a precipice. - -When one once acknowledges that she was not a common woman, then all this -is easily understood. She was abominable but she was not common. She -had suffered in her life not from its constant inferiority but from -constant self-repression. A common woman finding herself placed in a -commanding position might have formed the design to become the second -Mrs. de Barral. Which would have been impracticable. De Barral would -not have known what to do with a wife. But even if by some impossible -chance he had made advances, this governess would have repulsed him with -scorn. She had treated him always as an inferior being with an assured, -distant politeness. In her composed, schooled manner she despised and -disliked both father and daughter exceedingly. I have a notion that she -had always disliked intensely all her charges including the two ducal (if -they were ducal) little girls with whom she had dazzled de Barral. What -an odious, ungratified existence it must have been for a woman as avid of -all the sensuous emotions which life can give as most of her betters. - -She had seen her youth vanish, her freshness disappear, her hopes die, -and now she felt her flaming middle-age slipping away from her. No -wonder that with her admirably dressed, abundant hair, thickly sprinkled -with white threads and adding to her elegant aspect the piquant -distinction of a powdered coiffure--no wonder, I say, that she clung -desperately to her last infatuation for that graceless young scamp, even -to the extent of hatching for him that amazing plot. He was not so far -gone in degradation as to make him utterly hopeless for such an attempt. -She hoped to keep him straight with that enormous bribe. She was clearly -a woman uncommon enough to live without illusions--which, of course, does -not mean that she was reasonable. She had said to herself, perhaps with -a fury of self-contempt "In a few years I shall be too old for anybody. -Meantime I shall have him--and I shall hold him by throwing to him the -money of that ordinary, silly, little girl of no account." Well, it was -a desperate expedient--but she thought it worth while. And besides there -is hardly a woman in the world, no matter how hard, depraved or frantic, -in whom something of the maternal instinct does not survive, unconsumed -like a salamander, in the fires of the most abandoned passion. Yes there -might have been that sentiment for him too. There _was_ no doubt. So I -say again: No wonder! No wonder that she raged at everything--and -perhaps even at him, with contradictory reproaches: for regretting the -girl, a little fool who would never in her life be worth anybody's -attention, and for taking the disaster itself with a cynical levity in -which she perceived a flavour of revolt. - -And so the altercation in the night went on, over the irremediable. He -arguing "What's the hurry? Why clear out like this?" perhaps a little -sorry for the girl and as usual without a penny in his pocket, -appreciating the comfortable quarters, wishing to linger on as long as -possible in the shameless enjoyment of this already doomed luxury. There -was really no hurry for a few days. Always time enough to vanish. And, -with that, a touch of masculine softness, a sort of regard for -appearances surviving his degradation: "You might behave decently at the -last, Eliza." But there was no softness in the sallow face under the -gala effect of powdered hair, its formal calmness gone, the dark-ringed -eyes glaring at him with a sort of hunger. "No! No! If it is as you -say then not a day, not an hour, not a moment." She stuck to it, very -determined that there should be no more of that boy and girl philandering -since the object of it was gone; angry with herself for having suffered -from it so much in the past, furious at its having been all in vain. - -But she was reasonable enough not to quarrel with him finally. What was -the good? She found means to placate him. The only means. As long as -there was some money to be got she had hold of him. "Now go away. We -shall do no good by any more of this sort of talk. I want to be alone -for a bit." He went away, sulkily acquiescent. There was a room always -kept ready for him on the same floor, at the further end of a short -thickly carpeted passage. - -How she passed the night, this woman with no illusions to help her -through the hours which must have been sleepless I shouldn't like to say. -It ended at last; and this strange victim of the de Barral failure, whose -name would never be known to the Official Receiver, came down to -breakfast, impenetrable in her everyday perfection. From the very first, -somehow, she had accepted the fatal news for true. All her life she had -never believed in her luck, with that pessimism of the passionate who at -bottom feel themselves to be the outcasts of a morally restrained -universe. But this did not make it any easier, on opening the morning -paper feverishly, to see the thing confirmed. Oh yes! It was there. The -Orb had suspended payment--the first growl of the storm faint as yet, but -to the initiated the forerunner of a deluge. As an item of news it was -not indecently displayed. It was not displayed at all in a sense. The -serious paper, the only one of the great dailies which had always -maintained an attitude of reserve towards the de Barral group of banks, -had its "manner." Yes! a modest item of news! But there was also, on -another page, a special financial article in a hostile tone beginning -with the words "We have always feared" and a guarded, half-column leader, -opening with the phrase: "It is a deplorable sign of the times" what was, -in effect, an austere, general rebuke to the absurd infatuations of the -investing public. She glanced through these articles, a line here and a -line there--no more was necessary to catch beyond doubt the murmur of the -oncoming flood. Several slighting references by name to de Barral -revived her animosity against the man, suddenly, as by the effect of -unforeseen moral support. The miserable wretch! . . . " - -* * * * * - -"--You understand," Marlow interrupted the current of his narrative, -"that in order to be consecutive in my relation of this affair I am -telling you at once the details which I heard from Mrs. Fyne later in the -day, as well as what little Fyne imparted to me with his usual solemnity -during that morning call. As you may easily guess the Fynes, in their -apartments, had read the news at the same time, and, as a matter of fact, -in the same august and highly moral newspaper, as the governess in the -luxurious mansion a few doors down on the opposite side of the street. -But they read them with different feelings. They were thunderstruck. -Fyne had to explain the full purport of the intelligence to Mrs. Fyne -whose first cry was that of relief. Then that poor child would be safe -from these designing, horrid people. Mrs. Fyne did not know what it -might mean to be suddenly reduced from riches to absolute penury. Fyne -with his masculine imagination was less inclined to rejoice extravagantly -at the girl's escape from the moral dangers which had been menacing her -defenceless existence. It was a confoundedly big price to pay. What an -unfortunate little thing she was! "We might be able to do something to -comfort that poor child at any rate for the time she is here," said Mrs. -Fyne. She felt under a sort of moral obligation not to be indifferent. -But no comfort for anyone could be got by rushing out into the street at -this early hour; and so, following the advice of Fyne not to act hastily, -they both sat down at the window and stared feelingly at the great house, -awful to their eyes in its stolid, prosperous, expensive respectability -with ruin absolutely standing at the door. - -By that time, or very soon after, all Brighton had the information and -formed a more or less just appreciation of its gravity. The butler in -Miss de Barral's big house had seen the news, perhaps earlier than -anybody within a mile of the Parade, in the course of his morning duties -of which one was to dry the freshly delivered paper before the fire--an -occasion to glance at it which no intelligent man could have neglected. -He communicated to the rest of the household his vaguely forcible -impression that something had gone d---bly wrong with the affairs of "her -father in London." - -This brought an atmosphere of constraint through the house, which Flora -de Barral coming down somewhat later than usual could not help noticing -in her own way. Everybody seemed to stare so stupidly somehow; she -feared a dull day. - -In the dining-room the governess in her place, a newspaper half-concealed -under the cloth on her lap, after a few words exchanged with lips that -seemed hardly to move, remaining motionless, her eyes fixed before her in -an enduring silence; and presently Charley coming in to whom she did not -even give a glance. He hardly said good morning, though he had a half- -hearted try to smile at the girl, and sitting opposite her with his eyes -on his plate and slight quivers passing along the line of his -clean-shaven jaw, he too had nothing to say. It was dull, horribly dull -to begin one's day like this; but she knew what it was. These -never-ending family affairs! It was not for the first time that she had -suffered from their depressing after-effects on these two. It was a -shame that the delightful Charley should be made dull by these stupid -talks, and it was perfectly stupid of him to let himself be upset like -this by his aunt. - -When after a period of still, as if calculating, immobility, her -governess got up abruptly and went out with the paper in her hand, almost -immediately afterwards followed by Charley who left his breakfast half -eaten, the girl was positively relieved. They would have it out that -morning whatever it was, and be themselves again in the afternoon. At -least Charley would be. To the moods of her governess she did not attach -so much importance. - -For the first time that morning the Fynes saw the front door of the awful -house open and the objectionable young man issue forth, his rascality -visible to their prejudiced eyes in his very bowler hat and in the smart -cut of his short fawn overcoat. He walked away rapidly like a man -hurrying to catch a train, glancing from side to side as though he were -carrying something off. Could he be departing for good? Undoubtedly, -undoubtedly! But Mrs. Fyne's fervent "thank goodness" turned out to be a -bit, as the Americans--some Americans--say "previous." In a very short -time the odious fellow appeared again, strolling, absolutely strolling -back, his hat now tilted a little on one side, with an air of leisure and -satisfaction. Mrs. Fyne groaned not only in the spirit, at this sight, -but in the flesh, audibly; and asked her husband what it might mean. Fyne -naturally couldn't say. Mrs. Fyne believed that there was something -horrid in progress and meantime the object of her detestation had gone up -the steps and had knocked at the door which at once opened to admit him. - -He had been only as far as the bank. - -His reason for leaving his breakfast unfinished to run after Miss de -Barral's governess, was to speak to her in reference to that very errand -possessing the utmost possible importance in his eyes. He shrugged his -shoulders at the nervousness of her eyes and hands, at the half-strangled -whisper "I had to go out. I could hardly contain myself." That was her -affair. He was, with a young man's squeamishness, rather sick of her -ferocity. He did not understand it. Men do not accumulate hate against -each other in tiny amounts, treasuring every pinch carefully till it -grows at last into a monstrous and explosive hoard. He had run out after -her to remind her of the balance at the bank. What about lifting that -money without wasting any more time? She had promised him to leave -nothing behind. - -An account opened in her name for the expenses of the establishment in -Brighton, had been fed by de Barral with deferential lavishness. The -governess crossed the wide hall into a little room at the side where she -sat down to write the cheque, which he hastened out to go and cash as if -it were stolen or a forgery. As observed by the Fynes, his uneasy -appearance on leaving the house arose from the fact that his first -trouble having been caused by a cheque of doubtful authenticity, the -possession of a document of the sort made him unreasonably uncomfortable -till this one was safely cashed. And after all, you know it was stealing -of an indirect sort; for the money was de Barral's money if the account -was in the name of the accomplished lady. At any rate the cheque was -cashed. On getting hold of the notes and gold he recovered his jaunty -bearing, it being well known that with certain natures the presence of -money (even stolen) in the pocket, acts as a tonic, or at least as a -stimulant. He cocked his hat a little on one side as though he had had a -drink or two--which indeed he might have had in reality, to celebrate the -occasion. - -The governess had been waiting for his return in the hall, disregarding -the side-glances of the butler as he went in and out of the dining-room -clearing away the breakfast things. It was she, herself, who had opened -the door so promptly. "It's all right," he said touching his -breast-pocket; and she did not dare, the miserable wretch without -illusions, she did not dare ask him to hand it over. They looked at each -other in silence. He nodded significantly: "Where is she now?" and she -whispered "Gone into the drawing-room. Want to see her again?" with an -archly black look which he acknowledged by a muttered, surly: "I am -damned if I do. Well, as you want to bolt like this, why don't we go -now?" - -She set her lips with cruel obstinacy and shook her head. She had her -idea, her completed plan. At that moment the Fynes, still at the window -and watching like a pair of private detectives, saw a man with a long -grey beard and a jovial face go up the steps helping himself with a thick -stick, and knock at the door. Who could he be? - -He was one of Miss de Barral's masters. She had lately taken up painting -in water-colours, having read in a high-class woman's weekly paper that a -great many princesses of the European royal houses were cultivating that -art. This was the water-colour morning; and the teacher, a veteran of -many exhibitions, of a venerable and jovial aspect, had turned up with -his usual punctuality. He was no great reader of morning papers, and -even had he seen the news it is very likely he would not have understood -its real purport. At any rate he turned up, as the governess expected -him to do, and the Fynes saw him pass through the fateful door. - -He bowed cordially to the lady in charge of Miss de Barral's education, -whom he saw in the hall engaged in conversation with a very good-looking -but somewhat raffish young gentleman. She turned to him graciously: -"Flora is already waiting for you in the drawing-room." - -The cultivation of the art said to be patronized by princesses was -pursued in the drawing-room from considerations of the right kind of -light. The governess preceded the master up the stairs and into the room -where Miss de Barral was found arrayed in a holland pinafore (also of the -right kind for the pursuit of the art) and smilingly expectant. The -water-colour lesson enlivened by the jocular conversation of the kindly, -humorous, old man was always great fun; and she felt she would be -compensated for the tiresome beginning of the day. - -Her governess generally was present at the lesson; but on this occasion -she only sat down till the master and pupil had gone to work in earnest, -and then as though she had suddenly remembered some order to give, rose -quietly and went out of the room. - -Once outside, the servants summoned by the passing maid without a bell -being rung, and quick, quick, let all this luggage be taken down into the -hall, and let one of you call a cab. She stood outside the drawing-room -door on the landing, looking at each piece, trunk, leather cases, -portmanteaus, being carried past her, her brows knitted and her aspect so -sombre and absorbed that it took some little time for the butler to -muster courage enough to speak to her. But he reflected that he was a -free-born Briton and had his rights. He spoke straight to the point but -in the usual respectful manner. - -"Beg you pardon, ma'am--but are you going away for good?" - -He was startled by her tone. Its unexpected, unlady-like harshness fell -on his trained ear with the disagreeable effect of a false note. "Yes. I -am going away. And the best thing for all of you is to go away too, as -soon as you like. You can go now, to-day, this moment. You had your -wages paid you only last week. The longer you stay the greater your -loss. But I have nothing to do with it now. You are the servants of Mr. -de Barral--you know." - -The butler was astounded by the manner of this advice, and as his eyes -wandered to the drawing-room door the governess extended her arm as if to -bar the way. "Nobody goes in there." And that was said still in another -tone, such a tone that all trace of the trained respectfulness vanished -from the butler's bearing. He stared at her with a frank wondering gaze. -"Not till I am gone," she added, and there was such an expression on her -face that the man was daunted by the mystery of it. He shrugged his -shoulders slightly and without another word went down the stairs on his -way to the basement, brushing in the hall past Mr. Charles who hat on -head and both hands rammed deep into his overcoat pockets paced up and -down as though on sentry duty there. - -The ladies' maid was the only servant upstairs, hovering in the passage -on the first floor, curious and as if fascinated by the woman who stood -there guarding the door. Being beckoned closer imperiously and asked by -the governess to bring out of the now empty rooms the hat and veil, the -only objects besides the furniture still to be found there, she did so in -silence but inwardly fluttered. And while waiting uneasily, with the -veil, before that woman who, without moving a step away from the drawing- -room door was pinning with careless haste her hat on her head, she heard -within a sudden burst of laughter from Miss de Barral enjoying the fun of -the water-colour lesson given her for the last time by the cheery old -man. - -Mr. and Mrs. Fyne ambushed at their window--a most incredible occupation -for people of their kind--saw with renewed anxiety a cab come to the -door, and watched some luggage being carried out and put on its roof. The -butler appeared for a moment, then went in again. What did it mean? Was -Flora going to be taken to her father; or were these people, that woman -and her horrible nephew, about to carry her off somewhere? Fyne couldn't -tell. He doubted the last, Flora having now, he judged, no value, either -positive or speculative. Though no great reader of character he did not -credit the governess with humane intentions. He confessed to me naively -that he was excited as if watching some action on the stage. Then the -thought struck him that the girl might have had some money settled on -her, be possessed of some means, of some little fortune of her own and -therefore-- - -He imparted this theory to his wife who shared fully his consternation. -"I can't believe the child will go away without running in to say good- -bye to us," she murmured. "We must find out! I shall ask her." But at -that very moment the cab rolled away, empty inside, and the door of the -house which had been standing slightly ajar till then was pushed to. - -They remained silent staring at it till Mrs. Fyne whispered doubtfully "I -really think I must go over." Fyne didn't answer for a while (his is a -reflective mind, you know), and then as if Mrs. Fyne's whispers had an -occult power over that door it opened wide again and the white-bearded -man issued, astonishingly active in his movements, using his stick almost -like a leaping-pole to get down the steps; and hobbled away briskly along -the pavement. Naturally the Fynes were too far off to make out the -expression of his face. But it would not have helped them very much to a -guess at the conditions inside the house. The expression was humorously -puzzled--nothing more. - -For, at the end of his lesson, seizing his trusty stick and coming out -with his habitual vivacity, he very nearly cannoned just outside the -drawing-room door into the back of Miss de Barral's governess. He -stopped himself in time and she turned round swiftly. It was -embarrassing; he apologised; but her face was not startled; it was not -aware of him; it wore a singular expression of resolution. A very -singular expression which, as it were, detained him for a moment. In -order to cover his embarrassment, he made some inane remark on the -weather, upon which, instead of returning another inane remark according -to the tacit rules of the game, she only gave him a smile of unfathomable -meaning. Nothing could have been more singular. The good-looking young -gentleman of questionable appearance took not the slightest notice of him -in the hall. No servant was to be seen. He let himself out pulling the -door to behind him with a crash as, in a manner, he was forced to do to -get it shut at all. - -When the echo of it had died away the woman on the landing leaned over -the banister and called out bitterly to the man below "Don't you want to -come up and say good-bye." He had an impatient movement of the shoulders -and went on pacing to and fro as though he had not heard. But suddenly -he checked himself, stood still for a moment, then with a gloomy face and -without taking his hands out of his pockets ran smartly up the stairs. -Already facing the door she turned her head for a whispered taunt: "Come! -Confess you were dying to see her stupid little face once more,"--to -which he disdained to answer. - -Flora de Barral, still seated before the table at which she had been -wording on her sketch, raised her head at the noise of the opening door. -The invading manner of their entrance gave her the sense of something she -had never seen before. She knew them well. She knew the woman better -than she knew her father. There had been between them an intimacy of -relation as great as it can possibly be without the final closeness of -affection. The delightful Charley walked in, with his eyes fixed on the -back of her governess whose raised veil hid her forehead like a brown -band above the black line of the eyebrows. The girl was astounded and -alarmed by the altogether unknown expression in the woman's face. The -stress of passion often discloses an aspect of the personality completely -ignored till then by its closest intimates. There was something like an -emanation of evil from her eyes and from the face of the other, who, -exactly behind her and overtopping her by half a head, kept his eyelids -lowered in a sinister fashion--which in the poor girl, reached, stirred, -set free that faculty of unreasoning explosive terror lying locked up at -the bottom of all human hearts and of the hearts of animals as well. With -suddenly enlarged pupils and a movement as instinctive almost as the -bounding of a startled fawn, she jumped up and found herself in the -middle of the big room, exclaiming at those amazing and familiar -strangers. - -"What do you want?" - -You will note that she cried: What do you want? Not: What has happened? -She told Mrs. Fyne that she had received suddenly the feeling of being -personally attacked. And that must have been very terrifying. The woman -before her had been the wisdom, the authority, the protection of life, -security embodied and visible and undisputed. - -You may imagine then the force of the shock in the intuitive perception -not merely of danger, for she did not know what was alarming her, but in -the sense of the security being gone. And not only security. I don't -know how to explain it clearly. Look! Even a small child lives, plays -and suffers in terms of its conception of its own existence. Imagine, if -you can, a fact coming in suddenly with a force capable of shattering -that very conception itself. It was only because of the girl being still -so much of a child that she escaped mental destruction; that, in other -words she got over it. Could one conceive of her more mature, while -still as ignorant as she was, one must conclude that she would have -become an idiot on the spot--long before the end of that experience. -Luckily, people, whether mature or not mature (and who really is ever -mature?) are for the most part quite incapable of understanding what is -happening to them: a merciful provision of nature to preserve an average -amount of sanity for working purposes in this world . . . " - -"But we, my dear Marlow, have the inestimable advantage of understanding -what is happening to others," I struck in. "Or at least some of us seem -to. Is that too a provision of nature? And what is it for? Is it that -we may amuse ourselves gossiping about each other's affairs? You for -instance seem--" - -"I don't know what I seem," Marlow silenced me, "and surely life must be -amused somehow. It would be still a very respectable provision if it -were only for that end. But from that same provision of understanding, -there springs in us compassion, charity, indignation, the sense of -solidarity; and in minds of any largeness an inclination to that -indulgence which is next door to affection. I don't mean to say that I -am inclined to an indulgent view of the precious couple which broke in -upon an unsuspecting girl. They came marching in (it's the very -expression she used later on to Mrs. Fyne) but at her cry they stopped. -It must have been startling enough to them. It was like having the mask -torn off when you don't expect it. The man stopped for good; he didn't -offer to move a step further. But, though the governess had come in -there for the very purpose of taking the mask off for the first time in -her life, she seemed to look upon the frightened cry as a fresh -provocation. "What are you screaming for, you little fool?" she said -advancing alone close to the girl who was affected exactly as if she had -seen Medusa's head with serpentine locks set mysteriously on the -shoulders of that familiar person, in that brown dress, under that hat -she knew so well. It made her lose all her hold on reality. She told -Mrs. Fyne: "I didn't know where I was. I didn't even know that I was -frightened. If she had told me it was a joke I would have laughed. If -she had told me to put on my hat and go out with her I would have gone to -put on my hat and gone out with her and never said a single word; I -should have been convinced I had been mad for a minute or so, and I would -have worried myself to death rather than breathe a hint of it to her or -anyone. But the wretch put her face close to mine and I could not move. -Directly I had looked into her eyes I felt grown on to the carpet." - -It was years afterwards that she used to talk like this to Mrs. Fyne--and -to Mrs. Fyne alone. Nobody else ever heard the story from her lips. But -it was never forgotten. It was always felt; it remained like a mark on -her soul, a sort of mystic wound, to be contemplated, to be meditated -over. And she said further to Mrs. Fyne, in the course of many -confidences provoked by that contemplation, that, as long as that woman -called her names, it was almost soothing, it was in a manner reassuring. -Her imagination had, like her body, gone off in a wild bound to meet the -unknown; and then to hear after all something which more in its tone than -in its substance was mere venomous abuse, had steadied the inward flutter -of all her being. - -"She called me a little fool more times than I can remember. I! A fool! -Why, Mrs. Fyne! I do assure you I had never yet thought at all; never of -anything in the world, till then. I just went on living. And one can't -be a fool without one has at least tried to think. But what had I ever -to think about?" - -"And no doubt," commented Marlow, "her life had been a mere life of -sensations--the response to which can neither be foolish nor wise. It -can only be temperamental; and I believe that she was of a generally -happy disposition, a child of the average kind. Even when she was asked -violently whether she imagined that there was anything in her, apart from -her money, to induce any intelligent person to take any sort of interest -in her existence, she only caught her breath in one dry sob and said -nothing, made no other sound, made no movement. When she was viciously -assured that she was in heart, mind, manner and appearance, an utterly -common and insipid creature, she remained still, without indignation, -without anger. She stood, a frail and passive vessel into which the -other went on pouring all the accumulated dislike for all her pupils, her -scorn of all her employers (the ducal one included), the accumulated -resentment, the infinite hatred of all these unrelieved years of--I won't -say hypocrisy. The practice of perfect hypocrisy is a relief in itself, -a secret triumph of the vilest sort, no doubt, but still a way of getting -even with the common morality from which some of us appear to suffer so -much. No! I will say the years, the passionate, bitter years, of -restraint, the iron, admirably mannered restraint at every moment, in a -never-failing perfect correctness of speech, glances, movements, smiles, -gestures, establishing for her a high reputation, an impressive record of -success in her sphere. It had been like living half strangled for years. - -And all this torture for nothing, in the end! What looked at last like a -possible prize (oh, without illusions! but still a prize) broken in her -hands, fallen in the dust, the bitter dust, of disappointment, she -revelled in the miserable revenge--pretty safe too--only regretting the -unworthiness of the girlish figure which stood for so much she had longed -to be able to spit venom at, if only once, in perfect liberty. The -presence of the young man at her back increased both her satisfaction and -her rage. But the very violence of the attack seemed to defeat its end -by rendering the representative victim as it were insensible. The cause -of this outrage naturally escaping the girl's imagination her attitude -was in effect that of dense, hopeless stupidity. And it is a fact that -the worst shocks of life are often received without outcries, without -gestures, without a flow of tears and the convulsions of sobbing. The -insatiable governess missed these signs exceedingly. This pitiful -stolidity was only a fresh provocation. Yet the poor girl was deadly -pale. - -"I was cold," she used to explain to Mrs. Fyne. "I had had time to get -terrified. She had pushed her face so near mine and her teeth looked as -though she wanted to bite me. Her eyes seemed to have become quite dry, -hard and small in a lot of horrible wrinkles. I was too afraid of her to -shudder, too afraid of her to put my fingers to my ears. I didn't know -what I expected her to call me next, but when she told me I was no better -than a beggar--that there would be no more masters, no more servants, no -more horses for me--I said to myself: Is that all? I should have laughed -if I hadn't been too afraid of her to make the least little sound." - -It seemed that poor Flora had to know all the possible phases of that -sort of anguish, beginning with instinctive panic, through the bewildered -stage, the frozen stage and the stage of blanched apprehension, down to -the instinctive prudence of extreme terror--the stillness of the mouse. -But when she heard herself called the child of a cheat and a swindler, -the very monstrous unexpectedness of this caused in her a revulsion -towards letting herself go. She screamed out all at once "You mustn't -speak like this of Papa!" - -The effort of it uprooted her from that spot where her little feet seemed -dug deep into the thick luxurious carpet, and she retreated backwards to -a distant part of the room, hearing herself repeat "You mustn't, you -mustn't" as if it were somebody else screaming. She came to a chair and -flung herself into it. Thereupon the somebody else ceased screaming and -she lolled, exhausted, sightless, in a silent room, as if indifferent to -everything and without a single thought in her head. - -The next few seconds seemed to last for ever so long; a black abyss of -time separating what was past and gone from the reappearance of the -governess and the reawakening of fear. And that woman was forcing the -words through her set teeth: "You say I mustn't, I mustn't. All the -world will be speaking of him like this to-morrow. They will say it, and -they'll print it. You shall hear it and you shall read it--and then you -shall know whose daughter you are." - -Her face lighted up with an atrocious satisfaction. "He's nothing but a -thief," she cried, "this father of yours. As to you I have never been -deceived in you for a moment. I have been growing more and more sick of -you for years. You are a vulgar, silly nonentity, and you shall go back -to where you belong, whatever low place you have sprung from, and beg -your bread--that is if anybody's charity will have anything to do with -you, which I doubt--" - -She would have gone on regardless of the enormous eyes, of the open mouth -of the girl who sat up suddenly with the wild staring expression of being -choked by invisible fingers on her throat, and yet horribly pale. The -effect on her constitution was so profound, Mrs. Fyne told me, that she -who as a child had a rather pretty delicate colouring, showed a white -bloodless face for a couple of years afterwards, and remained always -liable at the slightest emotion to an extraordinary ghost-like whiteness. -The end came in the abomination of desolation of the poor child's -miserable cry for help: "Charley! Charley!" coming from her throat in -hidden gasping efforts. Her enlarged eyes had discovered him where he -stood motionless and dumb. - -He started from his immobility, a hand withdrawn brusquely from the -pocket of his overcoat, strode up to the woman, seized her by the arm -from behind, saying in a rough commanding tone: "Come away, Eliza." In -an instant the child saw them close together and remote, near the door, -gone through the door, which she neither heard nor saw being opened or -shut. But it was shut. Oh yes, it was shut. Her slow unseeing glance -wandered all over the room. For some time longer she remained leaning -forward, collecting her strength, doubting if she would be able to stand. -She stood up at last. Everything about her spun round in an oppressive -silence. She remembered perfectly--as she told Mrs. Fyne--that clinging -to the arm of the chair she called out twice "Papa! Papa!" At the -thought that he was far away in London everything about her became quite -still. Then, frightened suddenly by the solitude of that empty room, she -rushed out of it blindly. - -* * * * * - -With that fatal diffidence in well doing, inherent in the present -condition of humanity, the Fynes continued to watch at their window. -"It's always so difficult to know what to do for the best," Fyne assured -me. It is. Good intentions stand in their own way so much. Whereas if -you want to do harm to anyone you needn't hesitate. You have only to go -on. No one will reproach you with your mistakes or call you a -confounded, clumsy meddler. The Fynes watched the door, the closed -street door inimical somehow to their benevolent thoughts, the face of -the house cruelly impenetrable. It was just as on any other day. The -unchanged daily aspect of inanimate things is so impressive that Fyne -went back into the room for a moment, picked up the paper again, and ran -his eyes over the item of news. No doubt of it. It looked very bad. He -came back to the window and Mrs. Fyne. Tired out as she was she sat -there resolute and ready for responsibility. But she had no suggestion -to offer. People do fear a rebuff wonderfully, and all her audacity was -in her thoughts. She shrank from the incomparably insolent manner of the -governess. Fyne stood by her side, as in those old-fashioned photographs -of married couples where you see a husband with his hand on the back of -his wife's chair. And they were about as efficient as an old photograph, -and as still, till Mrs. Fyne started slightly. The street door had swung -open, and, bursting out, appeared the young man, his hat (Mrs. Fyne -observed) tilted forward over his eyes. After him the governess slipped -through, turning round at once to shut the door behind her with care. -Meantime the man went down the white steps and strode along the pavement, -his hands rammed deep into the pockets of his fawn overcoat. The woman, -that woman of composed movements, of deliberate superior manner, took a -little run to catch up with him, and directly she had caught up with him -tried to introduce her hand under his arm. Mrs. Fyne saw the brusque -half turn of the fellow's body as one avoids an importunate contact, -defeating her attempt rudely. She did not try again but kept pace with -his stride, and Mrs. Fyne watched them, walking independently, turn the -corner of the street side by side, disappear for ever. - -The Fynes looked at each other eloquently, doubtfully: What do you think -of this? Then with common accord turned their eyes back to the street -door, closed, massive, dark; the great, clear-brass knocker shining in a -quiet slant of sunshine cut by a diagonal line of heavy shade filling the -further end of the street. Could the girl be already gone? Sent away to -her father? Had she any relations? Nobody but de Barral himself ever -came to see her, Mrs. Fyne remembered; and she had the instantaneous, -profound, maternal perception of the child's loneliness--and a girl too! -It was irresistible. And, besides, the departure of the governess was -not without its encouraging influence. "I am going over at once to find -out," she declared resolutely but still staring across the street. Her -intention was arrested by the sight of that awful, sombrely glistening -door, swinging back suddenly on the yawning darkness of the hall, out of -which literally flew out, right out on the pavement, almost without -touching the white steps, a little figure swathed in a holland pinafore -up to the chin, its hair streaming back from its head, darting past a -lamp-post, past the red pillar-box . . . "Here," cried Mrs. Fyne; "she's -coming here! Run, John! Run!" - -Fyne bounded out of the room. This is his own word. Bounded! He -assured me with intensified solemnity that he bounded; and the sight of -the short and muscular Fyne bounding gravely about the circumscribed -passages and staircases of a small, very high class, private hotel, would -have been worth any amount of money to a man greedy of memorable -impressions. But as I looked at him, the desire of laughter at my very -lips, I asked myself: how many men could be found ready to compromise -their cherished gravity for the sake of the unimportant child of a ruined -financier with an ugly, black cloud already wreathing his head. I didn't -laugh at little Fyne. I encouraged him: "You did!--very good . . . -Well?" - -His main thought was to save the child from some unpleasant interference. -There was a porter downstairs, page boys; some people going away with -their trunks in the passage; a railway omnibus at the door, -white-breasted waiters dodging about the entrance. - -He was in time. He was at the door before she reached it in her blind -course. She did not recognize him; perhaps she did not see him. He -caught her by the arm as she ran past and, very sensibly, without trying -to check her, simply darted in with her and up the stairs, causing no end -of consternation amongst the people in his way. They scattered. What -might have been their thoughts at the spectacle of a shameless middle- -aged man abducting headlong into the upper regions of a respectable hotel -a terrified young girl obviously under age, I don't know. And Fyne (he -told me so) did not care for what people might think. All he wanted was -to reach his wife before the girl collapsed. For a time she ran with him -but at the last flight of stairs he had to seize and half drag, half -carry her to his wife. Mrs. Fyne waited at the door with her quite -unmoved physiognomy and her readiness to confront any sort of -responsibility, which already characterized her, long before she became a -ruthless theorist. Relieved, his mission accomplished, Fyne closed -hastily the door of the sitting-room. - -But before long both Fynes became frightened. After a period of -immobility in the arms of Mrs. Fyne, the girl, who had not said a word, -tore herself out from that slightly rigid embrace. She struggled dumbly -between them, they did not know why, soundless and ghastly, till she sank -exhausted on a couch. Luckily the children were out with the two nurses. -The hotel housemaid helped Mrs. Fyne to put Flora de Barral to bed. She -was as if gone speechless and insane. She lay on her back, her face -white like a piece of paper, her dark eyes staring at the ceiling, her -awful immobility broken by sudden shivering fits with a loud chattering -of teeth in the shadowy silence of the room, the blinds pulled down, Mrs. -Fyne sitting by patiently, her arms folded, yet inwardly moved by the -riddle of that distress of which she could not guess the word, and saying -to herself: "That child is too emotional--much too emotional to be ever -really sound!" As if anyone not made of stone could be perfectly sound -in this world. And then how sound? In what sense--to resist what? Force -or corruption? And even in the best armour of steel there are joints a -treacherous stroke can always find if chance gives the opportunity. - -General considerations never had the power to trouble Mrs. Fyne much. The -girl not being in a state to be questioned she waited by the bedside. -Fyne had crossed over to the house, his scruples overcome by his anxiety -to discover what really had happened. He did not have to lift the -knocker; the door stood open on the inside gloom of the hall; he walked -into it and saw no one about, the servants having assembled for a fatuous -consultation in the basement. Fyne's uplifted bass voice startled them -down there, the butler coming up, staring and in his shirt sleeves, very -suspicious at first, and then, on Fyne's explanation that he was the -husband of a lady who had called several times at the house--Miss de -Barral's mother's friend--becoming humanely concerned and communicative, -in a man to man tone, but preserving his trained high-class servant's -voice: "Oh bless you, sir, no! She does not mean to come back. She told -me so herself"--he assured Fyne with a faint shade of contempt creeping -into his tone. - -As regards their young lady nobody downstairs had any idea that she had -run out of the house. He dared say they all would have been willing to -do their very best for her, for the time being; but since she was now -with her mother's friends . . . - -He fidgeted. He murmured that all this was very unexpected. He wanted -to know what he had better do with letters or telegrams which might -arrive in the course of the day. - -"Letters addressed to Miss de Barral, you had better bring over to my -hotel over there," said Fyne beginning to feel extremely worried about -the future. The man said "Yes, sir," adding, "and if a letter comes -addressed to Mrs. . . . " - -Fyne stopped him by a gesture. "I don't know . . . Anything you like." - -"Very well, sir." - -The butler did not shut the street door after Fyne, but remained on the -doorstep for a while, looking up and down the street in the spirit of -independent expectation like a man who is again his own master. Mrs. -Fyne hearing her husband return came out of the room where the girl was -lying in bed. "No change," she whispered; and Fyne could only make a -hopeless sign of ignorance as to what all this meant and how it would -end. - -He feared future complications--naturally; a man of limited means, in a -public position, his time not his own. Yes. He owned to me in the -parlour of my farmhouse that he had been very much concerned then at the -possible consequences. But as he was making this artless confession I -said to myself that, whatever consequences and complications he might -have imagined, the complication from which he was suffering now could -never, never have presented itself to his mind. Slow but sure (for I -conceive that the Book of Destiny has been written up from the beginning -to the last page) it had been coming for something like six years--and -now it had come. The complication was there! I looked at his unshaken -solemnity with the amused pity we give the victim of a funny if somewhat -ill-natured practical joke. - -"Oh hang it," he exclaimed--in no logical connection with what he had -been relating to me. Nevertheless the exclamation was intelligible -enough. - -However at first there were, he admitted, no untoward complications, no -embarrassing consequences. To a telegram in guarded terms dispatched to -de Barral no answer was received for more than twenty-four hours. This -certainly caused the Fynes some anxiety. When the answer arrived late on -the evening of next day it was in the shape of an elderly man. An -unexpected sort of man. Fyne explained to me with precision that he -evidently belonged to what is most respectable in the lower middle -classes. He was calm and slow in his speech. He was wearing a frock- -coat, had grey whiskers meeting under his chin, and declared on entering -that Mr. de Barral was his cousin. He hastened to add that he had not -seen his cousin for many years, while he looked upon Fyne (who received -him alone) with so much distrust that Fyne felt hurt (the person actually -refusing at first the chair offered to him) and retorted tartly that he, -for his part, had _never_ seen Mr. de Barral, in his life, and that, -since the visitor did not want to sit down, he, Fyne, begged him to state -his business as shortly as possible. The man in black sat down then with -a faint superior smile. - -He had come for the girl. His cousin had asked him in a note delivered -by a messenger to go to Brighton at once and take "his girl" over from a -gentleman named Fyne and give her house-room for a time in his family. -And there he was. His business had not allowed him to come sooner. His -business was the manufacture on a large scale of cardboard boxes. He had -two grown-up girls of his own. He had consulted his wife and so that was -all right. The girl would get a welcome in his home. His home most -likely was not what she had been used to but, etc. etc. - -All the time Fyne felt subtly in that man's manner a derisive disapproval -of everything that was not lower middle class, a profound respect for -money, a mean sort of contempt for speculators that fail, and a conceited -satisfaction with his own respectable vulgarity. - -With Mrs. Fyne the manner of the obscure cousin of de Barral was but -little less offensive. He looked at her rather slyly but her cold, -decided demeanour impressed him. Mrs. Fyne on her side was simply -appalled by the personage, but did not show it outwardly. Not even when -the man remarked with false simplicity that Florrie--her name was Florrie -wasn't it? would probably miss at first all her grand friends. And when -he was informed that the girl was in bed, not feeling well at all he -showed an unsympathetic alarm. She wasn't an invalid was she? No. What -was the matter with her then? - -An extreme distaste for that respectable member of society was depicted -in Fyne's face even as he was telling me of him after all these years. He -was a specimen of precisely the class of which people like the Fynes have -the least experience; and I imagine he jarred on them painfully. He -possessed all the civic virtues in their very meanest form, and the -finishing touch was given by a low sort of consciousness he manifested of -possessing them. His industry was exemplary. He wished to catch the -earliest possible train next morning. It seems that for seven and twenty -years he had never missed being seated on his office-stool at the factory -punctually at ten o'clock every day. He listened to Mrs. Fyne's -objections with undisguised impatience. Why couldn't Florrie get up and -have her breakfast at eight like other people? In his house the -breakfast was at eight sharp. Mrs. Fyne's polite stoicism overcame him -at last. He had come down at a very great personal inconvenience, he -assured her with displeasure, but he gave up the early train. - -The good Fynes didn't dare to look at each other before this unforeseen -but perfectly authorized guardian, the same thought springing up in their -minds: Poor girl! Poor girl! If the women of the family were like this -too! . . . And of course they would be. Poor girl! But what could they -have done even if they had been prepared to raise objections. The person -in the frock-coat had the father's note; he had shown it to Fyne. Just a -request to take care of the girl--as her nearest relative--without any -explanation or a single allusion to the financial catastrophe, its tone -strangely detached and in its very silence on the point giving occasion -to think that the writer was not uneasy as to the child's future. -Probably it was that very idea which had set the cousin so readily in -motion. Men had come before out of commercial crashes with estates in -the country and a comfortable income, if not for themselves then for -their wives. And if a wife could be made comfortable by a little -dexterous management then why not a daughter? Yes. This possibility -might have been discussed in the person's household and judged worth -acting upon. - -The man actually hinted broadly that such was his belief and in face of -Fyne's guarded replies gave him to understand that he was not the dupe of -such reticences. Obviously he looked upon the Fynes as being -disappointed because the girl was taken away from them. They, by a -diplomatic sacrifice in the interests of poor Flora, had asked the man to -dinner. He accepted ungraciously, remarking that he was not used to late -hours. He had generally a bit of supper about half-past eight or nine. -However . . . - -He gazed contemptuously round the prettily decorated dining-room. He -wrinkled his nose in a puzzled way at the dishes offered to him by the -waiter but refused none, devouring the food with a great appetite and -drinking ("swilling" Fyne called it) gallons of ginger beer, which was -procured for him (in stone bottles) at his request. The difficulty of -keeping up a conversation with that being exhausted Mrs. Fyne herself, -who had come to the table armed with adamantine resolution. The only -memorable thing he said was when, in a pause of gorging himself "with -these French dishes" he deliberately let his eyes roam over the little -tables occupied by parties of diners, and remarked that his wife did for -a moment think of coming down with him, but that he was glad she didn't -do so. "She wouldn't have been at all happy seeing all this alcohol -about. Not at all happy," he declared weightily. - -"You must have had a charming evening," I said to Fyne, "if I may judge -from the way you have kept the memory green." - -"Delightful," he growled with, positively, a flash of anger at the -recollection, but lapsed back into his solemnity at once. After we had -been silent for a while I asked whether the man took away the girl next -day. - -Fyne said that he did; in the afternoon, in a fly, with a few clothes the -maid had got together and brought across from the big house. He only saw -Flora again ten minutes before they left for the railway station, in the -Fynes' sitting-room at the hotel. It was a most painful ten minutes for -the Fynes. The respectable citizen addressed Miss de Barral as "Florrie" -and "my dear," remarking to her that she was not very big "there's not -much of you my dear" in a familiarly disparaging tone. Then turning to -Mrs. Fyne, and quite loud "She's very white in the face. Why's that?" To -this Mrs. Fyne made no reply. She had put the girl's hair up that -morning with her own hands. It changed her very much, observed Fyne. He, -naturally, played a subordinate, merely approving part. All he could do -for Miss de Barral personally was to go downstairs and put her into the -fly himself, while Miss de Barral's nearest relation, having been -shouldered out of the way, stood by, with an umbrella and a little black -bag, watching this proceeding with grim amusement, as it seemed. It was -difficult to guess what the girl thought or what she felt. She no longer -looked a child. She whispered to Fyne a faint "Thank you," from the fly, -and he said to her in very distinct tones and while still holding her -hand: "Pray don't forget to write fully to my wife in a day or two, Miss -de Barral." Then Fyne stepped back and the cousin climbed into the fly -muttering quite audibly: "I don't think you'll be troubled much with her -in the future;" without however looking at Fyne on whom he did not even -bestow a nod. The fly drove away. - - - -CHAPTER FIVE--THE TEA-PARTY - - -"Amiable personality," I observed seeing Fyne on the point of falling -into a brown study. But I could not help adding with meaning: "He hadn't -the gift of prophecy though." - -Fyne got up suddenly with a muttered "No, evidently not." He was gloomy, -hesitating. I supposed that he would not wish to play chess that -afternoon. This would dispense me from leaving my rooms on a day much -too fine to be wasted in walking exercise. And I was disappointed when -picking up his cap he intimated to me his hope of seeing me at the -cottage about four o'clock--as usual. - -"It wouldn't be as usual." I put a particular stress on that remark. He -admitted, after a short reflection, that it would not be. No. Not as -usual. In fact it was his wife who hoped, rather, for my presence. She -had formed a very favourable opinion of my practical sagacity. - -This was the first I ever heard of it. I had never suspected that Mrs. -Fyne had taken the trouble to distinguish in me the signs of sagacity or -folly. The few words we had exchanged last night in the excitement--or -the bother--of the girl's disappearance, were the first moderately -significant words which had ever passed between us. I had felt myself -always to be in Mrs. Fyne's view her husband's chess-player and nothing -else--a convenience--almost an implement. - -"I am highly flattered," I said. "I have always heard that there are no -limits to feminine intuition; and now I am half inclined to believe it is -so. But still I fail to see in what way my sagacity, practical or -otherwise, can be of any service to Mrs. Fyne. One man's sagacity is -very much like any other man's sagacity. And with you at hand--" - -Fyne, manifestly not attending to what I was saying, directed straight at -me his worried solemn eyes and struck in: - -"Yes, yes. Very likely. But you will come--won't you?" - -I had made up my mind that no Fyne of either sex would make me walk three -miles (there and back to their cottage) on this fine day. If the Fynes -had been an average sociable couple one knows only because leisure must -be got through somehow, I would have made short work of that special -invitation. But they were not that. Their undeniable humanity had to be -acknowledged. At the same time I wanted to have my own way. So I -proposed that I should be allowed the pleasure of offering them a cup of -tea at my rooms. - -A short reflective pause--and Fyne accepted eagerly in his own and his -wife's name. A moment after I heard the click of the gate-latch and then -in an ecstasy of barking from his demonstrative dog his serious head went -past my window on the other side of the hedge, its troubled gaze fixed -forward, and the mind inside obviously employed in earnest speculation of -an intricate nature. One at least of his wife's girl-friends had become -more than a mere shadow for him. I surmised however that it was not of -the girl-friend but of his wife that Fyne was thinking. He was an -excellent husband. - -I prepared myself for the afternoon's hospitalities, calling in the -farmer's wife and reviewing with her the resources of the house and the -village. She was a helpful woman. But the resources of my sagacity I -did not review. Except in the gross material sense of the afternoon tea -I made no preparations for Mrs. Fyne. - -It was impossible for me to make any such preparations. I could not tell -what sort of sustenance she would look for from my sagacity. And as to -taking stock of the wares of my mind no one I imagine is anxious to do -that sort of thing if it can be avoided. A vaguely grandiose state of -mental self-confidence is much too agreeable to be disturbed recklessly -by such a delicate investigation. Perhaps if I had had a helpful woman -at my elbow, a dear, flattering acute, devoted woman . . . There are in -life moments when one positively regrets not being married. No! I don't -exaggerate. I have said--moments, not years or even days. Moments. The -farmer's wife obviously could not be asked to assist. She could not have -been expected to possess the necessary insight and I doubt whether she -would have known how to be flattering enough. She was being helpful in -her own way, with an extraordinary black bonnet on her head, a good mile -off by that time, trying to discover in the village shops a piece of -eatable cake. The pluck of women! The optimism of the dear creatures! - -And she managed to find something which looked eatable. That's all I -know as I had no opportunity to observe the more intimate effects of that -comestible. I myself never eat cake, and Mrs. Fyne, when she arrived -punctually, brought with her no appetite for cake. She had no appetite -for anything. But she had a thirst--the sign of deep, of tormenting -emotion. Yes it was emotion, not the brilliant sunshine--more brilliant -than warm as is the way of our discreet self-repressed, distinguished, -insular sun, which would not turn a real lady scarlet--not on any -account. Mrs. Fyne looked even cool. She wore a white skirt and coat; a -white hat with a large brim reposed on her smoothly arranged hair. The -coat was cut something like an army mess-jacket and the style suited her. -I dare say there are many youthful subalterns, and not the worst-looking -too, who resemble Mrs. Fyne in the type of face, in the sunburnt -complexion, down to that something alert in bearing. But not many would -have had that aspect breathing a readiness to assume any responsibility -under Heaven. This is the sort of courage which ripens late in life and -of course Mrs. Fyne was of mature years for all her unwrinkled face. - -She looked round the room, told me positively that I was very comfortable -there; to which I assented, humbly, acknowledging my undeserved good -fortune. - -"Why undeserved?" she wanted to know. - -"I engaged these rooms by letter without asking any questions. It might -have been an abominable hole," I explained to her. "I always do things -like that. I don't like to be bothered. This is no great proof of -sagacity--is it? Sagacious people I believe like to exercise that -faculty. I have heard that they can't even help showing it in the -veriest trifles. It must be very delightful. But I know nothing of it. -I think that I have no sagacity--no practical sagacity." - -Fyne made an inarticulate bass murmur of protest. I asked after the -children whom I had not seen yet since my return from town. They had -been very well. They were always well. Both Fyne and Mrs. Fyne spoke of -the rude health of their children as if it were a result of moral -excellence; in a peculiar tone which seemed to imply some contempt for -people whose children were liable to be unwell at times. One almost felt -inclined to apologize for the inquiry. And this annoyed me; -unreasonably, I admit, because the assumption of superior merit is not a -very exceptional weakness. Anxious to make myself disagreeable by way of -retaliation I observed in accents of interested civility that the dear -girls must have been wondering at the sudden disappearance of their -mother's young friend. Had they been putting any awkward questions about -Miss Smith. Wasn't it as Miss Smith that Miss de Barral had been -introduced to me? - -Mrs. Fyne, staring fixedly but also colouring deeper under her tan, told -me that the children had never liked Flora very much. She hadn't the -high spirits which endear grown-ups to healthy children, Mrs. Fyne -explained unflinchingly. Flora had been staying at the cottage several -times before. Mrs. Fyne assured me that she often found it very -difficult to have her in the house. - -"But what else could we do?" she exclaimed. - -That little cry of distress quite genuine in its inexpressiveness, -altered my feeling towards Mrs. Fyne. It would have been so easy to have -done nothing and to have thought no more about it. My liking for her -began while she was trying to tell me of the night she spent by the -girl's bedside, the night before her departure with her unprepossessing -relative. That Mrs. Fyne found means to comfort the child I doubt very -much. She had not the genius for the task of undoing that which the hate -of an infuriated woman had planned so well. - -You will tell me perhaps that children's impressions are not durable. -That's true enough. But here, child is only a manner of speaking. The -girl was within a few days of her sixteenth birthday; she was old enough -to be matured by the shock. The very effort she had to make in conveying -the impression to Mrs. Fyne, in remembering the details, in finding -adequate words--or any words at all--was in itself a terribly -enlightening, an ageing process. She had talked a long time, -uninterrupted by Mrs. Fyne, childlike enough in her wonder and pain, -pausing now and then to interject the pitiful query: "It was cruel of -her. Wasn't it cruel, Mrs. Fyne?" - -For Charley she found excuses. He at any rate had not said anything, -while he had looked very gloomy and miserable. He couldn't have taken -part against his aunt--could he? But after all he did, when she called -upon him, take "that cruel woman away." He had dragged her out by the -arm. She had seen that plainly. She remembered it. That was it! The -woman was mad. "Oh! Mrs. Fyne, don't tell me she wasn't mad. If you -had only seen her face . . . " - -But Mrs. Fyne was unflinching in her idea that as much truth as could be -told was due in the way of kindness to the girl, whose fate she feared -would be to live exposed to the hardest realities of unprivileged -existences. She explained to her that there were in the world -evil-minded, selfish people. Unscrupulous people . . . These two persons -had been after her father's money. The best thing she could do was to -forget all about them. - -"After papa's money? I don't understand," poor Flora de Barral had -murmured, and lay still as if trying to think it out in the silence and -shadows of the room where only a night-light was burning. Then she had a -long shivering fit while holding tight the hand of Mrs. Fyne whose -patient immobility by the bedside of that brutally murdered childhood did -infinite honour to her humanity. That vigil must have been the more -trying because I could see very well that at no time did she think the -victim particularly charming or sympathetic. It was a manifestation of -pure compassion, of compassion in itself, so to speak, not many women -would have been capable of displaying with that unflinching steadiness. -The shivering fit over, the girl's next words in an outburst of sobs -were, "Oh! Mrs. Fyne, am I really such a horrid thing as she has made me -out to be?" - -"No, no!" protested Mrs. Fyne. "It is your former governess who is -horrid and odious. She is a vile woman. I cannot tell you that she was -mad but I think she must have been beside herself with rage and full of -evil thoughts. You must try not to think of these abominations, my dear -child." - -They were not fit for anyone to think of much, Mrs. Fyne commented to me -in a curt positive tone. All that had been very trying. The girl was -like a creature struggling under a net. - -"But how can I forget? she called my father a cheat and a swindler! Do -tell me Mrs. Fyne that it isn't true. It can't be true. How can it be -true?" - -She sat up in bed with a sudden wild motion as if to jump out and flee -away from the sound of the words which had just passed her own lips. Mrs. -Fyne restrained her, soothed her, induced her at last to lay her head on -her pillow again, assuring her all the time that nothing this woman had -had the cruelty to say deserved to be taken to heart. The girl, -exhausted, cried quietly for a time. It may be she had noticed something -evasive in Mrs. Fyne's assurances. After a while, without stirring, she -whispered brokenly: - -"That awful woman told me that all the world would call papa these awful -names. Is it possible? Is it possible?" - -Mrs. Fyne kept silent. - -"Do say something to me, Mrs. Fyne," the daughter of de Barral insisted -in the same feeble whisper. - -Again Mrs. Fyne assured me that it had been very trying. Terribly -trying. "Yes, thanks, I will." She leaned back in the chair with folded -arms while I poured another cup of tea for her, and Fyne went out to -pacify the dog which, tied up under the porch, had become suddenly very -indignant at somebody having the audacity to walk along the lane. Mrs. -Fyne stirred her tea for a long time, drank a little, put the cup down -and said with that air of accepting all the consequences: - -"Silence would have been unfair. I don't think it would have been kind -either. I told her that she must be prepared for the world passing a -very severe judgment on her father . . . " - -* * * * * - -"Wasn't it admirable," cried Marlow interrupting his narrative. -"Admirable!" And as I looked dubiously at this unexpected enthusiasm he -started justifying it after his own manner. - -"I say admirable because it was so characteristic. It was perfect. -Nothing short of genius could have found better. And this was nature! As -they say of an artist's work: this was a perfect Fyne. -Compassion--judiciousness--something correctly measured. None of your -dishevelled sentiment. And right! You must confess that nothing could -have been more right. I had a mind to shout "Brava! Brava!" but I did -not do that. I took a piece of cake and went out to bribe the Fyne dog -into some sort of self-control. His sharp comical yapping was -unbearable, like stabs through one's brain, and Fyne's deeply modulated -remonstrances abashed the vivacious animal no more than the deep, patient -murmur of the sea abashes a nigger minstrel on a popular beach. Fyne was -beginning to swear at him in low, sepulchral tones when I appeared. The -dog became at once wildly demonstrative, half strangling himself in his -collar, his eyes and tongue hanging out in the excess of his -incomprehensible affection for me. This was before he caught sight of -the cake in my hand. A series of vertical springs high up in the air -followed, and then, when he got the cake, he instantly lost his interest -in everything else. - -Fyne was slightly vexed with me. As kind a master as any dog could wish -to have, he yet did not approve of cake being given to dogs. The Fyne -dog was supposed to lead a Spartan existence on a diet of repulsive -biscuits with an occasional dry, hygienic, bone thrown in. Fyne looked -down gloomily at the appeased animal, I too looked at that fool-dog; and -(you know how one's memory gets suddenly stimulated) I was reminded -visually, with an almost painful distinctness, of the ghostly white face -of the girl I saw last accompanied by that dog--deserted by that dog. I -almost heard her distressed voice as if on the verge of resentful tears -calling to the dog, the unsympathetic dog. Perhaps she had not the power -of evoking sympathy, that personal gift of direct appeal to the feelings. -I said to Fyne, mistrusting the supine attitude of the dog: - -"Why don't you let him come inside?" - -Oh dear no! He couldn't think of it! I might indeed have saved my -breath, I knew it was one of the Fynes' rules of life, part of their -solemnity and responsibility, one of those things that were part of their -unassertive but ever present superiority, that their dog must not be -allowed in. It was most improper to intrude the dog into the houses of -the people they were calling on--if it were only a careless bachelor in -farmhouse lodgings and a personal friend of the dog. It was out of the -question. But they would let him bark one's sanity away outside one's -window. They were strangely consistent in their lack of imaginative -sympathy. I didn't insist but simply led the way back to the parlour, -hoping that no wayfarer would happen along the lane for the next hour or -so to disturb the dog's composure. - -Mrs. Fyne seated immovable before the table charged with plates, cups, -jugs, a cold teapot, crumbs, and the general litter of the entertainment -turned her head towards us. - -"You see, Mr. Marlow," she said in an unexpectedly confidential tone: -"they are so utterly unsuited for each other." - -At the moment I did not know how to apply this remark. I thought at -first of Fyne and the dog. Then I adjusted it to the matter in hand -which was neither more nor less than an elopement. Yes, by Jove! It was -something very much like an elopement--with certain unusual -characteristics of its own which made it in a sense equivocal. With -amused wonder I remembered that my sagacity was requisitioned in such a -connection. How unexpected! But we never know what tests our gifts may -be put to. Sagacity dictated caution first of all. I believe caution to -be the first duty of sagacity. Fyne sat down as if preparing himself to -witness a joust, I thought. - -"Do you think so, Mrs. Fyne?" I said sagaciously. "Of course you are in -a position . . . " I was continuing with caution when she struck out -vivaciously for immediate assent. - -"Obviously! Clearly! You yourself must admit . . . " - -"But, Mrs. Fyne," I remonstrated, "you forget that I don't know your -brother." - -This argument which was not only sagacious but true, overwhelmingly true, -unanswerably true, seemed to surprise her. - -I wondered why. I did not know enough of her brother for the remotest -guess at what he might be like. I had never set eyes on the man. I -didn't know him so completely that by contrast I seemed to have known -Miss de Barral--whom I had seen twice (altogether about sixty minutes) -and with whom I had exchanged about sixty words--from the cradle so to -speak. And perhaps, I thought, looking down at Mrs. Fyne (I had remained -standing) perhaps she thinks that this ought to be enough for a sagacious -assent. - -She kept silent; and I looking at her with polite expectation, went on -addressing her mentally in a mood of familiar approval which would have -astonished her had it been audible: You my dear at any rate are a sincere -woman . . . " - -"I call a woman sincere," Marlow began again after giving me a cigar and -lighting one himself, "I call a woman sincere when she volunteers a -statement resembling remotely in form what she really would like to say, -what she really thinks ought to be said if it were not for the necessity -to spare the stupid sensitiveness of men. The women's rougher, simpler, -more upright judgment, embraces the whole truth, which their tact, their -mistrust of masculine idealism, ever prevents them from speaking in its -entirety. And their tact is unerring. We could not stand women speaking -the truth. We could not bear it. It would cause infinite misery and -bring about most awful disturbances in this rather mediocre, but still -idealistic fool's paradise in which each of us lives his own little -life--the unit in the great sum of existence. And they know it. They -are merciful. This generalization does not apply exactly to Mrs. Fyne's -outburst of sincerity in a matter in which neither my affections nor my -vanity were engaged. That's why, may be, she ventured so far. For a -woman she chose to be as open as the day with me. There was not only the -form but almost the whole substance of her thought in what she said. She -believed she could risk it. She had reasoned somewhat in this way; -there's a man, possessing a certain amount of sagacity . . . " - -Marlow paused with a whimsical look at me. The last few words he had -spoken with the cigar in his teeth. He took it out now by an ample -movement of his arm and blew a thin cloud. - -"You smile? It would have been more kind to spare my blushes. But as a -matter of fact I need not blush. This is not vanity; it is analysis. -We'll let sagacity stand. But we must also note what sagacity in this -connection stands for. When you see this you shall see also that there -was nothing in it to alarm my modesty. I don't think Mrs. Fyne credited -me with the possession of wisdom tempered by common sense. And had I had -the wisdom of the Seven Sages of Antiquity, she would not have been moved -to confidence or admiration. The secret scorn of women for the capacity -to consider judiciously and to express profoundly a meditated conclusion -is unbounded. They have no use for these lofty exercises which they look -upon as a sort of purely masculine game--game meaning a respectable -occupation devised to kill time in this man-arranged life which must be -got through somehow. What women's acuteness really respects are the -inept "ideas" and the sheeplike impulses by which our actions and -opinions are determined in matters of real importance. For if women are -not rational they are indeed acute. Even Mrs. Fyne was acute. The good -woman was making up to her husband's chess-player simply because she had -scented in him that small portion of 'femininity,' that drop of superior -essence of which I am myself aware; which, I gratefully acknowledge, has -saved me from one or two misadventures in my life either ridiculous or -lamentable, I am not very certain which. It matters very little. Anyhow -misadventures. Observe that I say 'femininity,' a privilege--not -'feminism,' an attitude. I am not a feminist. It was Fyne who on -certain solemn grounds had adopted that mental attitude; but it was -enough to glance at him sitting on one side, to see that he was purely -masculine to his finger-tips, masculine solidly, densely, -amusingly,--hopelessly. - -I did glance at him. You don't get your sagacity recognized by a man's -wife without feeling the propriety and even the need to glance at the man -now and again. So I glanced at him. Very masculine. So much so that -"hopelessly" was not the last word of it. He was helpless. He was bound -and delivered by it. And if by the obscure promptings of my composite -temperament I beheld him with malicious amusement, yet being in fact, by -definition and especially from profound conviction, a man, I could not -help sympathizing with him largely. Seeing him thus disarmed, so -completely captive by the very nature of things I was moved to speak to -him kindly. - -"Well. And what do you think of it?" - -"I don't know. How's one to tell? But I say that the thing is done now -and there's an end of it," said the masculine creature as bluntly as his -innate solemnity permitted. - -Mrs. Fyne moved a little in her chair. I turned to her and remarked -gently that this was a charge, a criticism, which was often made. Some -people always ask: What could he see in her? Others wonder what she -could have seen in him? Expressions of unsuitability. - -She said with all the emphasis of her quietly folded arms: - -"I know perfectly well what Flora has seen in my brother." - -I bowed my head to the gust but pursued my point. - -"And then the marriage in most cases turns out no worse than the average, -to say the least of it." - -Mrs. Fyne was disappointed by the optimistic turn of my sagacity. She -rested her eyes on my face as though in doubt whether I had enough -femininity in my composition to understand the case. - -I waited for her to speak. She seemed to be asking herself; Is it after -all, worth while to talk to that man? You understand how provoking this -was. I looked in my mind for something appallingly stupid to say, with -the object of distressing and teasing Mrs. Fyne. It is humiliating to -confess a failure. One would think that a man of average intelligence -could command stupidity at will. But it isn't so. I suppose it's a -special gift or else the difficulty consists in being relevant. -Discovering that I could find no really telling stupidity, I turned to -the next best thing; a platitude. I advanced, in a common-sense tone, -that, surely, in the matter of marriage a man had only himself to please. - -Mrs. Fyne received this without the flutter of an eyelid. Fyne's -masculine breast, as might have been expected, was pierced by that old, -regulation shaft. He grunted most feelingly. I turned to him with false -simplicity. "Don't you agree with me?" - -"The very thing I've been telling my wife," he exclaimed in his extra- -manly bass. "We have been discussing--" - -A discussion in the Fyne menage! How portentous! Perhaps the very first -difference they had ever had: Mrs. Fyne unflinching and ready for any -responsibility, Fyne solemn and shrinking--the children in bed upstairs; -and outside the dark fields, the shadowy contours of the land on the -starry background of the universe, with the crude light of the open -window like a beacon for the truant who would never come back now; a -truant no longer but a downright fugitive. Yet a fugitive carrying off -spoils. It was the flight of a raider--or a traitor? This affair of the -purloined brother, as I had named it to myself, had a very puzzling -physiognomy. The girl must have been desperate, I thought, hearing the -grave voice of Fyne well enough but catching the sense of his words not -at all, except the very last words which were: - -"Of course, it's extremely distressing." - -I looked at him inquisitively. What was distressing him? The purloining -of the son of the poet-tyrant by the daughter of the financier-convict. -Or only, if I may say so, the wind of their flight disturbing the solemn -placidity of the Fynes' domestic atmosphere. My incertitude did not last -long, for he added: - -"Mrs. Fyne urges me to go to London at once." - -One could guess at, almost see, his profound distaste for the journey, -his distress at a difference of feeling with his wife. With his serious -view of the sublunary comedy Fyne suffered from not being able to agree -solemnly with her sentiment as he was accustomed to do, in recognition of -having had his way in one supreme instance; when he made her elope with -him--the most momentous step imaginable in a young lady's life. He had -been really trying to acknowledge it by taking the rightness of her -feeling for granted on every other occasion. It had become a sort of -habit at last. And it is never pleasant to break a habit. The man was -deeply troubled. I said: "Really! To go to London!" - -He looked dumbly into my eyes. It was pathetic and funny. "And you of -course feel it would be useless," I pursued. - -He evidently felt that, though he said nothing. He only went on blinking -at me with a solemn and comical slowness. "Unless it be to carry there -the family's blessing," I went on, indulging my chaffing humour steadily, -in a rather sneaking fashion, for I dared not look at Mrs. Fyne, to my -right. No sound or movement came from that direction. "You think very -naturally that to match mere good, sound reasons, against the passionate -conclusions of love is a waste of intellect bordering on the absurd." - -He looked surprised as if I had discovered something very clever. He, -dear man, had thought of nothing at all. - -He simply knew that he did not want to go to London on that mission. Mere -masculine delicacy. In a moment he became enthusiastic. - -"Yes! Yes! Exactly. A man in love . . . You hear, my dear? Here you -have an independent opinion--" - -"Can anything be more hopeless," I insisted to the fascinated little -Fyne, "than to pit reason against love. I must confess however that in -this case when I think of that poor girl's sharp chin I wonder if . . . " - -My levity was too much for Mrs. Fyne. Still leaning back in her chair -she exclaimed: - -"Mr. Marlow!" - -* * * * * - -As if mysteriously affected by her indignation the absurd Fyne dog began -to bark in the porch. It might have been at a trespassing bumble-bee -however. That animal was capable of any eccentricity. Fyne got up -quickly and went out to him. I think he was glad to leave us alone to -discuss that matter of his journey to London. A sort of anti-sentimental -journey. He, too, apparently, had confidence in my sagacity. It was -touching, this confidence. It was at any rate more genuine than the -confidence his wife pretended to have in her husband's chess-player, of -three successive holidays. Confidence be hanged! Sagacity--indeed! She -had simply marched in without a shadow of misgiving to make me back her -up. But she had delivered herself into my hands . . . " - -Interrupting his narrative Marlow addressed me in his tone between grim -jest and grim earnest: - -"Perhaps you didn't know that my character is upon the whole rather -vindictive." - -"No, I didn't know," I said with a grin. "That's rather unusual for a -sailor. They always seemed to me the least vindictive body of men in the -world." - -"H'm! Simple souls," Marlow muttered moodily. "Want of opportunity. The -world leaves them alone for the most part. For myself it's towards women -that I feel vindictive mostly, in my small way. I admit that it is -small. But then the occasions in themselves are not great. Mainly I -resent that pretence of winding us round their dear little fingers, as of -right. Not that the result ever amounts to much generally. There are so -very few momentous opportunities. It is the assumption that each of us -is a combination of a kid and an imbecile which I find provoking--in a -small way; in a very small way. You needn't stare as though I were -breathing fire and smoke out of my nostrils. I am not a women-devouring -monster. I am not even what is technically called "a brute." I hope -there's enough of a kid and an imbecile in me to answer the requirements -of some really good woman eventually--some day . . . Some day. Why do -you gasp? You don't suppose I should be afraid of getting married? That -supposition would be offensive . . . " - -"I wouldn't dream of offending you," I said. - -"Very well. But meantime please remember that I was not married to Mrs. -Fyne. That lady's little finger was none of my legal property. I had -not run off with it. It was Fyne who had done that thing. Let him be -wound round as much as his backbone could stand--or even more, for all I -cared. His rushing away from the discussion on the transparent pretence -of quieting the dog confirmed my notion of there being a considerable -strain on his elasticity. I confronted Mrs. Fyne resolved not to assist -her in her eminently feminine occupation of thrusting a stick in the -spokes of another woman's wheel. - -She tried to preserve her calm-eyed superiority. She was familiar and -olympian, fenced in by the tea-table, that excellent symbol of domestic -life in its lighter hour and its perfect security. In a few severely -unadorned words she gave me to understand that she had ventured to hope -for some really helpful suggestion from me. To this almost chiding -declaration--because my vindictiveness seldom goes further than a bit of -teasing--I said that I was really doing my best. And being a -physiognomist . . . " - -"Being what?" she interrupted me. - -"A physiognomist," I repeated raising my voice a little. "A -physiognomist, Mrs. Fyne. And on the principles of that science a -pointed little chin is a sufficient ground for interference. You want to -interfere--do you not?" - -Her eyes grew distinctly bigger. She had never been bantered before in -her life. The late subtle poet's method of making himself unpleasant was -merely savage and abusive. Fyne had been always solemnly subservient. -What other men she knew I cannot tell but I assume they must have been -gentlemanly creatures. The girl-friends sat at her feet. How could she -recognize my intention. She didn't know what to make of my tone. - -"Are you serious in what you say?" she asked slowly. And it was -touching. It was as if a very young, confiding girl had spoken. I felt -myself relenting. - -"No. I am not, Mrs. Fyne," I said. "I didn't know I was expected to be -serious as well as sagacious. No. That science is farcical and -therefore I am not serious. It's true that most sciences are farcical -except those which teach us how to put things together." - -"The question is how to keep these two people apart," she struck in. She -had recovered. I admired the quickness of women's wit. Mental agility -is a rare perfection. And aren't they agile! Aren't they--just! And -tenacious! When they once get hold you may uproot the tree but you won't -shake them off the branch. In fact the more you shake . . . But only -look at the charm of contradictory perfections! No wonder men give -in--generally. I won't say I was actually charmed by Mrs. Fyne. I was -not delighted with her. What affected me was not what she displayed but -something which she could not conceal. And that was emotion--nothing -less. The form of her declaration was dry, almost peremptory--but not -its tone. Her voice faltered just the least bit, she smiled faintly; and -as we were looking straight at each other I observed that her eyes were -glistening in a peculiar manner. She was distressed. And indeed that -Mrs. Fyne should have appealed to me at all was in itself the evidence of -her profound distress. "By Jove she's desperate too," I thought. This -discovery was followed by a movement of instinctive shrinking from this -unreasonable and unmasculine affair. They were all alike, with their -supreme interest aroused only by fighting with each other about some man: -a lover, a son, a brother. - -"But do you think there's time yet to do anything?" I asked. - -She had an impatient movement of her shoulders without detaching herself -from the back of the chair. Time! Of course? It was less than forty- -eight hours since she had followed him to London . . . I am no great -clerk at those matters but I murmured vaguely an allusion to special -licences. We couldn't tell what might have happened to-day already. But -she knew better, scornfully. Nothing had happened. - -"Nothing's likely to happen before next Friday week,--if then." - -This was wonderfully precise. Then after a pause she added that she -should never forgive herself if some effort were not made, an appeal. - -"To your brother?" I asked. - -"Yes. John ought to go to-morrow. Nine o'clock train." - -"So early as that!" I said. But I could not find it in my heart to -pursue this discussion in a jocular tone. I submitted to her several -obvious arguments, dictated apparently by common sense but in reality by -my secret compassion. Mrs. Fyne brushed them aside, with the -semi-conscious egoism of all safe, established, existences. They had -known each other so little. Just three weeks. And of that time, too -short for the birth of any serious sentiment, the first week had to be -deducted. They would hardly look at each other to begin with. Flora -barely consented to acknowledge Captain Anthony's presence. Good -morning--good night--that was all--absolutely the whole extent of their -intercourse. Captain Anthony was a silent man, completely unused to the -society of girls of any sort and so shy in fact that he avoided raising -his eyes to her face at the table. It was perfectly absurd. It was even -inconvenient, embarrassing to her--Mrs. Fyne. After breakfast Flora -would go off by herself for a long walk and Captain Anthony (Mrs. Fyne -referred to him at times also as Roderick) joined the children. But he -was actually too shy to get on terms with his own nieces. - -This would have sounded pathetic if I hadn't known the Fyne children who -were at the same time solemn and malicious, and nursed a secret contempt -for all the world. No one could get on terms with those fresh and comely -young monsters! They just tolerated their parents and seemed to have a -sort of mocking understanding among themselves against all outsiders, yet -with no visible affection for each other. They had the habit of -exchanging derisive glances which to a shy man must have been very -trying. They thought their uncle no doubt a bore and perhaps an ass. - -I was not surprised to hear that very soon Anthony formed the habit of -crossing the two neighbouring fields to seek the shade of a clump of elms -at a good distance from the cottage. He lay on the grass and smoked his -pipe all the morning. Mrs. Fyne wondered at her brother's indolent -habits. He had asked for books it is true but there were but few in the -cottage. He read them through in three days and then continued to lie -contentedly on his back with no other companion but his pipe. Amazing -indolence! The live-long morning, Mrs. Fyne, busy writing upstairs in -the cottage, could see him out of the window. She had a very long sight, -and these elms were grouped on a rise of the ground. His indolence was -plainly exposed to her criticism on a gentle green slope. Mrs. Fyne -wondered at it; she was disgusted too. But having just then 'commenced -author,' as you know, she could not tear herself away from the -fascinating novelty. She let him wallow in his vice. I imagine Captain -Anthony must have had a rather pleasant time in a quiet way. It was, I -remember, a hot dry summer, favourable to contemplative life out of -doors. And Mrs. Fyne was scandalized. Women don't understand the force -of a contemplative temperament. It simply shocks them. They feel -instinctively that it is the one which escapes best the domination of -feminine influences. The dear girls were exchanging jeering remarks -about "lazy uncle Roderick" openly, in her indulgent hearing. And it was -so strange, she told me, because as a boy he was anything but indolent. -On the contrary. Always active. - -I remarked that a man of thirty-five was no longer a boy. It was an -obvious remark but she received it without favour. She told me -positively that the best, the nicest men remained boys all their lives. -She was disappointed not to be able to detect anything boyish in her -brother. Very, very sorry. She had not seen him for fifteen years or -thereabouts, except on three or four occasions for a few hours at a time. -No. Not a trace of the boy, he used to be, left in him. - -She fell silent for a moment and I mused idly on the boyhood of little -Fyne. I could not imagine what it might have been like. His dominant -trait was clearly the remnant of still earlier days, because I've never -seen such staring solemnity as Fyne's except in a very young baby. But -where was he all that time? Didn't he suffer contamination from the -indolence of Captain Anthony, I inquired. I was told that Mr. Fyne was -very little at the cottage at the time. Some colleague of his was -convalescing after a severe illness in a little seaside village in the -neighbourhood and Fyne went off every morning by train to spend the day -with the elderly invalid who had no one to look after him. It was a very -praiseworthy excuse for neglecting his brother-in-law "the son of the -poet, you know," with whom he had nothing in common even in the remotest -degree. If Captain Anthony (Roderick) had been a pedestrian it would -have been sufficient; but he was not. Still, in the afternoon, he went -sometimes for a slow casual stroll, by himself of course, the children -having definitely cold-shouldered him, and his only sister being busy -with that inflammatory book which was to blaze upon the world a year or -more afterwards. It seems however that she was capable of detaching her -eyes from her task now and then, if only for a moment, because it was -from that garret fitted out for a study that one afternoon she observed -her brother and Flora de Barral coming down the road side by side. They -had met somewhere accidentally (which of them crossed the other's path, -as the saying is, I don't know), and were returning to tea together. She -noticed that they appeared to be conversing without constraint. - -"I had the simplicity to be pleased," Mrs. Fyne commented with a dry -little laugh. "Pleased for both their sakes." Captain Anthony shook off -his indolence from that day forth, and accompanied Miss Flora frequently -on her morning walks. Mrs. Fyne remained pleased. She could now forget -them comfortably and give herself up to the delights of audacious thought -and literary composition. Only a week before the blow fell she, -happening to raise her eyes from the paper, saw two figures seated on the -grass under the shade of the elms. She could make out the white blouse. -There could be no mistake. - -"I suppose they imagined themselves concealed by the hedge. They forgot -no doubt I was working in the garret," she said bitterly. "Or perhaps -they didn't care. They were right. I am rather a simple person . . . " -She laughed again . . . "I was incapable of suspecting such duplicity." - -"Duplicity is a strong word, Mrs. Fyne--isn't it?" I expostulated. "And -considering that Captain Anthony himself . . . " - -"Oh well--perhaps," she interrupted me. Her eyes which never strayed -away from mine, her set features, her whole immovable figure, how well I -knew those appearances of a person who has "made up her mind." A very -hopeless condition that, specially in women. I mistrusted her concession -so easily, so stonily made. She reflected a moment. "Yes. I ought to -have said--ingratitude, perhaps." - -After having thus disengaged her brother and pushed the poor girl a -little further off as it were--isn't women's cleverness perfectly -diabolic when they are really put on their mettle?--after having done -these things and also made me feel that I was no match for her, she went -on scrupulously: "One doesn't like to use that word either. The claim is -very small. It's so little one could do for her. Still . . . " - -"I dare say," I exclaimed, throwing diplomacy to the winds. "But really, -Mrs. Fyne, it's impossible to dismiss your brother like this out of the -business . . . " - -"She threw herself at his head," Mrs. Fyne uttered firmly. - -"He had no business to put his head in the way, then," I retorted with an -angry laugh. I didn't restrain myself because her fixed stare seemed to -express the purpose to daunt me. I was not afraid of her, but it -occurred to me that I was within an ace of drifting into a downright -quarrel with a lady and, besides, my guest. There was the cold teapot, -the emptied cups, emblems of hospitality. It could not be. I cut short -my angry laugh while Mrs. Fyne murmured with a slight movement of her -shoulders, "He! Poor man! Oh come . . . " - -By a great effort of will I found myself able to smile amiably, to speak -with proper softness. - -"My dear Mrs. Fyne, you forget that I don't know him--not even by sight. -It's difficult to imagine a victim as passive as all that; but granting -you the (I very nearly said: imbecility, but checked myself in time) -innocence of Captain Anthony, don't you think now, frankly, that there is -a little of your own fault in what has happened. You bring them -together, you leave your brother to himself!" - -She sat up and leaning her elbow on the table sustained her head in her -open palm casting down her eyes. Compunction? It was indeed a very off- -hand way of treating a brother come to stay for the first time in fifteen -years. I suppose she discovered very soon that she had nothing in common -with that sailor, that stranger, fashioned and marked by the sea of long -voyages. In her strong-minded way she had scorned pretences, had gone to -her writing which interested her immensely. A very praiseworthy thing -your sincere conduct,--if it didn't at times resemble brutality so much. -But I don't think it was compunction. That sentiment is rare in women -. . . " - -"Is it?" I interrupted indignantly. - -"You know more women than I do," retorted the unabashed Marlow. "You -make it your business to know them--don't you? You go about a lot -amongst all sorts of people. You are a tolerably honest observer. Well, -just try to remember how many instances of compunction you have seen. I -am ready to take your bare word for it. Compunction! Have you ever seen -as much as its shadow? Have you ever? Just a shadow--a passing shadow! -I tell you it is so rare that you may call it non-existent. They are too -passionate. Too pedantic. Too courageous with themselves--perhaps. No -I don't think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne felt the slightest compunction -at her treatment of her sea-going brother. What _he_ thought of it who -can tell? It is possible that he wondered why he had been so insistently -urged to come. It is possible that he wondered bitterly--or -contemptuously--or humbly. And it may be that he was only surprised and -bored. Had he been as sincere in his conduct as his only sister he would -have probably taken himself off at the end of the second day. But -perhaps he was afraid of appearing brutal. I am not far removed from the -conviction that between the sincerities of his sister and of his dear -nieces, Captain Anthony of the _Ferndale_ must have had his loneliness -brought home to his bosom for the first time of his life, at an age, -thirty-five or thereabouts, when one is mature enough to feel the pang of -such a discovery. Angry or simply sad but certainly disillusioned he -wanders about and meets the girl one afternoon and under the sway of a -strong feeling forgets his shyness. This is no supposition. It is a -fact. There was such a meeting in which the shyness must have perished -before we don't know what encouragement, or in the community of mood made -apparent by some casual word. You remember that Mrs. Fyne saw them one -afternoon coming back to the cottage together. Don't you think that I -have hit on the psychology of the situation? . . . " - -"Doubtless . . . " I began to ponder. - -"I was very certain of my conclusions at the time," Marlow went on -impatiently. "But don't think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne in her new -attitude and toying thoughtfully with a teaspoon was about to surrender. -She murmured: - -"It's the last thing I should have thought could happen." - -"You didn't suppose they were romantic enough," I suggested dryly. - -She let it pass and with great decision but as if speaking to herself, - -"Roderick really must be warned." - -She didn't give me the time to ask of what precisely. She raised her -head and addressed me. - -"I am surprised and grieved more than I can tell you at Mr. Fyne's -resistance. We have been always completely at one on every question. And -that we should differ now on a point touching my brother so closely is a -most painful surprise to me." Her hand rattled the teaspoon brusquely by -an involuntary movement. "It is intolerable," she added -tempestuously--for Mrs. Fyne that is. I suppose she had nerves of her -own like any other woman. - -Under the porch where Fyne had sought refuge with the dog there was -silence. I took it for a proof of deep sagacity. I don't mean on the -part of the dog. He was a confirmed fool. - -I said: - -"You want absolutely to interfere . . . ?" Mrs. Fyne nodded just -perceptibly . . . "Well--for my part . . . but I don't really know how -matters stand at the present time. You have had a letter from Miss de -Barral. What does that letter say?" - -"She asks for her valise to be sent to her town address," Mrs. Fyne -uttered reluctantly and stopped. I waited a bit--then exploded. - -"Well! What's the matter? Where's the difficulty? Does your husband -object to that? You don't mean to say that he wants you to appropriate -the girl's clothes?" - -"Mr. Marlow!" - -"Well, but you talk of a painful difference of opinion with your husband, -and then, when I ask for information on the point, you bring out a -valise. And only a few moments ago you reproached me for not being -serious. I wonder who is the serious person of us two now." - -She smiled faintly and in a friendly tone, from which I concluded at once -that she did not mean to show me the girl's letter, she said that -undoubtedly the letter disclosed an understanding between Captain Anthony -and Flora de Barral. - -"What understanding?" I pressed her. "An engagement is an -understanding." - -"There is no engagement--not yet," she said decisively. "That letter, -Mr. Marlow, is couched in very vague terms. That is why--" - -I interrupted her without ceremony. - -"You still hope to interfere to some purpose. Isn't it so? Yes? But -how should you have liked it if anybody had tried to interfere between -you and Mr. Fyne at the time when your understanding with each other -could still have been described in vague terms?" - -She had a genuine movement of astonished indignation. It is with the -accent of perfect sincerity that she cried out at me: - -"But it isn't at all the same thing! How can you!" - -Indeed how could I! The daughter of a poet and the daughter of a convict -are not comparable in the consequences of their conduct if their -necessity may wear at times a similar aspect. Amongst these consequences -I could perceive undesirable cousins for these dear healthy girls, and -such like, possible causes of embarrassment in the future. - -"No! You can't be serious," Mrs. Fyne's smouldering resentment broke out -again. "You haven't thought--" - -"Oh yes, Mrs. Fyne! I have thought. I am still thinking. I am even -trying to think like you." - -"Mr. Marlow," she said earnestly. "Believe me that I really am thinking -of my brother in all this . . . " I assured her that I quite believed -she was. For there is no law of nature making it impossible to think of -more than one person at a time. Then I said: - -"She has told him all about herself of course." - -"All about her life," assented Mrs. Fyne with an air, however, of making -some mental reservation which I did not pause to investigate. "Her -life!" I repeated. "That girl must have had a mighty bad time of it." - -"Horrible," Mrs. Fyne admitted with a ready frankness very creditable -under the circumstances, and a warmth of tone which made me look at her -with a friendly eye. "Horrible! No! You can't imagine the sort of -vulgar people she became dependent on . . . You know her father never -attempted to see her while he was still at large. After his arrest he -instructed that relative of his--the odious person who took her away from -Brighton--not to let his daughter come to the court during the trial. He -refused to hold any communication with her whatever." - -I remembered what Mrs. Fyne had told me before of the view she had years -ago of de Barral clinging to the child at the side of his wife's grave -and later on of these two walking hand in hand the observed of all eyes -by the sea. Pictures from Dickens--pregnant with pathos. - - - -CHAPTER SIX--FLORA - - -"A very singular prohibition," remarked Mrs. Fyne after a short silence. -"He seemed to love the child." - -She was puzzled. But I surmised that it might have been the sullenness -of a man unconscious of guilt and standing at bay to fight his -"persecutors," as he called them; or else the fear of a softer emotion -weakening his defiant attitude; perhaps, even, it was a self-denying -ordinance, in order to spare the girl the sight of her father in the -dock, accused of cheating, sentenced as a swindler--proving the -possession of a certain moral delicacy. - -Mrs. Fyne didn't know what to think. She supposed it might have been -mere callousness. But the people amongst whom the girl had fallen had -positively not a grain of moral delicacy. Of that she was certain. Mrs. -Fyne could not undertake to give me an idea of their abominable -vulgarity. Flora used to tell her something of her life in that -household, over there, down Limehouse way. It was incredible. It passed -Mrs. Fyne's comprehension. It was a sort of moral savagery which she -could not have thought possible. - -I, on the contrary, thought it very possible. I could imagine easily how -the poor girl must have been bewildered and hurt at her reception in that -household--envied for her past while delivered defenceless to the tender -mercies of people without any fineness either of feeling or mind, unable -to understand her misery, grossly curious, mistaking her manner for -disdain, her silent shrinking for pride. The wife of the "odious person" -was witless and fatuously conceited. Of the two girls of the house one -was pious and the other a romp; both were coarse-minded--if they may be -credited with any mind at all. The rather numerous men of the family -were dense and grumpy, or dense and jocose. None in that grubbing lot -had enough humanity to leave her alone. At first she was made much of, -in an offensively patronising manner. The connection with the great de -Barral gratified their vanity even in the moment of the smash. They -dragged her to their place of worship, whatever it might have been, where -the congregation stared at her, and they gave parties to other beings -like themselves at which they exhibited her with ignoble -self-satisfaction. She did not know how to defend herself from their -importunities, insolence and exigencies. She lived amongst them, a -passive victim, quivering in every nerve, as if she were flayed. After -the trial her position became still worse. On the least occasion and -even on no occasions at all she was scolded, or else taunted with her -dependence. The pious girl lectured her on her defects, the romping girl -teased her with contemptuous references to her accomplishments, and was -always trying to pick insensate quarrels with her about some "fellow" or -other. The mother backed up her girls invariably, adding her own silly, -wounding remarks. I must say they were probably not aware of the -ugliness of their conduct. They were nasty amongst themselves as a -matter of course; their disputes were nauseating in origin, in manner, in -the spirit of mean selfishness. These women, too, seemed to enjoy -greatly any sort of row and were always ready to combine together to make -awful scenes to the luckless girl on incredibly flimsy pretences. Thus -Flora on one occasion had been reduced to rage and despair, had her most -secret feelings lacerated, had obtained a view of the utmost baseness to -which common human nature can descend--I won't say _a propos de bottes_ -as the French would excellently put it, but literally _a propos_ of some -mislaid cheap lace trimmings for a nightgown the romping one was making -for herself. Yes, that was the origin of one of the grossest scenes -which, in their repetition, must have had a deplorable effect on the -unformed character of the most pitiful of de Barral's victims. I have it -from Mrs. Fyne. The girl turned up at the Fynes' house at half-past nine -on a cold, drizzly evening. She had walked bareheaded, I believe, just -as she ran out of the house, from somewhere in Poplar to the -neighbourhood of Sloane Square--without stopping, without drawing breath, -if only for a sob. - -"We were having some people to dinner," said the anxious sister of -Captain Anthony. - -She had heard the front door bell and wondered what it might mean. The -parlourmaid managed to whisper to her without attracting attention. The -servants had been frightened by the invasion of that wild girl in a muddy -skirt and with wisps of damp hair sticking to her pale cheeks. But they -had seen her before. This was not the first occasion, nor yet the last. - -Directly she could slip away from her guests Mrs. Fyne ran upstairs. - -"I found her in the night nursery crouching on the floor, her head -resting on the cot of the youngest of my girls. The eldest was sitting -up in bed looking at her across the room." - -Only a nightlight was burning there. Mrs. Fyne raised her up, took her -over to Mr. Fyne's little dressing-room on the other side of the landing, -to a fire by which she could dry herself, and left her there. She had to -go back to her guests. - -A most disagreeable surprise it must have been to the Fynes. Afterwards -they both went up and interviewed the girl. She jumped up at their -entrance. She had shaken her damp hair loose; her eyes were dry--with -the heat of rage. - -I can imagine little Fyne solemnly sympathetic, solemnly listening, -solemnly retreating to the marital bedroom. Mrs. Fyne pacified the girl, -and, fortunately, there was a bed which could be made up for her in the -dressing-room. - -"But--what could one do after all!" concluded Mrs. Fyne. - -And this stereotyped exclamation, expressing the difficulty of the -problem and the readiness (at any rate) of good intentions, made me, as -usual, feel more kindly towards her. - -Next morning, very early, long before Fyne had to start for his office, -the "odious personage" turned up, not exactly unexpected perhaps, but -startling all the same, if only by the promptness of his action. From -what Flora herself related to Mrs. Fyne, it seems that without being very -perceptibly less "odious" than his family he had in a rather mysterious -fashion interposed his authority for the protection of the girl. "Not -that he cares," explained Flora. "I am sure he does not. I could not -stand being liked by any of these people. If I thought he liked me I -would drown myself rather than go back with him." - -For of course he had come to take "Florrie" home. The scene was the -dining-room--breakfast interrupted, dishes growing cold, little Fyne's -toast growing leathery, Fyne out of his chair with his back to the fire, -the newspaper on the carpet, servants shut out, Mrs. Fyne rigid in her -place with the girl sitting beside her--the "odious person," who had -bustled in with hardly a greeting, looking from Fyne to Mrs. Fyne as -though he were inwardly amused at something he knew of them; and then -beginning ironically his discourse. He did not apologize for disturbing -Fyne and his "good lady" at breakfast, because he knew they did not want -(with a nod at the girl) to have more of her than could be helped. He -came the first possible moment because he had his business to attend to. -He wasn't drawing a tip-top salary (this staring at Fyne) in a -luxuriously furnished office. Not he. He had risen to be an employer of -labour and was bound to give a good example. - -I believe the fellow was aware of, and enjoyed quietly, the consternation -his presence brought to the bosom of Mr. and Mrs. Fyne. He turned -briskly to the girl. Mrs. Fyne confessed to me that they had remained -all three silent and inanimate. He turned to the girl: "What's this -game, Florrie? You had better give it up. If you expect me to run all -over London looking for you every time you happen to have a tiff with -your auntie and cousins you are mistaken. I can't afford it." - -Tiff--was the sort of definition to take one's breath away, having regard -to the fact that both the word convict and the word pauper had been used -a moment before Flora de Barral ran away from the quarrel about the lace -trimmings. Yes, these very words! So at least the girl had told Mrs. -Fyne the evening before. The word tiff in connection with her tale had a -peculiar savour, a paralysing effect. Nobody made a sound. The relative -of de Barral proceeded uninterrupted to a display of magnanimity. "Auntie -told me to tell you she's sorry--there! And Amelia (the romping sister) -shan't worry you again. I'll see to that. You ought to be satisfied. -Remember your position." - -Emboldened by the utter stillness pervading the room he addressed himself -to Mrs. Fyne with stolid effrontery: - -"What I say is that people should be good-natured. She can't stand being -chaffed. She puts on her grand airs. She won't take a bit of a joke -from people as good as herself anyway. We are a plain lot. We don't -like it. And that's how trouble begins." - -Insensible to the stony stare of three pairs of eyes, which, if the -stories of our childhood as to the power of the human eye are true, ought -to have been enough to daunt a tiger, that unabashed manufacturer from -the East End fastened his fangs, figuratively speaking, into the poor -girl and prepared to drag her away for a prey to his cubs of both sexes. -"Auntie has thought of sending you your hat and coat. I've got them -outside in the cab." - -Mrs. Fyne looked mechanically out of the window. A four-wheeler stood -before the gate under the weeping sky. The driver in his conical cape -and tarpaulin hat, streamed with water. The drooping horse looked as -though it had been fished out, half unconscious, from a pond. Mrs. Fyne -found some relief in looking at that miserable sight, away from the room -in which the voice of the amiable visitor resounded with a vulgar -intonation exhorting the strayed sheep to return to the delightful fold. -"Come, Florrie, make a move. I can't wait on you all day here." - -Mrs. Fyne heard all this without turning her head away from the window. -Fyne on the hearthrug had to listen and to look on too. I shall not try -to form a surmise as to the real nature of the suspense. Their very -goodness must have made it very anxious. The girl's hands were lying in -her lap; her head was lowered as if in deep thought; and the other went -on delivering a sort of homily. Ingratitude was condemned in it, the -sinfulness of pride was pointed out--together with the proverbial fact -that it "goes before a fall." There were also some sound remarks as to -the danger of nonsensical notions and the disadvantages of a quick -temper. It sets one's best friends against one. "And if anybody ever -wanted friends in the world it's you, my girl." Even respect for -parental authority was invoked. "In the first hour of his trouble your -father wrote to me to take care of you--don't forget it. Yes, to me, -just a plain man, rather than to any of his fine West-End friends. You -can't get over that. And a father's a father no matter what a mess he's -got himself into. You ain't going to throw over your own father--are -you?" - -It was difficult to say whether he was more absurd than cruel or more -cruel than absurd. Mrs. Fyne, with the fine ear of a woman, seemed to -detect a jeering intention in his meanly unctuous tone, something more -vile than mere cruelty. She glanced quickly over her shoulder and saw -the girl raise her two hands to her head, then let them fall again on her -lap. Fyne in front of the fire was like the victim of an unholy -spell--bereft of motion and speech but obviously in pain. It was a short -pause of perfect silence, and then that "odious creature" (he must have -been really a remarkable individual in his way) struck out into sarcasm. - -"Well? . . . " Again a silence. "If you have fixed it up with the lady -and gentleman present here for your board and lodging you had better say -so. I don't want to interfere in a bargain I know nothing of. But I -wonder how your father will take it when he comes out . . . or don't you -expect him ever to come out?" - -At that moment, Mrs. Fyne told me she met the girl's eyes. There was -that in them which made her shut her own. She also felt as though she -would have liked to put her fingers in her ears. She restrained herself, -however; and the "plain man" passed in his appalling versatility from -sarcasm to veiled menace. - -"You have--eh? Well and good. But before I go home let me ask you, my -girl, to think if by any chance you throwing us over like this won't be -rather bad for your father later on? Just think it over." - -He looked at his victim with an air of cunning mystery. She jumped up so -suddenly that he started back. Mrs. Fyne rose too, and even the spell -was removed from her husband. But the girl dropped again into the chair -and turned her head to look at Mrs. Fyne. This time it was no accidental -meeting of fugitive glances. It was a deliberate communication. To my -question as to its nature Mrs. Fyne said she did not know. "Was it -appealing?" I suggested. "No," she said. "Was it frightened, angry, -crushed, resigned?" "No! No! Nothing of these." But it had frightened -her. She remembered it to this day. She had been ever since fancying -she could detect the lingering reflection of that look in all the girl's -glances. In the attentive, in the casual--even in the grateful -glances--in the expression of the softest moods. - -"Has she her soft moods, then?" I asked with interest. - -Mrs Fyne, much moved by her recollections, heeded not my inquiry. All -her mental energy was concentrated on the nature of that memorable -glance. The general tradition of mankind teaches us that glances occupy -a considerable place in the self-expression of women. Mrs. Fyne was -trying honestly to give me some idea, as much perhaps to satisfy her own -uneasiness as my curiosity. She was frowning in the effort as you see -sometimes a child do (what is delightful in women is that they so often -resemble intelligent children--I mean the crustiest, the sourest, the -most battered of them do--at times). She was frowning, I say, and I was -beginning to smile faintly at her when all at once she came out with -something totally unexpected. - -"It was horribly merry," she said. - -I suppose she must have been satisfied by my sudden gravity because she -looked at me in a friendly manner. - -"Yes, Mrs. Fyne," I said, smiling no longer. "I see. It would have been -horrible even on the stage." - -"Ah!" she interrupted me--and I really believe her change of attitude -back to folded arms was meant to check a shudder. "But it wasn't on the -stage, and it was not with her lips that she laughed." - -"Yes. It must have been horrible," I assented. "And then she had to go -away ultimately--I suppose. You didn't say anything?" - -"No," said Mrs. Fyne. "I rang the bell and told one of the maids to go -and bring the hat and coat out of the cab. And then we waited." - -I don't think that there ever was such waiting unless possibly in a jail -at some moment or other on the morning of an execution. The servant -appeared with the hat and coat, and then, still as on the morning of an -execution, when the condemned, I believe, is offered a breakfast, Mrs. -Fyne, anxious that the white-faced girl should swallow something warm (if -she could) before leaving her house for an interminable drive through raw -cold air in a damp four-wheeler--Mrs. Fyne broke the awful silence: "You -really must try to eat something," in her best resolute manner. She -turned to the "odious person" with the same determination. "Perhaps you -will sit down and have a cup of coffee, too." - -The worthy "employer of labour" sat down. He might have been awed by -Mrs. Fyne's peremptory manner--for she did not think of conciliating him -then. He sat down, provisionally, like a man who finds himself much -against his will in doubtful company. He accepted ungraciously the cup -handed to him by Mrs. Fyne, took an unwilling sip or two and put it down -as if there were some moral contamination in the coffee of these -"swells." Between whiles he directed mysteriously inexpressive glances -at little Fyne, who, I gather, had no breakfast that morning at all. -Neither had the girl. She never moved her hands from her lap till her -appointed guardian got up, leaving his cup half full. - -"Well. If you don't mean to take advantage of this lady's kind offer I -may just as well take you home at once. I want to begin my day--I do." - -After a few more dumb, leaden-footed minutes while Flora was putting on -her hat and jacket, the Fynes without moving, without saying anything, -saw these two leave the room. - -"She never looked back at us," said Mrs. Fyne. "She just followed him -out. I've never had such a crushing impression of the miserable -dependence of girls--of women. This was an extreme case. But a young -man--any man--could have gone to break stones on the roads or something -of that kind--or enlisted--or--" - -It was very true. Women can't go forth on the high roads and by-ways to -pick up a living even when dignity, independence, or existence itself are -at stake. But what made me interrupt Mrs. Fyne's tirade was my profound -surprise at the fact of that respectable citizen being so willing to keep -in his home the poor girl for whom it seemed there was no place in the -world. And not only willing but anxious. I couldn't credit him with -generous impulses. For it seemed obvious to me from what I had learned -that, to put it mildly, he was not an impulsive person. - -"I confess that I can't understand his motive," I exclaimed. - -"This is exactly what John wondered at, at first," said Mrs. Fyne. By -that time an intimacy--if not exactly confidence--had sprung up between -us which permitted her in this discussion to refer to her husband as -John. "You know he had not opened his lips all that time," she pursued. -"I don't blame his restraint. On the contrary. What could he have said? -I could see he was observing the man very thoughtfully." - -"And so, Mr. Fyne listened, observed and meditated," I said. "That's an -excellent way of coming to a conclusion. And may I ask at what -conclusion he had managed to arrive? On what ground did he cease to -wonder at the inexplicable? For I can't admit humanity to be the -explanation. It would be too monstrous." - -It was nothing of the sort, Mrs. Fyne assured me with some resentment, as -though I had aspersed little Fyne's sanity. Fyne very sensibly had set -himself the mental task of discovering the self-interest. I should not -have thought him capable of so much cynicism. He said to himself that -for people of that sort (religious fears or the vanity of righteousness -put aside) money--not great wealth, but money, just a little money--is -the measure of virtue, of expediency, of wisdom--of pretty well -everything. But the girl was absolutely destitute. The father was in -prison after the most terribly complete and disgraceful smash of modern -times. And then it dawned upon Fyne that this was just it. The great -smash, in the great dust of vanishing millions! Was it possible that -they all had vanished to the last penny? Wasn't there, somewhere, -something palpable; some fragment of the fabric left? - -"That's it," had exclaimed Fyne, startling his wife by this explosive -unseating of his lips less than half an hour after the departure of de -Barral's cousin with de Barral's daughter. It was still in the dining- -room, very near the time for him to go forth affronting the elements in -order to put in another day's work in his country's service. All he -could say at the moment in elucidation of this breakdown from his usual -placid solemnity was: - -"The fellow imagines that de Barral has got some plunder put away -somewhere." - -This being the theory arrived at by Fyne, his comment on it was that a -good many bankrupts had been known to have taken such a precaution. It -was possible in de Barral's case. Fyne went so far in his display of -cynical pessimism as to say that it was extremely probable. - -He explained at length to Mrs. Fyne that de Barral certainly did not take -anyone into his confidence. But the beastly relative had made up his low -mind that it was so. He was selfish and pitiless in his stupidity, but -he had clearly conceived the notion of making a claim on de Barral when -de Barral came out of prison on the strength of having "looked after" (as -he would have himself expressed it) his daughter. He nursed his hopes, -such as they were, in secret, and it is to be supposed kept them even -from his wife. - -I could see it very well. That belief accounted for his mysterious air -while he interfered in favour of the girl. He was the only protector she -had. It was as though Flora had been fated to be always surrounded by -treachery and lies stifling every better impulse, every instinctive -aspiration of her soul to trust and to love. It would have been enough -to drive a fine nature into the madness of universal suspicion--into any -sort of madness. I don't know how far a sense of humour will stand by -one. To the foot of the gallows, perhaps. But from my recollection of -Flora de Barral I feared that she hadn't much sense of humour. She had -cried at the desertion of the absurd Fyne dog. That animal was certainly -free from duplicity. He was frank and simple and ridiculous. The -indignation of the girl at his unhypocritical behaviour had been funny -but not humorous. - -As you may imagine I was not very anxious to resume the discussion on the -justice, expediency, effectiveness or what not, of Fyne's journey to -London. It isn't that I was unfaithful to little Fyne out in the porch -with the dog. (They kept amazingly quiet there. Could they have gone to -sleep?) What I felt was that either my sagacity or my conscience would -come out damaged from that campaign. And no man will willingly put -himself in the way of moral damage. I did not want a war with Mrs. Fyne. -I much preferred to hear something more of the girl. I said: - -"And so she went away with that respectable ruffian." - -Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders slightly--"What else could she have done?" -I agreed with her by another hopeless gesture. It isn't so easy for a -girl like Flora de Barral to become a factory hand, a pathetic seamstress -or even a barmaid. She wouldn't have known how to begin. She was the -captive of the meanest conceivable fate. And she wasn't mean enough for -it. It is to be remarked that a good many people are born curiously -unfitted for the fate awaiting them on this earth. As I don't want you -to think that I am unduly partial to the girl we shall say that she -failed decidedly to endear herself to that simple, virtuous and, I -believe, teetotal household. It's my conviction that an angel would have -failed likewise. It's no use going into details; suffice it to state -that before the year was out she was again at the Fynes' door. - -This time she was escorted by a stout youth. His large pale face wore a -smile of inane cunning soured by annoyance. His clothes were new and the -indescribable smartness of their cut, a _genre_ which had never been -obtruded on her notice before, astonished Mrs. Fyne, who came out into -the hall with her hat on; for she was about to go out to hear a new -pianist (a girl) in a friend's house. The youth addressing Mrs. Fyne -easily begged her not to let "that silly thing go back to us any more." -There had been, he said, nothing but "ructions" at home about her for the -last three weeks. Everybody in the family was heartily sick of -quarrelling. His governor had charged him to bring her to this address -and say that the lady and gentleman were quite welcome to all there was -in it. She hadn't enough sense to appreciate a plain, honest English -home and she was better out of it. - -The young, pimply-faced fellow was vexed by this job his governor had -sprung on him. It was the cause of his missing an appointment for that -afternoon with a certain young lady. The lady he was engaged to. But he -meant to dash back and try for a sight of her that evening yet "if he -were to burst over it." "Good-bye, Florrie. Good luck to you--and I -hope I'll never see your face again." - -With that he ran out in lover-like haste leaving the hall-door wide open. -Mrs. Fyne had not found a word to say. She had been too much taken aback -even to gasp freely. But she had the presence of mind to grab the girl's -arm just as she, too, was running out into the street--with the haste, I -suppose, of despair and to keep I don't know what tragic tryst. - -"You stopped her with your own hand, Mrs. Fyne," I said. "I presume she -meant to get away. That girl is no comedian--if I am any judge." - -"Yes! I had to use some force to drag her in." - -Mrs. Fyne had no difficulty in stating the truth. "You see I was in the -very act of letting myself out when these two appeared. So that, when -that unpleasant young man ran off, I found myself alone with Flora. It -was all I could do to hold her in the hall while I called to the servants -to come and shut the door." - -As is my habit, or my weakness, or my gift, I don't know which, I -visualized the story for myself. I really can't help it. And the vision -of Mrs. Fyne dressed for a rather special afternoon function, engaged in -wrestling with a wild-eyed, white-faced girl had a certain dramatic -fascination. - -"Really!" I murmured. - -"Oh! There's no doubt that she struggled," said Mrs. Fyne. She -compressed her lips for a moment and then added: "As to her being a -comedian that's another question." - -Mrs. Fyne had returned to her attitude of folded arms. I saw before me -the daughter of the refined poet accepting life whole with its -unavoidable conditions of which one of the first is the instinct of self- -preservation and the egoism of every living creature. "The fact remains -nevertheless that you--yourself--have, in your own words, pulled her in," -I insisted in a jocular tone, with a serious intention. - -"What was one to do," exclaimed Mrs. Fyne with almost comic exasperation. -"Are you reproaching me with being too impulsive?" - -And she went on telling me that she was not that in the least. One of -the recommendations she always insisted on (to the girl-friends, I -imagine) was to be on guard against impulse. Always! But I had not been -there to see the face of Flora at the time. If I had it would be -haunting me to this day. Nobody unless made of iron would have allowed a -human being with a face like that to rush out alone into the streets. - -"And doesn't it haunt you, Mrs. Fyne?" I asked. - -"No, not now," she said implacably. "Perhaps if I had let her go it -might have done . . . Don't conclude, though, that I think she was -playing a comedy then, because after struggling at first she ended by -remaining. She gave up very suddenly. She collapsed in our arms, mine -and the maid's who came running up in response to my calls, and . . . " - -"And the door was then shut," I completed the phrase in my own way. - -"Yes, the door was shut," Mrs. Fyne lowered and raised her head slowly. - -I did not ask her for details. Of one thing I am certain, and that is -that Mrs. Fyne did not go out to the musical function that afternoon. She -was no doubt considerably annoyed at missing the privilege of hearing -privately an interesting young pianist (a girl) who, since, had become -one of the recognized performers. Mrs. Fyne did not dare leave her -house. As to the feelings of little Fyne when he came home from the -office, via his club, just half an hour before dinner, I have no -information. But I venture to affirm that in the main they were kindly, -though it is quite possible that in the first moment of surprise he had -to keep down a swear-word or two. - -* * * * * - -The long and the short of it all is that next day the Fynes made up their -minds to take into their confidence a certain wealthy old lady. With -certain old ladies the passing years bring back a sort of mellowed -youthfulness of feeling, an optimistic outlook, liking for novelty, -readiness for experiment. The old lady was very much interested: "Do let -me see the poor thing!" She was accordingly allowed to see Flora de -Barral in Mrs. Fyne's drawing-room on a day when there was no one else -there, and she preached to her with charming, sympathetic authority: "The -only way to deal with our troubles, my dear child, is to forget them. You -must forget yours. It's very simple. Look at me. I always forget mine. -At your age one ought to be cheerful." - -Later on when left alone with Mrs. Fyne she said to that lady: "I do hope -the child will manage to be cheerful. I can't have sad faces near me. At -my age one needs cheerful companions." - -And in this hope she carried off Flora de Barral to Bournemouth for the -winter months in the quality of reader and companion. She had said to -her with kindly jocularity: "We shall have a good time together. I am -not a grumpy old woman." But on their return to London she sought Mrs. -Fyne at once. She had discovered that Flora was not naturally cheerful. -When she made efforts to be it was still worse. The old lady couldn't -stand the strain of that. And then, to have the whole thing out, she -could not bear to have for a companion anyone who did not love her. She -was certain that Flora did not love her. Why? She couldn't say. -Moreover, she had caught the girl looking at her in a peculiar way at -times. Oh no!--it was not an evil look--it was an unusual expression -which one could not understand. And when one remembered that her father -was in prison shut up together with a lot of criminals and so on--it made -one uncomfortable. If the child had only tried to forget her troubles! -But she obviously was incapable or unwilling to do so. And that was -somewhat perverse--wasn't it? Upon the whole, she thought it would be -better perhaps-- - -Mrs. Fyne assented hurriedly to the unspoken conclusion: "Oh certainly! -Certainly," wondering to herself what was to be done with Flora next; but -she was not very much surprised at the change in the old lady's view of -Flora de Barral. She almost understood it. - -What came next was a German family, the continental acquaintances of the -wife of one of Fyne's colleagues in the Home Office. Flora of the -enigmatical glances was dispatched to them without much reflection. As -it was not considered absolutely necessary to take them into full -confidence, they neither expected the girl to be specially cheerful nor -were they discomposed unduly by the indescribable quality of her glances. -The German woman was quite ordinary; there were two boys to look after; -they were ordinary, too, I presume; and Flora, I understand, was very -attentive to them. If she taught them anything it must have been by -inspiration alone, for she certainly knew nothing of teaching. But it -was mostly "conversation" which was demanded from her. Flora de Barral -conversing with two small German boys, regularly, industriously, -conscientiously, in order to keep herself alive in the world which held -for her the past we know and the future of an even more undesirable -quality--seems to me a very fantastic combination. But I believe it was -not so bad. She was being, she wrote, mercifully drugged by her task. -She had learned to "converse" all day long, mechanically, absently, as if -in a trance. An uneasy trance it must have been! Her worst moments were -when off duty--alone in the evening, shut up in her own little room, her -dulled thoughts waking up slowly till she started into the full -consciousness of her position, like a person waking up in contact with -something venomous--a snake, for instance--experiencing a mad impulse to -fling the thing away and run off screaming to hide somewhere. - -At this period of her existence Flora de Barral used to write to Mrs. -Fyne not regularly but fairly often. I don't know how long she would -have gone on "conversing" and, incidentally, helping to supervise the -beautifully stocked linen closets of that well-to-do German household, if -the man of it had not developed in the intervals of his avocations (he -was a merchant and a thoroughly domesticated character) a psychological -resemblance to the Bournemouth old lady. It appeared that he, too, -wanted to be loved. - -He was not, however, of a conquering temperament--a kiss-snatching, door- -bursting type of libertine. In the very act of straying from the path of -virtue he remained a respectable merchant. It would have been perhaps -better for Flora if he had been a mere brute. But he set about his -sinister enterprise in a sentimental, cautious, almost paternal manner; -and thought he would be safe with a pretty orphan. The girl for all her -experience was still too innocent, and indeed not yet sufficiently aware -of herself as a woman, to mistrust these masked approaches. She did not -see them, in fact. She thought him sympathetic--the first expressively -sympathetic person she had ever met. She was so innocent that she could -not understand the fury of the German woman. For, as you may imagine, -the wifely penetration was not to be deceived for any great length of -time--the more so that the wife was older than the husband. The man with -the peculiar cowardice of respectability never said a word in Flora's -defence. He stood by and heard her reviled in the most abusive terms, -only nodding and frowning vaguely from time to time. It will give you -the idea of the girl's innocence when I say that at first she actually -thought this storm of indignant reproaches was caused by the discovery of -her real name and her relation to a convict. She had been sent out under -an assumed name--a highly recommended orphan of honourable parentage. Her -distress, her burning cheeks, her endeavours to express her regret for -this deception were taken for a confession of guilt. "You attempted to -bring dishonour to my home," the German woman screamed at her. - -Here's a misunderstanding for you! Flora de Barral, who felt the shame -but did not believe in the guilt of her father, retorted fiercely, -"Nevertheless I am as honourable as you are." And then the German woman -nearly went into a fit from rage. "I shall have you thrown out into the -street." - -Flora was not exactly thrown out into the street, I believe, but she was -bundled bag and baggage on board a steamer for London. Did I tell you -these people lived in Hamburg? Well yes--sent to the docks late on a -rainy winter evening in charge of some sneering lackey or other who -behaved to her insolently and left her on deck burning with indignation, -her hair half down, shaking with excitement and, truth to say, scared as -near as possible into hysterics. If it had not been for the stewardess -who, without asking questions, good soul, took charge of her quietly in -the ladies' saloon (luckily it was empty) it is by no means certain she -would ever have reached England. I can't tell if a straw ever saved a -drowning man, but I know that a mere glance is enough to make despair -pause. For in truth we who are creatures of impulse are not creatures of -despair. Suicide, I suspect, is very often the outcome of mere mental -weariness--not an act of savage energy but the final symptom of complete -collapse. The quiet, matter-of-fact attentions of a ship's stewardess, -who did not seem aware of other human agonies than sea-sickness, who -talked of the probable weather of the passage--it would be a rough night, -she thought--and who insisted in a professionally busy manner, "Let me -make you comfortable down below at once, miss," as though she were -thinking of nothing else but her tip--was enough to dissipate the shades -of death gathering round the mortal weariness of bewildered thinking -which makes the idea of non-existence welcome so often to the young. -Flora de Barral did lie down, and it may be presumed she slept. At any -rate she survived the voyage across the North Sea and told Mrs. Fyne all -about it, concealing nothing and receiving no rebuke--for Mrs. Fyne's -opinions had a large freedom in their pedantry. She held, I suppose, -that a woman holds an absolute right--or possesses a perfect excuse--to -escape in her own way from a man-mismanaged world. - -* * * * * - -What is to be noted is that even in London, having had time to take a -reflective view, poor Flora was far from being certain as to the true -inwardness of her violent dismissal. She felt the humiliation of it with -an almost maddened resentment. - -"And did you enlighten her on the point?" I ventured to ask. - -Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders with a philosophical acceptance of all the -necessities which ought not to be. Something had to be said, she -murmured. She had told the girl enough to make her come to the right -conclusion by herself. - -"And she did?" - -"Yes. Of course. She isn't a goose," retorted Mrs. Fyne tartly. - -"Then her education is completed," I remarked with some bitterness. -"Don't you think she ought to be given a chance?" - -Mrs. Fyne understood my meaning. - -"Not this one," she snapped in a quite feminine way. "It's all very well -for you to plead, but I--" - -"I do not plead. I simply asked. It seemed natural to ask what you -thought." - -"It's what I feel that matters. And I can't help my feelings. You may -guess," she added in a softer tone, "that my feelings are mostly -concerned with my brother. We were very fond of each other. The -difference of our ages was not very great. I suppose you know he is a -little younger than I am. He was a sensitive boy. He had the habit of -brooding. It is no use concealing from you that neither of us was happy -at home. You have heard, no doubt . . . Yes? Well, I was made still -more unhappy and hurt--I don't mind telling you that. He made his way to -some distant relations of our mother's people who I believe were not -known to my father at all. I don't wish to judge their action." - -I interrupted Mrs. Fyne here. I had heard. Fyne was not very -communicative in general, but he was proud of his father-in-law--"Carleon -Anthony, the poet, you know." Proud of his celebrity without approving -of his character. It was on that account, I strongly suspect, that he -seized with avidity upon the theory of poetical genius being allied to -madness, which he got hold of in some idiotic book everybody was reading -a few years ago. It struck him as being truth itself--illuminating like -the sun. He adopted it devoutly. He bored me with it sometimes. Once, -just to shut him up, I asked quietly if this theory which he regarded as -so incontrovertible did not cause him some uneasiness about his wife and -the dear girls? He transfixed me with a pitying stare and requested me -in his deep solemn voice to remember the "well-established fact" that -genius was not transmissible. - -I said only "Oh! Isn't it?" and he thought he had silenced me by an -unanswerable argument. But he continued to talk of his glorious father- -in-law, and it was in the course of that conversation that he told me -how, when the Liverpool relations of the poet's late wife naturally -addressed themselves to him in considerable concern, suggesting a -friendly consultation as to the boy's future, the incensed (but always -refined) poet wrote in answer a letter of mere polished _badinage_ which -offended mortally the Liverpool people. This witty outbreak of what was -in fact mortification and rage appeared to them so heartless that they -simply kept the boy. They let him go to sea not because he was in their -way but because he begged hard to be allowed to go. - -"Oh! You do know," said Mrs. Fyne after a pause. "Well--I felt myself -very much abandoned. Then his choice of life--so extraordinary, so -unfortunate, I may say. I was very much grieved. I should have liked -him to have been distinguished--or at any rate to remain in the social -sphere where we could have had common interests, acquaintances, thoughts. -Don't think that I am estranged from him. But the precise truth is that -I do not know him. I was most painfully affected when he was here by the -difficulty of finding a single topic we could discuss together." - -While Mrs. Fyne was talking of her brother I let my thoughts wander out -of the room to little Fyne who by leaving me alone with his wife had, so -to speak, entrusted his domestic peace to my honour. - -"Well, then, Mrs. Fyne, does it not strike you that it would be -reasonable under the circumstances to let your brother take care of -himself?" - -"And suppose I have grounds to think that he can't take care of himself -in a given instance." She hesitated in a funny, bashful manner which -roused my interest. Then: - -"Sailors I believe are very susceptible," she added with forced -assurance. - -I burst into a laugh which only increased the coldness of her observing -stare. - -"They are. Immensely! Hopelessly! My dear Mrs. Fyne, you had better -give it up! It only makes your husband miserable." - -"And I am quite miserable too. It is really our first difference . . . " - -"Regarding Miss de Barral?" I asked. - -"Regarding everything. It's really intolerable that this girl should be -the occasion. I think he really ought to give way." - -She turned her chair round a little and picking up the book I had been -reading in the morning began to turn the leaves absently. - -Her eyes being off me, I felt I could allow myself to leave the room. Its -atmosphere had become hopeless for little Fyne's domestic peace. You may -smile. But to the solemn all things are solemn. I had enough sagacity -to understand that. - -I slipped out into the porch. The dog was slumbering at Fyne's feet. The -muscular little man leaning on his elbow and gazing over the fields -presented a forlorn figure. He turned his head quickly, but seeing I was -alone, relapsed into his moody contemplation of the green landscape. - -I said loudly and distinctly: "I've come out to smoke a cigarette," and -sat down near him on the little bench. Then lowering my voice: -"Tolerance is an extremely difficult virtue," I said. "More difficult -for some than heroism. More difficult than compassion." - -I avoided looking at him. I knew well enough that he would not like this -opening. General ideas were not to his taste. He mistrusted them. I -lighted a cigarette, not that I wanted to smoke, but to give another -moment to the consideration of the advice--the diplomatic advice I had -made up my mind to bowl him over with. And I continued in subdued tones. - -"I have been led to make these remarks by what I have discovered since -you left us. I suspected from the first. And now I am certain. What -your wife cannot tolerate in this affair is Miss de Barral being what she -is." - -He made a movement, but I kept my eyes away from him and went on -steadily. "That is--her being a woman. I have some idea of Mrs. Fyne's -mental attitude towards society with its injustices, with its atrocious -or ridiculous conventions. As against them there is no audacity of -action your wife's mind refuses to sanction. The doctrine which I -imagine she stuffs into the pretty heads of your girl-guests is almost -vengeful. A sort of moral fire-and-sword doctrine. How far the lesson -is wise is not for me to say. I don't permit myself to judge. I seem to -see her very delightful disciples singeing themselves with the torches, -and cutting their fingers with the swords of Mrs. Fyne's furnishing." - -"My wife holds her opinions very seriously," murmured Fyne suddenly. - -"Yes. No doubt," I assented in a low voice as before. "But it is a mere -intellectual exercise. What I see is that in dealing with reality Mrs. -Fyne ceases to be tolerant. In other words, that she can't forgive Miss -de Barral for being a woman and behaving like a woman. And yet this is -not only reasonable and natural, but it is her only chance. A woman -against the world has no resources but in herself. Her only means of -action is to be what _she is_. You understand what I mean." - -Fyne mumbled between his teeth that he understood. But he did not seem -interested. What he expected of me was to extricate him from a difficult -situation. I don't know how far credible this may sound, to less solemn -married couples, but to remain at variance with his wife seemed to him a -considerable incident. Almost a disaster. - -"It looks as though I didn't care what happened to her brother," he said. -"And after all if anything . . . " - -I became a little impatient but without raising my tone: - -"What thing?" I asked. "The liability to get penal servitude is so far -like genius that it isn't hereditary. And what else can be objected to -the girl? All the energy of her deeper feelings, which she would use up -vainly in the danger and fatigue of a struggle with society may be turned -into devoted attachment to the man who offers her a way of escape from -what can be only a life of moral anguish. I don't mention the physical -difficulties." - -Glancing at Fyne out of the corner of one eye I discovered that he was -attentive. He made the remark that I should have said all this to his -wife. It was a sensible enough remark. But I had given Mrs. Fyne up. I -asked him if his impression was that his wife meant to entrust him with a -letter for her brother? - -No. He didn't think so. There were certain reasons which made Mrs. Fyne -unwilling to commit her arguments to paper. Fyne was to be primed with -them. But he had no doubt that if he persisted in his refusal she would -make up her mind to write. - -"She does not wish me to go unless with a full conviction that she is -right," said Fyne solemnly. - -"She's very exacting," I commented. And then I reflected that she was -used to it. "Would nothing less do for once?" - -"You don't mean that I should give way--do you?" asked Fyne in a whisper -of alarmed suspicion. - -As this was exactly what I meant, I let his fright sink into him. He -fidgeted. If the word may be used of so solemn a personage, he wriggled. -And when the horrid suspicion had descended into his very heels, so to -speak, he became very still. He sat gazing stonily into space bounded by -the yellow, burnt-up slopes of the rising ground a couple of miles away. -The face of the down showed the white scar of the quarry where not more -than sixteen hours before Fyne and I had been groping in the dark with -horrible apprehension of finding under our hands the shattered body of a -girl. For myself I had in addition the memory of my meeting with her. -She was certainly walking very near the edge--courting a sinister -solution. But, now, having by the most unexpected chance come upon a -man, she had found another way to escape from the world. Such world as -was open to her--without shelter, without bread, without honour. The -best she could have found in it would have been a precarious dole of pity -diminishing as her years increased. The appeal of the abandoned child -Flora to the sympathies of the Fynes had been irresistible. But now she -had become a woman, and Mrs. Fyne was presenting an implacable front to a -particularly feminine transaction. I may say triumphantly feminine. It -is true that Mrs. Fyne did not want women to be women. Her theory was -that they should turn themselves into unscrupulous sexless nuisances. An -offended theorist dwelt in her bosom somewhere. In what way she expected -Flora de Barral to set about saving herself from a most miserable -existence I can't conceive; but I verify believe that she would have -found it easier to forgive the girl an actual crime; say the rifling of -the Bournemouth old lady's desk, for instance. And then--for Mrs. Fyne -was very much of a woman herself--her sense of proprietorship was very -strong within her; and though she had not much use for her brother, yet -she did not like to see him annexed by another woman. By a chit of a -girl. And such a girl, too. Nothing is truer than that, in this world, -the luckless have no right to their opportunities--as if misfortune were -a legal disqualification. Fyne's sentiments (as they naturally would be -in a man) had more stability. A good deal of his sympathy survived. -Indeed I heard him murmur "Ghastly nuisance," but I knew it was of the -integrity of his domestic accord that he was thinking. With my eyes on -the dog lying curled up in sleep in the middle of the porch I suggested -in a subdued impersonal tone: "Yes. Why not let yourself be persuaded?" - -I never saw little Fyne less solemn. He hissed through his teeth in -unexpectedly figurative style that it would take a lot to persuade him to -"push under the head of a poor devil of a girl quite sufficiently -plucky"--and snorted. He was still gazing at the distant quarry, and I -think he was affected by that sight. I assured him that I was far from -advising him to do anything so cruel. I am convinced he had always -doubted the soundness of my principles, because he turned on me swiftly -as though he had been on the watch for a lapse from the straight path. - -"Then what do you mean? That I should pretend!" - -"No! What nonsense! It would be immoral. I may however tell you that -if I had to make a choice I would rather do something immoral than -something cruel. What I meant was that, not believing in the efficacy of -the interference, the whole question is reduced to your consenting to do -what your wife wishes you to do. That would be acting like a gentleman, -surely. And acting unselfishly too, because I can very well understand -how distasteful it may be to you. Generally speaking, an unselfish -action is a moral action. I'll tell you what. I'll go with you." - -He turned round and stared at me with surprise and suspicion. "You would -go with me?" he repeated. - -"You don't understand," I said, amused at the incredulous disgust of his -tone. "I must run up to town, to-morrow morning. Let us go together. -You have a set of travelling chessmen." - -His physiognomy, contracted by a variety of emotions, relaxed to a -certain extent at the idea of a game. I told him that as I had business -at the Docks he should have my company to the very ship. - -"We shall beguile the way to the wilds of the East by improving -conversation," I encouraged him. - -"My brother-in-law is staying at an hotel--the Eastern Hotel," he said, -becoming sombre again. "I haven't the slightest idea where it is." - -"I know the place. I shall leave you at the door with the comfortable -conviction that you are doing what's right since it pleases a lady and -cannot do any harm to anybody whatever." - -"You think so? No harm to anybody?" he repeated doubtfully. - -"I assure you it's not the slightest use," I said with all possible -emphasis which seemed only to increase the solemn discontent of his -expression. - -"But in order that my going should be a perfectly candid proceeding I -must first convince my wife that it isn't the slightest use," he objected -portentously. - -"Oh, you casuist!" I said. And I said nothing more because at that -moment Mrs. Fyne stepped out into the porch. We rose together at her -appearance. Her clear, colourless, unflinching glance enveloped us both -critically. I sustained the chill smilingly, but Fyne stooped at once to -release the dog. He was some time about it; then simultaneously with his -recovery of upright position the animal passed at one bound from -profoundest slumber into most tumultuous activity. Enveloped in the -tornado of his inane scurryings and barkings I took Mrs. Fyne's hand -extended to me woodenly and bowed over it with deference. She walked -down the path without a word; Fyne had preceded her and was waiting by -the open gate. They passed out and walked up the road surrounded by a -low cloud of dust raised by the dog gyrating madly about their two -figures progressing side by side with rectitude and propriety, and (I -don't know why) looking to me as if they had annexed the whole country- -side. Perhaps it was that they had impressed me somehow with the sense -of their superiority. What superiority? Perhaps it consisted just in -their limitations. It was obvious that neither of them had carried away -a high opinion of me. But what affected me most was the indifference of -the Fyne dog. He used to precipitate himself at full speed and with a -frightful final upward spring upon my waistcoat, at least once at each of -our meetings. He had neglected that ceremony this time notwithstanding -my correct and even conventional conduct in offering him a cake; it -seemed to me symbolic of my final separation from the Fyne household. And -I remembered against him how on a certain day he had abandoned poor Flora -de Barral--who was morbidly sensitive. - -I sat down in the porch and, maybe inspired by secret antagonism to the -Fynes, I said to myself deliberately that Captain Anthony must be a fine -fellow. Yet on the facts as I knew them he might have been a dangerous -trifler or a downright scoundrel. He had made a miserable, hopeless girl -follow him clandestinely to London. It is true that the girl had written -since, only Mrs. Fyne had been remarkably vague as to the contents. They -were unsatisfactory. They did not positively announce imminent nuptials -as far as I could make it out from her rather mysterious hints. But then -her inexperience might have led her astray. There was no fathoming the -innocence of a woman like Mrs. Fyne who, venturing as far as possible in -theory, would know nothing of the real aspect of things. It would have -been comic if she were making all this fuss for nothing. But I rejected -this suspicion for the honour of human nature. - -I imagined to myself Captain Anthony as simple and romantic. It was much -more pleasant. Genius is not hereditary but temperament may be. And he -was the son of a poet with an admirable gift of individualising, of -etherealizing the common-place; of making touching, delicate, fascinating -the most hopeless conventions of the, so-called, refined existence. - -What I could not understand was Mrs. Fyne's dog-in-the-manger attitude. -Sentimentally she needed that brother of hers so little! What could it -matter to her one way or another--setting aside common humanity which -would suggest at least a neutral attitude. Unless indeed it was the -blind working of the law that in our world of chances the luckless _must_ -be put in the wrong somehow. - -And musing thus on the general inclination of our instincts towards -injustice I met unexpectedly, at the turn of the road, as it were, a -shape of duplicity. It might have been unconscious on Mrs. Fyne's part, -but her leading idea appeared to me to be not to keep, not to preserve -her brother, but to get rid of him definitely. She did not hope to stop -anything. She had too much sense for that. Almost anyone out of an -idiot asylum would have had enough sense for that. She wanted the -protest to be made, emphatically, with Fyne's fullest concurrence in -order to make all intercourse for the future impossible. Such an action -would estrange the pair for ever from the Fynes. She understood her -brother and the girl too. Happy together, they would never forgive that -outspoken hostility--and should the marriage turn out badly . . . Well, -it would be just the same. Neither of them would be likely to bring -their troubles to such a good prophet of evil. - -Yes. That must have been her motive. The inspiration of a possibly -unconscious Machiavellism! Either she was afraid of having a sister-in- -law to look after during the husband's long absences; or dreaded the more -or less distant eventuality of her brother being persuaded to leave the -sea, the friendly refuge of his unhappy youth, and to settle on shore, -bringing to her very door this undesirable, this embarrassing connection. -She wanted to be done with it--maybe simply from the fatigue of -continuous effort in good or evil, which, in the bulk of common mortals, -accounts for so many surprising inconsistencies of conduct. - -I don't know that I had classed Mrs. Fyne, in my thoughts, amongst common -mortals. She was too quietly sure of herself for that. But little Fyne, -as I spied him next morning (out of the carriage window) speeding along -the platform, looked very much like a common, flustered mortal who has -made a very near thing of catching his train: the starting wild eyes, the -tense and excited face, the distracted gait, all the common symptoms were -there, rendered more impressive by his native solemnity which flapped -about him like a disordered garment. Had he--I asked myself with -interest--resisted his wife to the very last minute and then bolted up -the road from the last conclusive argument, as though it had been a -loaded gun suddenly produced? I opened the carriage door, and a vigorous -porter shoved him in from behind just as the end of the rustic platform -went gliding swiftly from under his feet. He was very much out of -breath, and I waited with some curiosity for the moment he would recover -his power of speech. That moment came. He said "Good morning" with a -slight gasp, remained very still for another minute and then pulled out -of his pocket the travelling chessboard, and holding it in his hand, -directed at me a glance of inquiry. - -"Yes. Certainly," I said, very much disappointed. - - - -CHAPTER SEVEN--ON THE PAVEMENT - - -Fyne was not willing to talk; but as I had been already let into the -secret, the fair-minded little man recognized that I had some right to -information if I insisted on it. And I did insist, after the third game. -We were yet some way from the end of our journey. - -"Oh, if you want to know," was his somewhat impatient opening. And then -he talked rather volubly. First of all his wife had not given him to -read the letter received from Flora (I had suspected him of having it in -his pocket), but had told him all about the contents. It was not at all -what it should have been even if the girl had wished to affirm her right -to disregard the feelings of all the world. Her own had been trampled in -the dirt out of all shape. Extraordinary thing to say--I would admit, -for a young girl of her age. The whole tone of that letter was wrong, -quite wrong. It was certainly not the product of a--say, of a -well-balanced mind. - -"If she were given some sort of footing in this world," I said, "if only -no bigger than the palm of my hand, she would probably learn to keep a -better balance." - -Fyne ignored this little remark. His wife, he said, was not the sort of -person to be addressed mockingly on a serious subject. There was an -unpleasant strain of levity in that letter, extending even to the -references to Captain Anthony himself. Such a disposition was enough, -his wife had pointed out to him, to alarm one for the future, had all the -circumstances of that preposterous project been as satisfactory as in -fact they were not. Other parts of the letter seemed to have a -challenging tone--as if daring them (the Fynes) to approve her conduct. -And at the same time implying that she did not care, that it was for -their own sakes that she hoped they would "go against the world--the -horrid world which had crushed poor papa." - -Fyne called upon me to admit that this was pretty cool--considering. And -there was another thing, too. It seems that for the last six months (she -had been assisting two ladies who kept a kindergarten school in -Bayswater--a mere pittance), Flora had insisted on devoting all her spare -time to the study of the trial. She had been looking up files of old -newspapers, and working herself up into a state of indignation with what -she called the injustice and the hypocrisy of the prosecution. Her -father, Fyne reminded me, had made some palpable hits in his answers in -Court, and she had fastened on them triumphantly. She had reached the -conclusion of her father's innocence, and had been brooding over it. Mrs. -Fyne had pointed out to him the danger of this. - -The train ran into the station and Fyne, jumping out directly it came to -a standstill, seemed glad to cut short the conversation. We walked in -silence a little way, boarded a bus, then walked again. I don't suppose -that since the days of his childhood, when surely he was taken to see the -Tower, he had been once east of Temple Bar. He looked about him -sullenly; and when I pointed out in the distance the rounded front of the -Eastern Hotel at the bifurcation of two very broad, mean, shabby -thoroughfares, rising like a grey stucco tower above the lowly roofs of -the dirty-yellow, two-storey houses, he only grunted disapprovingly. - -"I wouldn't lay too much stress on what you have been telling me," I -observed quietly as we approached that unattractive building. "No man -will believe a girl who has just accepted his suit to be not well -balanced,--you know." - -"Oh! Accepted his suit," muttered Fyne, who seemed to have been very -thoroughly convinced indeed. "It may have been the other way about." And -then he added: "I am going through with it." - -I said that this was very praiseworthy but that a certain moderation of -statement . . . He waved his hand at me and mended his pace. I guessed -that he was anxious to get his mission over as quickly as possible. He -barely gave himself time to shake hands with me and made a rush at the -narrow glass door with the words Hotel Entrance on it. It swung to -behind his back with no more noise than the snap of a toothless jaw. - -The absurd temptation to remain and see what would come of it got over my -better judgment. I hung about irresolute, wondering how long an embassy -of that sort would take, and whether Fyne on coming out would consent to -be communicative. I feared he would be shocked at finding me there, -would consider my conduct incorrect, conceivably treat me with contempt. -I walked off a few paces. Perhaps it would be possible to read something -on Fyne's face as he came out; and, if necessary, I could always eclipse -myself discreetly through the door of one of the bars. The ground floor -of the Eastern Hotel was an unabashed pub, with plate-glass fronts, a -display of brass rails, and divided into many compartments each having -its own entrance. - -But of course all this was silly. The marriage, the love, the affairs of -Captain Anthony were none of my business. I was on the point of moving -down the street for good when my attention was attracted by a girl -approaching the hotel entrance from the west. She was dressed very -modestly in black. It was the white straw hat of a good form and trimmed -with a bunch of pale roses which had caught my eye. The whole figure -seemed familiar. Of course! Flora de Barral. She was making for the -hotel, she was going in. And Fyne was with Captain Anthony! To meet him -could not be pleasant for her. I wished to save her from the -awkwardness, and as I hesitated what to do she looked up and our eyes -happened to meet just as she was turning off the pavement into the hotel -doorway. Instinctively I extended my arm. It was enough to make her -stop. I suppose she had some faint notion that she had seen me before -somewhere. She walked slowly forward, prudent and attentive, watching my -faint smile. - -"Excuse me," I said directly she had approached me near enough. "Perhaps -you would like to know that Mr. Fyne is upstairs with Captain Anthony at -this moment." - -She uttered a faint "Ah! Mr. Fyne!" I could read in her eyes that she -had recognized me now. Her serious expression extinguished the imbecile -grin of which I was conscious. I raised my hat. She responded with a -slow inclination of the head while her luminous, mistrustful, maiden's -glance seemed to whisper, "What is this one doing here?" - -"I came up to town with Fyne this morning," I said in a businesslike -tone. "I have to see a friend in East India Dock. Fyne and I parted -this moment at the door here . . . " The girl regarded me with -darkening eyes . . . "Mrs. Fyne did not come with her husband," I went -on, then hesitated before that white face so still in the pearly shadow -thrown down by the hat-brim. "But she sent him," I murmured by way of -warning. - -Her eyelids fluttered slowly over the fixed stare. I imagine she was not -much disconcerted by this development. "I live a long way from here," -she whispered. - -I said perfunctorily, "Do you?" And we remained gazing at each other. -The uniform paleness of her complexion was not that of an anaemic girl. -It had a transparent vitality and at that particular moment the faintest -possible rosy tinge, the merest suspicion of colour; an equivalent, I -suppose, in any other girl to blushing like a peony while she told me -that Captain Anthony had arranged to show her the ship that morning. - -It was easy to understand that she did not want to meet Fyne. And when I -mentioned in a discreet murmur that he had come because of her letter she -glanced at the hotel door quickly, and moved off a few steps to a -position where she could watch the entrance without being seen. I -followed her. At the junction of the two thoroughfares she stopped in -the thin traffic of the broad pavement and turned to me with an air of -challenge. "And so you know." - -I told her that I had not seen the letter. I had only heard of it. She -was a little impatient. "I mean all about me." - -Yes. I knew all about her. The distress of Mr. and Mrs. Fyne--especially -of Mrs. Fyne--was so great that they would have shared it with anybody -almost--not belonging to their circle of friends. I happened to be at -hand--that was all. - -"You understand that I am not their friend. I am only a holiday -acquaintance." - -"She was not very much upset?" queried Flora de Barral, meaning, of -course, Mrs. Fyne. And I admitted that she was less so than her -husband--and even less than myself. Mrs. Fyne was a very self-possessed -person which nothing could startle out of her extreme theoretical -position. She did not seem startled when Fyne and I proposed going to -the quarry. - -"You put that notion into their heads," the girl said. - -I advanced that the notion was in their heads already. But it was much -more vividly in my head since I had seen her up there with my own eyes, -tempting Providence. - -She was looking at me with extreme attention, and murmured: - -"Is that what you called it to them? Tempting . . . " - -"No. I told them that you were making up your mind and I came along just -then. I told them that you were saved by me. My shout checked you . . . -" She moved her head gently from right to left in negation . . . "No? -Well, have it your own way." - -I thought to myself: She has found another issue. She wants to forget -now. And no wonder. She wants to persuade herself that she had never -known such an ugly and poignant minute in her life. "After all," I -conceded aloud, "things are not always what they seem." - -Her little head with its deep blue eyes, eyes of tenderness and anger -under the black arch of fine eyebrows was very still. The mouth looked -very red in the white face peeping from under the veil, the little -pointed chin had in its form something aggressive. Slight and even -angular in her modest black dress she was an appealing and--yes--she was -a desirable little figure. - -Her lips moved very fast asking me: - -"And they believed you at once?" - -"Yes, they believed me at once. Mrs. Fyne's word to us was "Go!" - -A white gleam between the red lips was so short that I remained uncertain -whether it was a smile or a ferocious baring of little even teeth. The -rest of the face preserved its innocent, tense and enigmatical -expression. She spoke rapidly. - -"No, it wasn't your shout. I had been there some time before you saw me. -And I was not there to tempt Providence, as you call it. I went up there -for--for what you thought I was going to do. Yes. I climbed two fences. -I did not mean to leave anything to Providence. There seem to be people -for whom Providence can do nothing. I suppose you are shocked to hear me -talk like that?" - -I shook my head. I was not shocked. What had kept her back all that -time, till I appeared on the scene below, she went on, was neither fear -nor any other kind of hesitation. One reaches a point, she said with -appalling youthful simplicity, where nothing that concerns one matters -any longer. But something did keep her back. I should have never -guessed what it was. She herself confessed that it seemed absurd to say. -It was the Fyne dog. - -Flora de Barral paused, looking at me, with a peculiar expression and -then went on. You see, she imagined the dog had become extremely -attached to her. She took it into her head that he might fall over or -jump down after her. She tried to drive him away. She spoke sternly to -him. It only made him more frisky. He barked and jumped about her skirt -in his usual, idiotic, high spirits. He scampered away in circles -between the pines charging upon her and leaping as high as her waist. She -commanded, "Go away. Go home." She even picked up from the ground a bit -of a broken branch and threw it at him. At this his delight knew no -bounds; his rushes became faster, his yapping louder; he seemed to be -having the time of his life. She was convinced that the moment she threw -herself down he would spring over after her as if it were part of the -game. She was vexed almost to tears. She was touched too. And when he -stood still at some distance as if suddenly rooted to the ground wagging -his tail slowly and watching her intensely with his shining eyes another -fear came to her. She imagined herself gone and the creature sitting on -the brink, its head thrown up to the sky and howling for hours. This -thought was not to be borne. Then my shout reached her ears. - -She told me all this with simplicity. My voice had destroyed her -poise--the suicide poise of her mind. Every act of ours, the most -criminal, the most mad presupposes a balance of thought, feeling and -will, like a correct attitude for an effective stroke in a game. And I -had destroyed it. She was no longer in proper form for the act. She was -not very much annoyed. Next day would do. She would have to slip away -without attracting the notice of the dog. She thought of the necessity -almost tenderly. She came down the path carrying her despair with lucid -calmness. But when she saw herself deserted by the dog, she had an -impulse to turn round, go up again and be done with it. Not even that -animal cared for her--in the end. - -"I really did think that he was attached to me. What did he want to -pretend for, like this? I thought nothing could hurt me any more. Oh -yes. I would have gone up, but I felt suddenly so tired. So tired. And -then you were there. I didn't know what you would do. You might have -tried to follow me and I didn't think I could run--not up hill--not -then." - -She had raised her white face a little, and it was queer to hear her say -these things. At that time of the morning there are comparatively few -people out in that part of the town. The broad interminable perspective -of the East India Dock Road, the great perspective of drab brick walls, -of grey pavement, of muddy roadway rumbling dismally with loaded carts -and vans lost itself in the distance, imposing and shabby in its spacious -meanness of aspect, in its immeasurable poverty of forms, of colouring, -of life--under a harsh, unconcerned sky dried by the wind to a clear -blue. It had been raining during the night. The sunshine itself seemed -poor. From time to time a few bits of paper, a little dust and straw -whirled past us on the broad flat promontory of the pavement before the -rounded front of the hotel. - -Flora de Barral was silent for a while. I said: - -"And next day you thought better of it." - -Again she raised her eyes to mine with that peculiar expression of -informed innocence; and again her white cheeks took on the faintest tinge -of pink--the merest shadow of a blush. - -"Next day," she uttered distinctly, "I didn't think. I remembered. That -was enough. I remembered what I should never have forgotten. Never. And -Captain Anthony arrived at the cottage in the evening." - -"Ah yes. Captain Anthony," I murmured. And she repeated also in a -murmur, "Yes! Captain Anthony." The faint flush of warm life left her -face. I subdued my voice still more and not looking at her: "You found -him sympathetic?" I ventured. - -Her long dark lashes went down a little with an air of calculated -discretion. At least so it seemed to me. And yet no one could say that -I was inimical to that girl. But there you are! Explain it as you may, -in this world the friendless, like the poor, are always a little suspect, -as if honesty and delicacy were only possible to the privileged few. - -"Why do you ask?" she said after a time, raising her eyes suddenly to -mine in an effect of candour which on the same principle (of the -disinherited not being to be trusted) might have been judged equivocal. - -"If you mean what right I have . . . " She move slightly a hand in a -worn brown glove as much as to say she could not question anyone's right -against such an outcast as herself. - -I ought to have been moved perhaps; but I only noted the total absence of -humility . . . "No right at all," I continued, "but just interest. Mrs. -Fyne--it's too difficult to explain how it came about--has talked to me -of you--well--extensively." - -No doubt Mrs. Fyne had told me the truth, Flora said brusquely with an -unexpected hoarseness of tone. This very dress she was wearing had been -given her by Mrs. Fyne. Of course I looked at it. It could not have -been a recent gift. Close-fitting and black, with heliotrope silk -facings under a figured net, it looked far from new, just on this side of -shabbiness; in fact, it accentuated the slightness of her figure, it went -well in its suggestion of half mourning with the white face in which the -unsmiling red lips alone seemed warm with the rich blood of life and -passion. - -Little Fyne was staying up there an unconscionable time. Was he arguing, -preaching, remonstrating? Had he discovered in himself a capacity and a -taste for that sort of thing? Or was he perhaps, in an intense dislike -for the job, beating about the bush and only puzzling Captain Anthony, -the providential man, who, if he expected the girl to appear at any -moment, must have been on tenterhooks all the time, and beside himself -with impatience to see the back of his brother-in-law. How was it that -he had not got rid of Fyne long before in any case? I don't mean by -actually throwing him out of the window, but in some other resolute -manner. - -Surely Fyne had not impressed him. That he was an impressionable man I -could not doubt. The presence of the girl there on the pavement before -me proved this up to the hilt--and, well, yes, touchingly enough. - -It so happened that in their wanderings to and fro our glances met. They -met and remained in contact more familiar than a hand-clasp, more -communicative, more expressive. There was something comic too in the -whole situation, in the poor girl and myself waiting together on the -broad pavement at a corner public-house for the issue of Fyne's -ridiculous mission. But the comic when it is human becomes quickly -painful. Yes, she was infinitely anxious. And I was asking myself -whether this poignant tension of her suspense depended--to put it -plainly--on hunger or love. - -The answer would have been of some interest to Captain Anthony. For my -part, in the presence of a young girl I always become convinced that the -dreams of sentiment--like the consoling mysteries of Faith--are -invincible; that it is never never reason which governs men and women. - -Yet what sentiment could there have been on her part? I remembered her -tone only a moment since when she said: "That evening Captain Anthony -arrived at the cottage." And considering, too, what the arrival of -Captain Anthony meant in this connection, I wondered at the calmness with -which she could mention that fact. He arrived at the cottage. In the -evening. I knew that late train. He probably walked from the station. -The evening would be well advanced. I could almost see a dark indistinct -figure opening the wicket gate of the garden. Where was she? Did she -see him enter? Was she somewhere near by and did she hear without the -slightest premonition his chance and fateful footsteps on the flagged -path leading to the cottage door? In the shadow of the night made more -cruelly sombre for her by the very shadow of death he must have appeared -too strange, too remote, too unknown to impress himself on her thought as -a living force--such a force as a man can bring to bear on a woman's -destiny. - -She glanced towards the hotel door again; I followed suit and then our -eyes met once more, this time intentionally. A tentative, uncertain -intimacy was springing up between us two. She said simply: "You are -waiting for Mr. Fyne to come out; are you?" - -I admitted to her that I was waiting to see Mr. Fyne come out. That was -all. I had nothing to say to him. - -"I have said yesterday all I had to say to him," I added meaningly. "I -have said it to them both, in fact. I have also heard all they had to -say." - -"About me?" she murmured. - -"Yes. The conversation was about you." - -"I wonder if they told you everything." - -If she wondered I could do nothing else but wonder too. But I did not -tell her that. I only smiled. The material point was that Captain -Anthony should be told everything. But as to that I was very certain -that the good sister would see to it. Was there anything more to -disclose--some other misery, some other deception of which that girl had -been a victim? It seemed hardly probable. It was not even easy to -imagine. What struck me most was her--I suppose I must call -it--composure. One could not tell whether she understood what she had -done. One wondered. She was not so much unreadable as blank; and I did -not know whether to admire her for it or dismiss her from my thoughts as -a passive butt of ferocious misfortune. - -Looking back at the occasion when we first got on speaking terms on the -road by the quarry, I had to admit that she presented some points of a -problematic appearance. I don't know why I imagined Captain Anthony as -the sort of man who would not be likely to take the initiative; not -perhaps from indifference but from that peculiar timidity before women -which often enough is found in conjunction with chivalrous instincts, -with a great need for affection and great stability of feelings. Such -men are easily moved. At the least encouragement they go forward with -the eagerness, with the recklessness of starvation. This accounted for -the suddenness of the affair. No! With all her inexperience this girl -could not have found any great difficulty in her conquering enterprise. -She must have begun it. And yet there she was, patient, almost unmoved, -almost pitiful, waiting outside like a beggar, without a right to -anything but compassion, for a promised dole. - -Every moment people were passing close by us, singly, in two and threes; -the inhabitants of that end of the town where life goes on unadorned by -grace or splendour; they passed us in their shabby garments, with sallow -faces, haggard, anxious or weary, or simply without expression, in an -unsmiling sombre stream not made up of lives but of mere unconsidered -existences whose joys, struggles, thoughts, sorrows and their very hopes -were miserable, glamourless, and of no account in the world. And when -one thought of their reality to themselves one's heart became oppressed. -But of all the individuals who passed by none appeared to me for the -moment so pathetic in unconscious patience as the girl standing before -me; none more difficult to understand. It is perhaps because I was -thinking of things which I could not ask her about. - -In fact we had nothing to say to each other; but we two, strangers as we -really were to each other, had dealt with the most intimate and final of -subjects, the subject of death. It had created a sort of bond between -us. It made our silence weighty and uneasy. I ought to have left her -there and then; but, as I think I've told you before, the fact of having -shouted her away from the edge of a precipice seemed somehow to have -engaged my responsibility as to this other leap. And so we had still an -intimate subject between us to lend more weight and more uneasiness to -our silence. The subject of marriage. I use the word not so much in -reference to the ceremony itself (I had no doubt of this, Captain Anthony -being a decent fellow) or in view of the social institution in general, -as to which I have no opinion, but in regard to the human relation. The -first two views are not particularly interesting. The ceremony, I -suppose, is adequate; the institution, I dare say, is useful or it would -not have endured. But the human relation thus recognized is a mysterious -thing in its origins, character and consequences. Unfortunately you -can't buttonhole familiarly a young girl as you would a young fellow. I -don't think that even another woman could really do it. She would not be -trusted. There is not between women that fund of at least conditional -loyalty which men may depend on in their dealings with each other. I -believe that any woman would rather trust a man. The difficulty in such -a delicate case was how to get on terms. - -So we held our peace in the odious uproar of that wide roadway thronged -with heavy carts. Great vans carrying enormous piled-up loads advanced -swaying like mountains. It was as if the whole world existed only for -selling and buying and those who had nothing to do with the movement of -merchandise were of no account. - -"You must be tired," I said. One had to say something if only to assert -oneself against that wearisome, passionless and crushing uproar. She -raised her eyes for a moment. No, she was not. Not very. She had not -walked all the way. She came by train as far as Whitechapel Station and -had only walked from there. - -She had had an ugly pilgrimage; but whether of love or of necessity who -could tell? And that precisely was what I should have liked to get at. -This was not however a question to be asked point-blank, and I could not -think of any effective circumlocution. It occurred to me too that she -might conceivably know nothing of it herself--I mean by reflection. That -young woman had been obviously considering death. She had gone the -length of forming some conception of it. But as to its companion -fatality--love, she, I was certain, had never reflected upon its meaning. - -With that man in the hotel, whom I did not know, and this girl standing -before me in the street I felt that it was an exceptional case. He had -broken away from his surroundings; she stood outside the pale. One -aspect of conventions which people who declaim against them lose sight of -is that conventions make both joy and suffering easier to bear in a -becoming manner. But those two were outside all conventions. They would -be as untrammelled in a sense as the first man and the first woman. The -trouble was that I could not imagine anything about Flora de Barral and -the brother of Mrs. Fyne. Or, if you like, I could imagine _anything_ -which comes practically to the same thing. Darkness and chaos are first -cousins. I should have liked to ask the girl for a word which would give -my imagination its line. But how was one to venture so far? I can be -rough sometimes but I am not naturally impertinent. I would have liked -to ask her for instance: "Do you know what you have done with yourself?" -A question like that. Anyhow it was time for one of us to say something. -A question it must be. And the question I asked was: "So he's going to -show you the ship?" - -She seemed glad I had spoken at last and glad of the opportunity to speak -herself. - -"Yes. He said he would--this morning. Did you say you did not know -Captain Anthony?" - -"No. I don't know him. Is he anything like his sister?" - -She looked startled and murmured "Sister!" in a puzzled tone which -astonished me. "Oh! Mrs. Fyne," she exclaimed, recollecting herself, -and avoiding my eyes while I looked at her curiously. - -What an extraordinary detachment! And all the time the stream of shabby -people was hastening by us, with the continuous dreary shuffling of weary -footsteps on the flagstones. The sunshine falling on the grime of -surfaces, on the poverty of tones and forms seemed of an inferior -quality, its joy faded, its brilliance tarnished and dusty. I had to -raise my voice in the dull vibrating noise of the roadway. - -"You don't mean to say you have forgotten the connection?" - -She cried readily enough: "I wasn't thinking." And then, while I -wondered what could have been the images occupying her brain at this -time, she asked me: "You didn't see my letter to Mrs. Fyne--did you?" - -"No. I didn't," I shouted. Just then the racket was distracting, a pair- -horse trolly lightly loaded with loose rods of iron passing slowly very -near us. "I wasn't trusted so far." And remembering Mrs. Fyne's hints -that the girl was unbalanced, I added: "Was it an unreserved confession -you wrote?" - -She did not answer me for a time, and as I waited I thought that there's -nothing like a confession to make one look mad; and that of all -confessions a written one is the most detrimental all round. Never -confess! Never, never! An untimely joke is a source of bitter regret -always. Sometimes it may ruin a man; not because it is a joke, but -because it is untimely. And a confession of whatever sort is always -untimely. The only thing which makes it supportable for a while is -curiosity. You smile? Ah, but it is so, or else people would be sent to -the rightabout at the second sentence. How many sympathetic souls can -you reckon on in the world? One in ten, one in a hundred--in a -thousand--in ten thousand? Ah! What a sell these confessions are! What -a horrible sell! You seek sympathy, and all you get is the most -evanescent sense of relief--if you get that much. For a confession, -whatever it may be, stirs the secret depths of the hearer's character. -Often depths that he himself is but dimly aware of. And so the righteous -triumph secretly, the lucky are amused, the strong are disgusted, the -weak either upset or irritated with you according to the measure of their -sincerity with themselves. And all of them in their hearts brand you for -either mad or impudent . . . " - -I had seldom seen Marlow so vehement, so pessimistic, so earnestly -cynical before. I cut his declamation short by asking what answer Flora -de Barral had given to his question. "Did the poor girl admit firing off -her confidences at Mrs. Fyne--eight pages of close writing--that sort of -thing?" - -Marlow shook his head. - -"She did not tell me. I accepted her silence, as a kind of answer and -remarked that it would have been better if she had simply announced the -fact to Mrs. Fyne at the cottage. "Why didn't you do it?" I asked point- -blank. - -She said: "I am not a very plucky girl." She looked up at me and added -meaningly: "And _you_ know it. And you know why." - -I must remark that she seemed to have become very subdued since our first -meeting at the quarry. Almost a different person from the defiant, angry -and despairing girl with quivering lips and resentful glances. - -"I thought it was very sensible of you to get away from that sheer drop," -I said. - -She looked up with something of that old expression. - -"That's not what I mean. I see you will have it that you saved my life. -Nothing of the kind. I was concerned for that vile little beast of a -dog. No! It was the idea of--of doing away with myself which was -cowardly. That's what I meant by saying I am not a very plucky girl." - -"Oh!" I retorted airily. "That little dog. He isn't really a bad little -dog." But she lowered her eyelids and went on: - -"I was so miserable that I could think only of myself. This was mean. It -was cruel too. And besides I had _not_ given it up--not then." - -* * * * * - -Marlow changed his tone. - -"I don't know much of the psychology of self-destruction. It's a sort of -subject one has few opportunities to study closely. I knew a man once -who came to my rooms one evening, and while smoking a cigar confessed to -me moodily that he was trying to discover some graceful way of retiring -out of existence. I didn't study his case, but I had a glimpse of him -the other day at a cricket match, with some women, having a good time. -That seems a fairly reasonable attitude. Considered as a sin, it is a -case for repentance before the throne of a merciful God. But I imagine -that Flora de Barral's religion under the care of the distinguished -governess could have been nothing but outward formality. Remorse in the -sense of gnawing shame and unavailing regret is only understandable to me -when some wrong had been done to a fellow-creature. But why she, that -girl who existed on sufferance, so to speak--why she should writhe -inwardly with remorse because she had once thought of getting rid of a -life which was nothing in every respect but a curse--that I could not -understand. I thought it was very likely some obscure influence of -common forms of speech, some traditional or inherited feeling--a vague -notion that suicide is a legal crime; words of old moralists and -preachers which remain in the air and help to form all the authorized -moral conventions. Yes, I was surprised at her remorse. But lowering -her glance unexpectedly till her dark eye-lashes seemed to rest against -her white cheeks she presented a perfectly demure aspect. It was so -attractive that I could not help a faint smile. That Flora de Barral -should ever, in any aspect, have the power to evoke a smile was the very -last thing I should have believed. She went on after a slight -hesitation: - -"One day I started for there, for that place." - -Look at the influence of a mere play of physiognomy! If you remember -what we were talking about you will hardly believe that I caught myself -grinning down at that demure little girl. I must say too that I felt -more friendly to her at the moment than ever before. - -"Oh, you did? To take that jump? You are a determined young person. -Well, what happened that time?" - -An almost imperceptible alteration in her bearing; a slight droop of her -head perhaps--a mere nothing--made her look more demure than ever. - -"I had left the cottage," she began a little hurriedly. "I was walking -along the road--you know, _the_ road. I had made up my mind I was not -coming back this time." - -I won't deny that these words spoken from under the brim of her hat (oh -yes, certainly, her head was down--she had put it down) gave me a thrill; -for indeed I had never doubted her sincerity. It could never have been a -make-believe despair. - -"Yes," I whispered. "You were going along the road." - -"When . . . " Again she hesitated with an effect of innocent shyness -worlds asunder from tragic issues; then glided on . . . "When suddenly -Captain Anthony came through a gate out of a field." - -I coughed down the beginning of a most improper fit of laughter, and felt -ashamed of myself. Her eyes raised for a moment seemed full of innocent -suffering and unexpressed menace in the depths of the dilated pupils -within the rings of sombre blue. It was--how shall I say it?--a night -effect when you seem to see vague shapes and don't know what reality you -may come upon at any time. Then she lowered her eyelids again, shutting -all mysteriousness out of the situation except for the sobering memory of -that glance, nightlike in the sunshine, expressively still in the brutal -unrest of the street. - -"So Captain Anthony joined you--did he?" - -"He opened a field-gate and walked out on the road. He crossed to my -side and went on with me. He had his pipe in his hand. He said: 'Are -you going far this morning?'" - -These words (I was watching her white face as she spoke) gave me a slight -shudder. She remained demure, almost prim. And I remarked: - -"You have been talking together before, of course." - -"Not more than twenty words altogether since he arrived," she declared -without emphasis. "That day he had said 'Good morning' to me when we met -at breakfast two hours before. And I said good morning to him. I did -not see him afterwards till he came out on the road." - -I thought to myself that this was not accidental. He had been observing -her. I felt certain also that he had not been asking any questions of -Mrs. Fyne. - -"I wouldn't look at him," said Flora de Barral. "I had done with looking -at people. He said to me: 'My sister does not put herself out much for -us. We had better keep each other company. I have read every book there -is in that cottage.' I walked on. He did not leave me. I thought he -ought to. But he didn't. He didn't seem to notice that I would not talk -to him." - -She was now perfectly still. The wretched little parasol hung down -against her dress from her joined hands. I was rigid with attention. It -isn't every day that one culls such a volunteered tale on a girl's lips. -The ugly street-noises swelling up for a moment covered the next few -words she said. It was vexing. The next word I heard was "worried." - -"It worried you to have him there, walking by your side." - -"Yes. Just that," she went on with downcast eyes. There was something -prettily comical in her attitude and her tone, while I pictured to myself -a poor white-faced girl walking to her death with an unconscious man -striding by her side. Unconscious? I don't know. First of all, I felt -certain that this was no chance meeting. Something had happened before. -Was he a man for a _coup-de-foudre_, the lightning stroke of love? I -don't think so. That sort of susceptibility is luckily rare. A world of -inflammable lovers of the Romeo and Juliet type would very soon end in -barbarism and misery. But it is a fact that in every man (not in every -woman) there lives a lover; a lover who is called out in all his -potentialities often by the most insignificant little things--as long as -they come at the psychological moment: the glimpse of a face at an -unusual angle, an evanescent attitude, the curve of a cheek often looked -at before, perhaps, but then, at the moment, charged with astonishing -significance. These are great mysteries, of course. Magic signs. - -I don't know in what the sign consisted in this case. It might have been -her pallor (it wasn't pasty nor yet papery) that white face with eyes -like blue gleams of fire and lips like red coals. In certain lights, in -certain poises of head it suggested tragic sorrow. Or it might have been -her wavy hair. Or even just that pointed chin stuck out a little, -resentful and not particularly distinguished, doing away with the -mysterious aloofness of her fragile presence. But any way at a given -moment Anthony must have suddenly _seen_ the girl. And then, that -something had happened to him. Perhaps nothing more than the thought -coming into his head that this was "a possible woman." - -Followed this waylaying! Its resolute character makes me think it was -the chin's doing; that "common mortal" touch which stands in such good -stead to some women. Because men, I mean really masculine men, those -whose generations have evolved an ideal woman, are often very timid. Who -wouldn't be before the ideal? It's your sentimental trifler, who has -just missed being nothing at all, who is enterprising, simply because it -is easy to appear enterprising when one does not mean to put one's belief -to the test. - -Well, whatever it was that encouraged him, Captain Anthony stuck to Flora -de Barral in a manner which in a timid man might have been called heroic -if it had not been so simple. Whether policy, diplomacy, simplicity, or -just inspiration, he kept up his talk, rather deliberate, with very few -pauses. Then suddenly as if recollecting himself: - -"It's funny. I don't think you are annoyed with me for giving you my -company unasked. But why don't you say something?" - -I asked Miss de Barral what answer she made to this query. - -"I made no answer," she said in that even, unemotional low voice which -seemed to be her voice for delicate confidences. "I walked on. He did -not seem to mind. We came to the foot of the quarry where the road winds -up hill, past the place where you were sitting by the roadside that day. -I began to wonder what I should do. After we reached the top Captain -Anthony said that he had not been for a walk with a lady for years and -years--almost since he was a boy. We had then come to where I ought to -have turned off and struck across a field. I thought of making a run of -it. But he would have caught me up. I knew he would; and, of course, he -would not have allowed me. I couldn't give him the slip." - -"Why didn't you ask him to leave you?" I inquired curiously. - -"He would not have taken any notice," she went on steadily. "And what -could I have done then? I could not have started quarrelling with -him--could I? I hadn't enough energy to get angry. I felt very tired -suddenly. I just stumbled on straight along the road. Captain Anthony -told me that the family--some relations of his mother--he used to know in -Liverpool was broken up now, and he had never made any friends since. All -gone their different ways. All the girls married. Nice girls they were -and very friendly to him when he was but little more than a boy. He -repeated: 'Very nice, cheery, clever girls.' I sat down on a bank -against a hedge and began to cry." - -"You must have astonished him not a little," I observed. - -Anthony, it seems, remained on the road looking down at her. He did not -offer to approach her, neither did he make any other movement or gesture. -Flora de Barral told me all this. She could see him through her tears, -blurred to a mere shadow on the white road, and then again becoming more -distinct, but always absolutely still and as if lost in thought before a -strange phenomenon which demanded the closest possible attention. - -Flora learned later that he had never seen a woman cry; not in that way, -at least. He was impressed and interested by the mysteriousness of the -effect. She was very conscious of being looked at, but was not able to -stop herself crying. In fact, she was not capable of any effort. -Suddenly he advanced two steps, stooped, caught hold of her hands lying -on her lap and pulled her up to her feet; she found herself standing -close to him almost before she realized what he had done. Some people -were coming briskly along the road and Captain Anthony muttered: "You -don't want to be stared at. What about that stile over there? Can we go -back across the fields?" - -She snatched her hands out of his grasp (it seems he had omitted to let -them go), marched away from him and got over the stile. It was a big -field sprinkled profusely with white sheep. A trodden path crossed it -diagonally. After she had gone more than half way she turned her head -for the first time. Keeping five feet or so behind, Captain Anthony was -following her with an air of extreme interest. Interest or eagerness. At -any rate she caught an expression on his face which frightened her. But -not enough to make her run. And indeed it would have had to be something -incredibly awful to scare into a run a girl who had come to the end of -her courage to live. - -As if encouraged by this glance over the shoulder Captain Anthony came up -boldly, and now that he was by her side, she felt his nearness -intimately, like a touch. She tried to disregard this sensation. But -she was not angry with him now. It wasn't worth while. She was thankful -that he had the sense not to ask questions as to this crying. Of course -he didn't ask because he didn't care. No one in the world cared for her, -neither those who pretended nor yet those who did not pretend. She -preferred the latter. - -Captain Anthony opened for her a gate into another field; when they got -through he kept walking abreast, elbow to elbow almost. His voice -growled pleasantly in her very ear. Staying in this dull place was -enough to give anyone the blues. His sister scribbled all day. It was -positively unkind. He alluded to his nieces as rude, selfish monkeys, -without either feelings or manners. And he went on to talk about his -ship being laid up for a month and dismantled for repairs. The worst was -that on arriving in London he found he couldn't get the rooms he was used -to, where they made him as comfortable as such a confirmed sea-dog as -himself could be anywhere on shore. - -In the effort to subdue by dint of talking and to keep in check the -mysterious, the profound attraction he felt already for that delicate -being of flesh and blood, with pale cheeks, with darkened eyelids and -eyes scalded with hot tears, he went on speaking of himself as a -confirmed enemy of life on shore--a perfect terror to a simple man, what -with the fads and proprieties and the ceremonies and affectations. He -hated all that. He wasn't fit for it. There was no rest and peace and -security but on the sea. - -This gave one a view of Captain Anthony as a hermit withdrawn from a -wicked world. It was amusingly unexpected to me and nothing more. But -it must have appealed straight to that bruised and battered young soul. -Still shrinking from his nearness she had ended by listening to him with -avidity. His deep murmuring voice soothed her. And she thought suddenly -that there was peace and rest in the grave too. - -She heard him say: "Look at my sister. She isn't a bad woman by any -means. She asks me here because it's right and proper, I suppose, but -she has no use for me. There you have your shore people. I quite -understand anybody crying. I would have been gone already, only, truth -to say, I haven't any friends to go to." He added brusquely: "And you?" - -She made a slight negative sign. He must have been observing her, -putting two and two together. After a pause he said simply: "When I -first came here I thought you were governess to these girls. My sister -didn't say a word about you to me." - -Then Flora spoke for the first time. - -"Mrs. Fyne is my best friend." - -"So she is mine," he said without the slightest irony or bitterness, but -added with conviction: "That shows you what life ashore is. Much better -be out of it." - -As they were approaching the cottage he was heard again as though a long -silent walk had not intervened: "But anyhow I shan't ask her anything -about you." - -He stopped short and she went on alone. His last words had impressed -her. Everything he had said seemed somehow to have a special meaning -under its obvious conversational sense. Till she went in at the door of -the cottage she felt his eyes resting on her. - -That is it. He had made himself felt. That girl was, one may say, -washing about with slack limbs in the ugly surf of life with no -opportunity to strike out for herself, when suddenly she had been made to -feel that there was somebody beside her in the bitter water. A most -considerable moral event for her; whether she was aware of it or not. -They met again at the one o'clock dinner. I am inclined to think that, -being a healthy girl under her frail appearance, and fast walking and -what I may call relief-crying (there are many kinds of crying) making one -hungry, she made a good meal. It was Captain Anthony who had no -appetite. His sister commented on it in a curt, businesslike manner, and -the eldest of his delightful nieces said mockingly: "You have been taking -too much exercise this morning, Uncle Roderick." The mild Uncle Roderick -turned upon her with a "What do you know about it, young lady?" so -charged with suppressed savagery that the whole round table gave one gasp -and went dumb for the rest of the meal. He took no notice whatever of -Flora de Barral. I don't think it was from prudence or any calculated -motive. I believe he was so full of her aspects that he did not want to -look in her direction when there were other people to hamper his -imagination. - -You understand I am piecing here bits of disconnected statements. Next -day Flora saw him leaning over the field-gate. When she told me this, I -didn't of course ask her how it was she was there. Probably she could -not have told me how it was she was there. The difficulty here is to -keep steadily in view the then conditions of her existence, a combination -of dreariness and horror. - -That hermit-like but not exactly misanthropic sailor was leaning over the -gate moodily. When he saw the white-faced restless Flora drifting like a -lost thing along the road he put his pipe in his pocket and called out -"Good morning, Miss Smith" in a tone of amazing happiness. She, with one -foot in life and the other in a nightmare, was at the same time inert and -unstable, and very much at the mercy of sudden impulses. She swerved, -came distractedly right up to the gate and looking straight into his -eyes: "I am not Miss Smith. That's not my name. Don't call me by it." - -She was shaking as if in a passion. His eyes expressed nothing; he only -unlatched the gate in silence, grasped her arm and drew her in. Then -closing it with a kick-- - -"Not your name? That's all one to me. Your name's the least thing about -you I care for." He was leading her firmly away from the gate though she -resisted slightly. There was a sort of joy in his eyes which frightened -her. "You are not a princess in disguise," he said with an unexpected -laugh she found blood-curdling. "And that's all I care for. You had -better understand that I am not blind and not a fool. And then it's -plain for even a fool to see that things have been going hard with you. -You are on a lee shore and eating your heart out with worry." - -What seemed most awful to her was the elated light in his eyes, the -rapacious smile that would come and go on his lips as if he were gloating -over her misery. But her misery was his opportunity and he rejoiced -while the tenderest pity seemed to flood his whole being. He pointed out -to her that she knew who he was. He was Mrs. Fyne's brother. And, well, -if his sister was the best friend she had in the world, then, by Jove, it -was about time somebody came along to look after her a little. - -Flora had tried more than once to free herself, but he tightened his -grasp of her arm each time and even shook it a little without ceasing to -speak. The nearness of his face intimidated her. He seemed striving to -look her through. It was obvious the world had been using her ill. And -even as he spoke with indignation the very marks and stamp of this ill- -usage of which he was so certain seemed to add to the inexplicable -attraction he felt for her person. It was not pity alone, I take it. It -was something more spontaneous, perverse and exciting. It gave him the -feeling that if only he could get hold of her, no woman would belong to -him so completely as this woman. - -"Whatever your troubles," he said, "I am the man to take you away from -them; that is, if you are not afraid. You told me you had no friends. -Neither have I. Nobody ever cared for me as far as I can remember. -Perhaps you could. Yes, I live on the sea. But who would you be parting -from? No one. You have no one belonging to you." - -At this point she broke away from him and ran. He did not pursue her. -The tall hedges tossing in the wind, the wide fields, the clouds driving -over the sky and the sky itself wheeled about her in masses of green and -white and blue as if the world were breaking up silently in a whirl, and -her foot at the next step were bound to find the void. She reached the -gate all right, got out, and, once on the road, discovered that she had -not the courage to look back. The rest of that day she spent with the -Fyne girls who gave her to understand that she was a slow and -unprofitable person. Long after tea, nearly at dusk, Captain Anthony -(the son of the poet) appeared suddenly before her in the little garden -in front of the cottage. They were alone for the moment. The wind had -dropped. In the calm evening air the voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls -strolling aimlessly on the road could be heard. He said to her severely: - -"You have understood?" - -She looked at him in silence. - -"That I love you," he finished. - -She shook her head the least bit. - -"Don't you believe me?" he asked in a low, infuriated voice. - -"Nobody would love me," she answered in a very quiet tone. "Nobody -could." - -He was dumb for a time, astonished beyond measure, as he well might have -been. He doubted his ears. He was outraged. - -"Eh? What? Can't love you? What do you know about it? It's my affair, -isn't it? You dare say _that_ to a man who has just told you! You must -be mad!" - -"Very nearly," she said with the accent of pent-up sincerity, and even -relieved because she was able to say something which she felt was true. -For the last few days she had felt herself several times near that -madness which is but an intolerable lucidity of apprehension. - -The clear voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls were coming nearer, sounding -affected in the peace of the passion-laden earth. He began storming at -her hastily. - -"Nonsense! Nobody can . . . Indeed! Pah! You'll have to be shown that -somebody can. I can. Nobody . . . " He made a contemptuous hissing -noise. "More likely _you_ can't. They have done something to you. -Something's crushed your pluck. You can't face a man--that's what it is. -What made you like this? Where do you come from? You have been put -upon. The scoundrels--whoever they are, men or women, seem to have -robbed you of your very name. You say you are not Miss Smith. Who are -you, then?" - -She did not answer. He muttered, "Not that I care," and fell silent, -because the fatuous self-confident chatter of the Fyne girls could be -heard at the very gate. But they were not going to bed yet. They passed -on. He waited a little in silence and immobility, then stamped his foot -and lost control of himself. He growled at her in a savage passion. She -felt certain that he was threatening her and calling her names. She was -no stranger to abuse, as we know, but there seemed to be a particular -kind of ferocity in this which was new to her. She began to tremble. The -especially terrifying thing was that she could not make out the nature of -these awful menaces and names. Not a word. Yet it was not the shrinking -anguish of her other experiences of angry scenes. She made a mighty -effort, though her knees were knocking together, and in an expiring voice -demanded that he should let her go indoors. "Don't stop me. It's no -use. It's no use," she repeated faintly, feeling an invincible obstinacy -rising within her, yet without anger against that raging man. - -He became articulate suddenly, and, without raising his voice, perfectly -audible. - -"No use! No use! You dare stand here and tell me that--you white-faced -wisp, you wreath of mist, you little ghost of all the sorrow in the -world. You dare! Haven't I been looking at you? You are all eyes. What -makes your cheeks always so white as if you had seen something . . . -Don't speak. I love it . . . No use! And you really think that I can -now go to sea for a year or more, to the other side of the world -somewhere, leaving you behind. Why! You would vanish . . . what little -there is of you. Some rough wind will blow you away altogether. You -have no holding ground on earth. Well, then trust yourself to me--to the -sea--which is deep like your eyes." - -She said: "Impossible." He kept quiet for a while, then asked in a -totally changed tone, a tone of gloomy curiosity: - -"You can't stand me then? Is that it?" - -"No," she said, more steady herself. "I am not thinking of you at all." - -The inane voices of the Fyne girls were heard over the sombre fields -calling to each other, thin and clear. He muttered: "You could try to. -Unless you are thinking of somebody else." - -"Yes. I am thinking of somebody else, of someone who has nobody to think -of him but me." - -His shadowy form stepped out of her way, and suddenly leaned sideways -against the wooden support of the porch. And as she stood still, -surprised by this staggering movement, his voice spoke up in a tone quite -strange to her. - -"Go in then. Go out of my sight--I thought you said nobody could love -you." - -She was passing him when suddenly he struck her as so forlorn that she -was inspired to say: "No one has ever loved me--not in that way--if -that's what you mean. Nobody would." - -He detached himself brusquely from the post, and she did not shrink; but -Mrs. Fyne and the girls were already at the gate. - -All he understood was that everything was not over yet. There was no -time to lose; Mrs. Fyne and the girls had come in at the gate. He -whispered "Wait" with such authority (he was the son of Carleon Anthony, -the domestic autocrat) that it did arrest her for a moment, long enough -to hear him say that he could not be left like this to puzzle over her -nonsense all night. She was to slip down again into the garden later on, -as soon as she could do so without being heard. He would be there -waiting for her till--till daylight. She didn't think he could go to -sleep, did she? And she had better come, or--he broke off on an -unfinished threat. - -She vanished into the unlighted cottage just as Mrs. Fyne came up to the -porch. Nervous, holding her breath in the darkness of the living-room, -she heard her best friend say: "You ought to have joined us, Roderick." -And then: "Have you seen Miss Smith anywhere?" - -Flora shuddered, expecting Anthony to break out into betraying -imprecations on Miss Smith's head, and cause a painful and humiliating -explanation. She imagined him full of his mysterious ferocity. To her -great surprise, Anthony's voice sounded very much as usual, with perhaps -a slight tinge of grimness. "Miss Smith! No. I've seen no Miss Smith." - -Mrs. Fyne seemed satisfied--and not much concerned really. - -Flora, relieved, got clear away to her room upstairs, and shutting her -door quietly, dropped into a chair. She was used to reproaches, abuse, -to all sorts of wicked ill usage--short of actual beating on her body. -Otherwise inexplicable angers had cut and slashed and trampled down her -youth without mercy--and mainly, it appeared, because she was the -financier de Barral's daughter and also condemned to a degrading sort of -poverty through the action of treacherous men who had turned upon her -father in his hour of need. And she thought with the tenderest possible -affection of that upright figure buttoned up in a long frock-coat, soft- -voiced and having but little to say to his girl. She seemed to feel his -hand closed round hers. On his flying visits to Brighton he would always -walk hand in hand with her. People stared covertly at them; the band was -playing; and there was the sea--the blue gaiety of the sea. They were -quietly happy together . . . It was all over! - -An immense anguish of the present wrung her heart, and she nearly cried -aloud. That dread of what was before her which had been eating up her -courage slowly in the course of odious years, flamed up into an access of -panic, that sort of headlong panic which had already driven her out twice -to the top of the cliff-like quarry. She jumped up saying to herself: -"Why not now? At once! Yes. I'll do it now--in the dark!" The very -horror of it seemed to give her additional resolution. - -She came down the staircase quietly, and only on the point of opening the -door and because of the discovery that it was unfastened, she remembered -Captain Anthony's threat to stay in the garden all night. She hesitated. -She did not understand the mood of that man clearly. He was violent. But -she had gone beyond the point where things matter. What would he think -of her coming down to him--as he would naturally suppose. And even that -didn't matter. He could not despise her more than she despised herself. -She must have been light-headed because the thought came into her mind -that should he get into ungovernable fury from disappointment, and -perchance strangle her, it would be as good a way to be done with it as -any. - -"You had that thought," I exclaimed in wonder. - -With downcast eyes and speaking with an almost painstaking precision (her -very lips, her red lips, seemed to move just enough to be heard and no -more), she said that, yes, the thought came into her head. This makes -one shudder at the mysterious ways girls acquire knowledge. For this was -a thought, wild enough, I admit, but which could only have come from the -depths of that sort of experience which she had not had, and went far -beyond a young girl's possible conception of the strongest and most -veiled of human emotions. - -"He was there, of course?" I said. - -"Yes, he was there." She saw him on the path directly she stepped -outside the porch. He was very still. It was as though he had been -standing there with his face to the door for hours. - -Shaken up by the changing moods of passion and tenderness, he must have -been ready for any extravagance of conduct. Knowing the profound silence -each night brought to that nook of the country, I could imagine them -having the feeling of being the only two people on the wide earth. A row -of six or seven lofty elms just across the road opposite the cottage made -the night more obscure in that little garden. If these two could just -make out each other that was all. - -"Well! And were you very much terrified?" I asked. - -She made me wait a little before she said, raising her eyes: "He was -gentleness itself." - -I noticed three abominable, drink-sodden loafers, sallow and dirty, who -had come to range themselves in a row within ten feet of us against the -front of the public-house. They stared at Flora de Barral's back with -unseeing, mournful fixity. - -"Let's move this way a little," I proposed. - -She turned at once and we made a few paces; not too far to take us out of -sight of the hotel door, but very nearly. I could just keep my eyes on -it. After all, I had not been so very long with the girl. If you were -to disentangle the words we actually exchanged from my comments you would -see that they were not so very many, including everything she had so -unexpectedly told me of her story. No, not so very many. And now it -seemed as though there would be no more. No! I could expect no more. -The confidence was wonderful enough in its nature as far as it went, and -perhaps not to have been expected from any other girl under the sun. And -I felt a little ashamed. The origin of our intimacy was too gruesome. It -was as if listening to her I had taken advantage of having seen her poor -bewildered, scared soul without its veils. But I was curious, too; or, -to render myself justice without false modesty--I was anxious; anxious to -know a little more. - -I felt like a blackmailer all the same when I made my attempt with a -light-hearted remark. - -"And so you gave up that walk you proposed to take?" - -"Yes, I gave up the walk," she said slowly before raising her downcast -eyes. When she did so it was with an extraordinary effect. It was like -catching sight of a piece of blue sky, of a stretch of open water. And -for a moment I understood the desire of that man to whom the sea and sky -of his solitary life had appeared suddenly incomplete without that glance -which seemed to belong to them both. He was not for nothing the son of a -poet. I looked into those unabashed eyes while the girl went on, her -demure appearance and precise tone changed to a very earnest expression. -Woman is various indeed. - -"But I want you to understand, Mr. . . . " she had actually to think of -my name . . . "Mr. Marlow, that I have written to Mrs. Fyne that I -haven't been--that I have done nothing to make Captain Anthony behave to -me as he had behaved. I haven't. I haven't. It isn't my doing. It -isn't my fault--if she likes to put it in that way. But she, with her -ideas, ought to understand that I couldn't, that I couldn't . . . I know -she hates me now. I think she never liked me. I think nobody ever cared -for me. I was told once nobody could care for me; and I think it is -true. At any rate I can't forget it." - -Her abominable experience with the governess had implanted in her unlucky -breast a lasting doubt, an ineradicable suspicion of herself and of -others. I said: - -"Remember, Miss de Barral, that to be fair you must trust a man -altogether--or not at all." - -She dropped her eyes suddenly. I thought I heard a faint sigh. I tried -to take a light tone again, and yet it seemed impossible to get off the -ground which gave me my standing with her. - -"Mrs. Fyne is absurd. She's an excellent woman, but really you could not -be expected to throw away your chance of life simply that she might -cherish a good opinion of your memory. That would be excessive." - -"It was not of my life that I was thinking while Captain Anthony was--was -speaking to me," said Flora de Barral with an effort. - -I told her that she was wrong then. She ought to have been thinking of -her life, and not only of her life but of the life of the man who was -speaking to her too. She let me finish, then shook her head impatiently. - -"I mean--death." - -"Well," I said, "when he stood before you there, outside the cottage, he -really stood between you and that. I have it out of your own mouth. You -can't deny it." - -"If you will have it that he saved my life, then he has got it. It was -not for me. Oh no! It was not for me that I--It was not fear! There!" -She finished petulantly: "And you may just as well know it." - -She hung her head and swung the parasol slightly to and fro. I thought a -little. - -"Do you know French, Miss de Barral?" I asked. - -She made a sign with her head that she did, but without showing any -surprise at the question and without ceasing to swing her parasol. - -"Well then, somehow or other I have the notion that Captain Anthony is -what the French call _un galant homme_. I should like to think he is -being treated as he deserves." - -The form of her lips (I could see them under the brim of her hat) was -suddenly altered into a line of seriousness. The parasol stopped -swinging. - -"I have given him what he wanted--that's myself," she said without a -tremor and with a striking dignity of tone. - -Impressed by the manner and the directness of the words, I hesitated for -a moment what to say. Then made up my mind to clear up the point. - -"And you have got what you wanted? Is that it?" - -The daughter of the egregious financier de Barral did not answer at once -this question going to the heart of things. Then raising her head and -gazing wistfully across the street noisy with the endless transit of -innumerable bargains, she said with intense gravity: - -"He has been most generous." - -I was pleased to hear these words. Not that I doubted the infatuation of -Roderick Anthony, but I was pleased to hear something which proved that -she was sensible and open to the sentiment of gratitude which in this -case was significant. In the face of man's desire a girl is excusable if -she thinks herself priceless. I mean a girl of our civilization which -has established a dithyrambic phraseology for the expression of love. A -man in love will accept any convention exalting the object of his passion -and in this indirect way his passion itself. In what way the captain of -the ship _Ferndale_ gave proofs of lover-like lavishness I could not -guess very well. But I was glad she was appreciative. It is lucky that -small things please women. And it is not silly of them to be thus -pleased. It is in small things that the deepest loyalty, that which they -need most, the loyalty of the passing moment, is best expressed. - -She had remained thoughtful, letting her deep motionless eyes rest on the -streaming jumble of traffic. Suddenly she said: - -"And I wanted to ask you . . . I was really glad when I saw you actually -here. Who would have expected you here, at this spot, before this hotel! -I certainly never . . . You see it meant a lot to me. You are the only -person who knows . . . who knows for certain . . . " - -"Knows what?" I said, not discovering at first what she had in her mind. -Then I saw it. "Why can't you leave that alone?" I remonstrated, rather -annoyed at the invidious position she was forcing on me in a sense. "It's -true that I was the only person to see," I added. "But, as it happens, -after your mysterious disappearance I told the Fynes the story of our -meeting." - -Her eyes raised to mine had an expression of dreamy, unfathomable -candour, if I dare say so. And if you wonder what I mean I can only say -that I have seen the sea wear such an expression on one or two occasions -shortly before sunrise on a calm, fresh day. She said as if meditating -aloud that she supposed the Fynes were not likely to talk about that. She -couldn't imagine any connection in which . . . Why should they? - -As her tone had become interrogatory I assented. "To be sure. There's -no reason whatever--" thinking to myself that they would be more likely -indeed to keep quiet about it. They had other things to talk of. And -then remembering little Fyne stuck upstairs for an unconscionable time, -enough to blurt out everything he ever knew in his life, I reflected that -he would assume naturally that Captain Anthony had nothing to learn from -him about Flora de Barral. It had been up to now my assumption too. I -saw my mistake. The sincerest of women will make no unnecessary -confidences to a man. And this is as it should be. - -"No--no!" I said reassuringly. "It's most unlikely. Are you much -concerned?" - -"Well, you see, when I came down," she said again in that precise demure -tone, "when I came down--into the garden Captain Anthony misunderstood--" - -"Of course he would. Men are so conceited," I said. - -I saw it well enough that he must have thought she had come down to him. -What else could he have thought? And then he had been "gentleness -itself." A new experience for that poor, delicate, and yet so resisting -creature. Gentleness in passion! What could have been more seductive to -the scared, starved heart of that girl? Perhaps had he been violent, she -might have told him that what she came down to keep was the tryst of -death--not of love. It occurred to me as I looked at her, young, fragile -in aspect, and intensely alive in her quietness, that perhaps she did not -know herself then what sort of tryst she was coming down to keep. - -She smiled faintly, almost awkwardly as if she were totally unused to -smiling, at my cheap jocularity. Then she said with that forced -precision, a sort of conscious primness: - -"I didn't want him to know." - -I approved heartily. Quite right. Much better. Let him ever remain -under his misapprehension which was so much more flattering for him. - -I tried to keep it in the tone of comedy; but she was, I believe, too -simple to understand my intention. She went on, looking down. - -"Oh! You think so? When I saw you I didn't know why you were here. I -was glad when you spoke to me because this is exactly what I wanted to -ask you for. I wanted to ask you if you ever meet Captain Anthony--by -any chance--anywhere--you are a sailor too, are you not?--that you would -never mention--never--that--that you had seen me over there." - -"My dear young lady," I cried, horror-struck at the supposition. "Why -should I? What makes you think I should dream of . . . " - -She had raised her head at my vehemence. She did not understand it. The -world had treated her so dishonourably that she had no notion even of -what mere decency of feeling is like. It was not her fault. Indeed, I -don't know why she should have put her trust in anybody's promises. - -But I thought it would be better to promise. So I assured her that she -could depend on my absolute silence. - -"I am not likely to ever set eyes on Captain Anthony," I added with -conviction--as a further guarantee. - -She accepted my assurance in silence, without a sign. Her gravity had in -it something acute, perhaps because of that chin. While we were still -looking at each other she declared: - -"There's no deception in it really. I want you to believe that if I am -here, like this, to-day, it is not from fear. It is not!" - -"I quite understand," I said. But her firm yet self-conscious gaze -became doubtful. "I do," I insisted. "I understand perfectly that it -was not of death that you were afraid." - -She lowered her eyes slowly, and I went on: - -"As to life, that's another thing. And I don't know that one ought to -blame you very much--though it seemed rather an excessive step. I wonder -now if it isn't the ugliness rather than the pain of the struggle which -. . . " - -She shuddered visibly: "But I do blame myself," she exclaimed with -feeling. "I am ashamed." And, dropping her head, she looked in a moment -the very picture of remorse and shame. - -"Well, you will be going away from all its horrors," I said. "And surely -you are not afraid of the sea. You are a sailor's granddaughter, I -understand." - -She sighed deeply. She remembered her grandfather only a little. He was -a clean-shaven man with a ruddy complexion and long, perfectly white -hair. He used to take her on his knee, and putting his face near hers, -talk to her in loving whispers. If only he were alive now . . . ! - -She remained silent for a while. - -"Aren't you anxious to see the ship?" I asked. - -She lowered her head still more so that I could not see anything of her -face. - -"I don't know," she murmured. - -I had already the suspicion that she did not know her own feelings. All -this work of the merest chance had been so unexpected, so sudden. And -she had nothing to fall back upon, no experience but such as to shake her -belief in every human being. She was dreadfully and pitifully forlorn. -It was almost in order to comfort my own depression that I remarked -cheerfully: - -"Well, I know of somebody who must be growing extremely anxious to see -you." - -"I am before my time," she confessed simply, rousing herself. "I had -nothing to do. So I came out." - -I had the sudden vision of a shabby, lonely little room at the other end -of the town. It had grown intolerable to her restlessness. The mere -thought of it oppressed her. Flora de Barral was looking frankly at her -chance confidant, - -"And I came this way," she went on. "I appointed the time myself -yesterday, but Captain Anthony would not have minded. He told me he was -going to look over some business papers till I came." - -The idea of the son of the poet, the rescuer of the most forlorn damsel -of modern times, the man of violence, gentleness and generosity, sitting -up to his neck in ship's accounts amused me. "I am sure he would not -have minded," I said, smiling. But the girl's stare was sombre, her thin -white face seemed pathetically careworn. - -"I can hardly believe yet," she murmured anxiously. - -"It's quite real. Never fear," I said encouragingly, but had to change -my tone at once. "You had better go down that way a little," I directed -her abruptly. - -* * * * * - -I had seen Fyne come striding out of the hotel door. The intelligent -girl, without staying to ask questions, walked away from me quietly down -one street while I hurried on to meet Fyne coming up the other at his -efficient pedestrian gait. My object was to stop him getting as far as -the corner. He must have been thinking too hard to be aware of his -surroundings. I put myself in his way, and he nearly walked into me. - -"Hallo!" I said. - -His surprise was extreme. "You here! You don't mean to say you have -been waiting for me?" - -I said negligently that I had been detained by unexpected business in the -neighbourhood, and thus happened to catch sight of him coming out. - -He stared at me with solemn distraction, obviously thinking of something -else. I suggested that he had better take the next city-ward tramcar. He -was inattentive, and I perceived that he was profoundly perturbed. As -Miss de Barral (she had moved out of sight) could not possibly approach -the hotel door as long as we remained where we were I proposed that we -should wait for the car on the other side of the street. He obeyed -rather the slight touch on his arm than my words, and while we were -crossing the wide roadway in the midst of the lumbering wheeled traffic, -he exclaimed in his deep tone, "I don't know which of these two is more -mad than the other!" - -"Really!" I said, pulling him forward from under the noses of two -enormous sleepy-headed cart-horses. He skipped wildly out of the way and -up on the curbstone with a purely instinctive precision; his mind had -nothing to do with his movements. In the middle of his leap, and while -in the act of sailing gravely through the air, he continued to relieve -his outraged feelings. - -"You would never believe! They _are_ mad!" - -I took care to place myself in such a position that to face me he had to -turn his back on the hotel across the road. I believe he was glad I was -there to talk to. But I thought there was some misapprehension in the -first statement he shot out at me without loss of time, that Captain -Anthony had been glad to see him. It was indeed difficult to believe -that, directly he opened the door, his wife's "sailor-brother" had -positively shouted: "Oh, it's you! The very man I wanted to see." - -"I found him sitting there," went on Fyne impressively in his effortless, -grave chest voice, "drafting his will." - -This was unexpected, but I preserved a noncommittal attitude, knowing -full well that our actions in themselves are neither mad nor sane. But I -did not see what there was to be excited about. And Fyne was distinctly -excited. I understood it better when I learned that the captain of the -_Ferndale_ wanted little Fyne to be one of the trustees. He was leaving -everything to his wife. Naturally, a request which involved him into -sanctioning in a way a proceeding which he had been sent by his wife to -oppose, must have appeared sufficiently mad to Fyne. - -"Me! Me, of all people in the world!" he repeated portentously. But I -could see that he was frightened. Such want of tact! - -"He knew I came from his sister. You don't put a man into such an -awkward position," complained Fyne. "It made me speak much more strongly -against all this very painful business than I would have had the heart to -do otherwise." - -I pointed out to him concisely, and keeping my eyes on the door of the -hotel, that he and his wife were the only bond with the land Captain -Anthony had. Who else could he have asked? - -"I explained to him that he was breaking this bond," declared Fyne -solemnly. "Breaking it once for all. And for what--for what?" - -He glared at me. I could perhaps have given him an inkling for what, but -I said nothing. He started again: - -"My wife assures me that the girl does not love him a bit. She goes by -that letter she received from her. There is a passage in it where she -practically admits that she was quite unscrupulous in accepting this -offer of marriage, but says to my wife that she supposes she, my wife, -will not blame her--as it was in self-defence. My wife has her own -ideas, but this is an outrageous misapprehension of her views. -Outrageous." - -The good little man paused and then added weightily: - -"I didn't tell that to my brother-in-law--I mean, my wife's views." - -"No," I said. "What would have been the good?" - -"It's positive infatuation," agreed little Fyne, in the tone as though he -had made an awful discovery. "I have never seen anything so hopeless and -inexplicable in my life. I--I felt quite frightened and sorry," he -added, while I looked at him curiously asking myself whether this -excellent civil servant and notable pedestrian had felt the breath of a -great and fatal love-spell passing him by in the room of that East-end -hotel. He did look for a moment as though he had seen a ghost, an other- -world thing. But that look vanished instantaneously, and he nodded at me -with mere exasperation at something quite of this world--whatever it was. -"It's a bad business. My brother-in-law knows nothing of women," he -cried with an air of profound, experienced wisdom. - -What he imagined he knew of women himself I can't tell. I did not know -anything of the opportunities he might have had. But this is a subject -which, if approached with undue solemnity, is apt to elude one's grasp -entirely. No doubt Fyne knew something of a woman who was Captain -Anthony's sister. But that, admittedly, had been a very solemn study. I -smiled at him gently, and as if encouraged or provoked, he completed his -thought rather explosively. - -"And that girl understands nothing . . . It's sheer lunacy." - -"I don't know," I said, "whether the circumstances of isolation at sea -would be any alleviation to the danger. But it's certain that they shall -have the opportunity to learn everything about each other in a lonely -_tete-a-tete_." - -"But dash it all," he cried in hollow accents which at the same time had -the tone of bitter irony--I had never before heard a sound so quaintly -ugly and almost horrible--"You forget Mr. Smith." - -"What Mr. Smith?" I asked innocently. - -Fyne made an extraordinary simiesque grimace. I believe it was quite -involuntary, but you know that a grave, much-lined, shaven countenance -when distorted in an unusual way is extremely apelike. It was a -surprising sight, and rendered me not only speechless but stopped the -progress of my thought completely. I must have presented a remarkably -imbecile appearance. - -"My brother-in-law considered it amusing to chaff me about us introducing -the girl as Miss Smith," said Fyne, going surly in a moment. "He said -that perhaps if he had heard her real name from the first it might have -restrained him. As it was, he made the discovery too late. Asked me to -tell Zoe this together with a lot more nonsense." - -Fyne gave me the impression of having escaped from a man inspired by a -grimly playful ebullition of high spirits. It must have been most -distasteful to him; and his solemnity got damaged somehow in the process, -I perceived. There were holes in it through which I could see a new, an -unknown Fyne. - -"You wouldn't believe it," he went on, "but she looks upon her father -exclusively as a victim. I don't know," he burst out suddenly through an -enormous rent in his solemnity, "if she thinks him absolutely a saint, -but she certainly imagines him to be a martyr." - -It is one of the advantages of that magnificent invention, the prison, -that you may forget people which are put there as though they were dead. -One needn't worry about them. Nothing can happen to them that you can -help. They can do nothing which might possibly matter to anybody. They -come out of it, though, but that seems hardly an advantage to themselves -or anyone else. I had completely forgotten the financier de Barral. The -girl for me was an orphan, but now I perceived suddenly the force of -Fyne's qualifying statement, "to a certain extent." It would have been -infinitely more kind all round for the law to have shot, beheaded, -strangled, or otherwise destroyed this absurd de Barral, who was a danger -to a moral world inhabited by a credulous multitude not fit to take care -of itself. But I observed to Fyne that, however insane was the view she -held, one could not declare the girl mad on that account. - -"So she thinks of her father--does she? I suppose she would appear to us -saner if she thought only of herself." - -"I am positive," Fyne said earnestly, "that she went and made desperate -eyes at Anthony . . . " - -"Oh come!" I interrupted. "You haven't seen her make eyes. You don't -know the colour of her eyes." - -"Very well! It don't matter. But it could hardly have come to that if -she hadn't . . . It's all one, though. I tell you she has led him on, or -accepted him, if you like, simply because she was thinking of her father. -She doesn't care a bit about Anthony, I believe. She cares for no one. -Never cared for anyone. Ask Zoe. For myself I don't blame her," added -Fyne, giving me another view of unsuspected things through the rags and -tatters of his damaged solemnity. "No! by heavens, I don't blame her--the -poor devil." - -I agreed with him silently. I suppose affections are, in a sense, to be -learned. If there exists a native spark of love in all of us, it must be -fanned while we are young. Hers, if she ever had it, had been drenched -in as ugly a lot of corrosive liquid as could be imagined. But I was -surprised at Fyne obscurely feeling this. - -"She loves no one except that preposterous advertising shark," he pursued -venomously, but in a more deliberate manner. "And Anthony knows it." - -"Does he?" I said doubtfully. - -"She's quite capable of having told him herself," affirmed Fyne, with -amazing insight. "But whether or no, _I've_ told him." - -"You did? From Mrs. Fyne, of course." - -Fyne only blinked owlishly at this piece of my insight. - -"And how did Captain Anthony receive this interesting information?" I -asked further. - -"Most improperly," said Fyne, who really was in a state in which he -didn't mind what he blurted out. "He isn't himself. He begged me to -tell his sister that he offered no remarks on her conduct. Very improper -and inconsequent. He said . . . I was tired of this wrangling. I told -him I made allowances for the state of excitement he was in." - -"You know, Fyne," I said, "a man in jail seems to me such an incredible, -cruel, nightmarish sort of thing that I can hardly believe in his -existence. Certainly not in relation to any other existences." - -"But dash it all," cried Fyne, "he isn't shut up for life. They are -going to let him out. He's coming out! That's the whole trouble. What -is he coming out to, I want to know? It seems a more cruel business than -the shutting him up was. This has been the worry for weeks. Do you see -now?" - -I saw, all sorts of things! Immediately before me I saw the excitement -of little Fyne--mere food for wonder. Further off, in a sort of gloom -and beyond the light of day and the movement of the street, I saw the -figure of a man, stiff like a ramrod, moving with small steps, a slight -girlish figure by his side. And the gloom was like the gloom of -villainous slums, of misery, of wretchedness, of a starved and degraded -existence. It was a relief that I could see only their shabby hopeless -backs. He was an awful ghost. But indeed to call him a ghost was only a -refinement of polite speech, and a manner of concealing one's terror of -such things. Prisons are wonderful contrivances. Shut--open. Very -neat. Shut--open. And out comes some sort of corpse, to wander awfully -in a world in which it has no possible connections and carrying with it -the appalling tainted atmosphere of its silent abode. Marvellous -arrangement. It works automatically, and, when you look at it, the -perfection makes you sick; which for a mere mechanism is no mean triumph. -Sick and scared. It had nearly scared that poor girl to her death. Fancy -having to take such a thing by the hand! Now I understood the remorseful -strain I had detected in her speeches. - -"By Jove!" I said. "They are about to let him out! I never thought of -that." - -Fyne was contemptuous either of me or of things at large. - -"You didn't suppose he was to be kept in jail for life?" - -At that moment I caught sight of Flora de Barral at the junction of the -two streets. Then some vehicles following each other in quick succession -hid from my sight the black slight figure with just a touch of colour in -her hat. She was walking slowly; and it might have been caution or -reluctance. While listening to Fyne I stared hard past his shoulder -trying to catch sight of her again. He was going on with positive heat, -the rags of his solemnity dropping off him at every second sentence. - -That was just it. His wife and he had been perfectly aware of it. Of -course the girl never talked of her father with Mrs. Fyne. I suppose -with her theory of innocence she found it difficult. But she must have -been thinking of it day and night. What to do with him? Where to go? -How to keep body and soul together? He had never made any friends. The -only relations were the atrocious East-end cousins. We know what they -were. Nothing but wretchedness, whichever way she turned in an unjust -and prejudiced world. And to look at him helplessly she felt would be -too much for her. - -I won't say I was thinking these thoughts. It was not necessary. This -complete knowledge was in my head while I stared hard across the wide -road, so hard that I failed to hear little Fyne till he raised his deep -voice indignantly. - -"I don't blame the girl," he was saying. "He is infatuated with her. -Anybody can see that. Why she should have got such a hold on him I can't -understand. She said "Yes" to him only for the sake of that fatuous, -swindling father of hers. It's perfectly plain if one thinks it over a -moment. One needn't even think of it. We have it under her own hand. In -that letter to my wife she says she has acted unscrupulously. She has -owned up, then, for what else can it mean, I should like to know. And so -they are to be married before that old idiot comes out . . . He will be -surprised," commented Fyne suddenly in a strangely malignant tone. "He -shall be met at the jail door by a Mrs. Anthony, a Mrs. Captain Anthony. -Very pleasant for Zoe. And for all I know, my brother-in-law means to -turn up dutifully too. A little family event. It's extremely pleasant -to think of. Delightful. A charming family party. We three against the -world--and all that sort of thing. And what for. For a girl that -doesn't care twopence for him." - -The demon of bitterness had entered into little Fyne. He amazed me as -though he had changed his skin from white to black. It was quite as -wonderful. And he kept it up, too. - -"Luckily there are some advantages in the--the profession of a sailor. As -long as they defy the world away at sea somewhere eighteen thousand miles -from here, I don't mind so much. I wonder what that interesting old -party will say. He will have another surprise. They mean to drag him -along with them on board the ship straight away. Rescue work. Just -think of Roderick Anthony, the son of a gentleman, after all . . . " - -He gave me a little shock. I thought he was going to say the "son of the -poet" as usual; but his mind was not running on such vanities now. His -unspoken thought must have gone on "and uncle of my girls." I suspect -that he had been roughly handled by Captain Anthony up there, and the -resentment gave a tremendous fillip to the slow play of his wits. Those -men of sober fancy, when anything rouses their imaginative faculty, are -very thorough. "Just think!" he cried. "The three of them crowded into -a four-wheeler, and Anthony sitting deferentially opposite that -astonished old jail-bird!" - -The good little man laughed. An improper sound it was to come from his -manly chest; and what made it worse was the thought that for the least -thing, by a mere hair's breadth, he might have taken this affair -sentimentally. But clearly Anthony was no diplomatist. His brother-in- -law must have appeared to him, to use the language of shore people, a -perfect philistine with a heart like a flint. What Fyne precisely meant -by "wrangling" I don't know, but I had no doubt that these two had -"wrangled" to a profoundly disturbing extent. How much the other was -affected I could not even imagine; but the man before me was quite -amazingly upset. - -"In a four-wheeler! Take him on board!" I muttered, startled by the -change in Fyne. - -"That's the plan--nothing less. If I am to believe what I have been -told, his feet will scarcely touch the ground between the prison-gates -and the deck of that ship." - -The transformed Fyne spoke in a forcibly lowered tone which I heard -without difficulty. The rumbling, composite noises of the street were -hushed for a moment, during one of these sudden breaks in the traffic as -if the stream of commerce had dried up at its source. Having an -unobstructed view past Fyne's shoulder, I was astonished to see that the -girl was still there. I thought she had gone up long before. But there -was her black slender figure, her white face under the roses of her hat. -She stood on the edge of the pavement as people stand on the bank of a -stream, very still, as if waiting--or as if unconscious of where she was. -The three dismal, sodden loafers (I could see them too; they hadn't -budged an inch) seemed to me to be watching her. Which was horrible. - -Meantime Fyne was telling me rather remarkable things--for him. He -declared first it was a mercy in a sense. Then he asked me if it were -not real madness, to saddle one's existence with such a perpetual -reminder. The daily existence. The isolated sea-bound existence. To -bring such an additional strain into the solitude already trying enough -for two people was the craziest thing. Undesirable relations were bad -enough on shore. One could cut them or at least forget their existence -now and then. He himself was preparing to forget his brother-in-law's -existence as much as possible. - -That was the general sense of his remarks, not his exact words. I -thought that his wife's brother's existence had never been very -embarrassing to him but that now of course he would have to abstain from -his allusions to the "son of the poet--you know." I said "yes, yes" in -the pauses because I did not want him to turn round; and all the time I -was watching the girl intently. I thought I knew now what she meant with -her--"He was most generous." Yes. Generosity of character may carry a -man through any situation. But why didn't she go then to her generous -man? Why stand there as if clinging to this solid earth which she surely -hated as one must hate the place where one has been tormented, hopeless, -unhappy? Suddenly she stirred. Was she going to cross over? No. She -turned and began to walk slowly close to the curbstone, reminding me of -the time when I discovered her walking near the edge of a ninety-foot -sheer drop. It was the same impression, the same carriage, straight, -slim, with rigid head and the two hands hanging lightly clasped in -front--only now a small sunshade was dangling from them. I saw something -fateful in that deliberate pacing towards the inconspicuous door with the -words _Hotel Entrance_ on the glass panels. - -She was abreast of it now and I thought that she would stop again; but -no! She swerved rigidly--at the moment there was no one near her; she -had that bit of pavement to herself--with inanimate slowness as if moved -by something outside herself. - -"A confounded convict," Fyne burst out. - -With the sound of that word offending my ears I saw the girl extend her -arm, push the door open a little way and glide in. I saw plainly that -movement, the hand put out in advance with the gesture of a sleep-walker. - -She had vanished, her black figure had melted in the darkness of the open -door. For some time Fyne said nothing; and I thought of the girl going -upstairs, appearing before the man. Were they looking at each other in -silence and feeling they were alone in the world as lovers should at the -moment of meeting? But that fine forgetfulness was surely impossible to -Anthony the seaman directly after the wrangling interview with Fyne the -emissary of an order of things which stops at the edge of the sea. How -much he was disturbed I couldn't tell because I did not know what that -impetuous lover had had to listen to. - -"Going to take the old fellow to sea with them," I said. "Well I really -don't see what else they could have done with him. You told your brother- -in-law what you thought of it? I wonder how he took it." - -"Very improperly," repeated Fyne. "His manner was offensive, derisive, -from the first. I don't mean he was actually rude in words. Hang it -all, I am not a contemptible ass. But he was exulting at having got hold -of a miserable girl." - -"It is pretty certain that she will be much less poor and miserable," I -murmured. - -It looked as if the exultation of Captain Anthony had got on Fyne's -nerves. "I told the fellow very plainly that he was abominably selfish -in this," he affirmed unexpectedly. - -"You did! Selfish!" I said rather taken aback. "But what if the girl -thought that, on the contrary, he was most generous." - -"What do you know about it," growled Fyne. The rents and slashes of his -solemnity were closing up gradually but it was going to be a surly -solemnity. "Generosity! I am disposed to give it another name. No. Not -folly," he shot out at me as though I had meant to interrupt him. "Still -another. Something worse. I need not tell you what it is," he added -with grim meaning. - -"Certainly. You needn't--unless you like," I said blankly. Little Fyne -had never interested me so much since the beginning of the de -Barral-Anthony affair when I first perceived possibilities in him. The -possibilities of dull men are exciting because when they happen they -suggest legendary cases of "possession," not exactly by the devil but, -anyhow, by a strange spirit. - -"I told him it was a shame," said Fyne. "Even if the girl did make eyes -at him--but I think with you that she did not. Yes! A shame to take -advantage of a girl's--a distresses girl that does not love him in the -least." - -"You think it's so bad as that?" I said. "Because you know I don't." - -"What can you think about it," he retorted on me with a solemn stare. "I -go by her letter to my wife." - -"Ah! that famous letter. But you haven't actually read it," I said. - -"No, but my wife told me. Of course it was a most improper sort of -letter to write considering the circumstances. It pained Mrs. Fyne to -discover how thoroughly she had been misunderstood. But what is written -is not all. It's what my wife could read between the lines. She says -that the girl is really terrified at heart." - -"She had not much in life to give her any very special courage for it, or -any great confidence in mankind. That's very true. But this seems an -exaggeration." - -"I should like to know what reasons you have to say that," asked Fyne -with offended solemnity. "I really don't see any. But I had sufficient -authority to tell my brother-in-law that if he thought he was going to do -something chivalrous and fine he was mistaken. I can see very well that -he will do everything she asks him to do--but, all the same, it is rather -a pitiless transaction." - -For a moment I felt it might be so. Fyne caught sight of an approaching -tram-car and stepped out on the road to meet it. "Have you a more -compassionate scheme ready?" I called after him. He made no answer, -clambered on to the rear platform, and only then looked back. We -exchanged a perfunctory wave of the hand. We also looked at each other, -he rather angrily, I fancy, and I with wonder. I may also mention that -it was for the last time. From that day I never set eyes on the Fynes. -As usual the unexpected happened to me. It had nothing to do with Flora -de Barral. The fact is that I went away. My call was not like her call. -Mine was not urged on me with passionate vehemence or tender gentleness -made all the finer and more compelling by the allurements of generosity -which is a virtue as mysterious as any other but having a glamour of its -own. No, it was just a prosaic offer of employment on rather good terms -which, with a sudden sense of having wasted my time on shore long enough, -I accepted without misgivings. And once started out of my indolence I -went, as my habit was, very, very far away and for a long, long time. -Which is another proof of my indolence. How far Flora went I can't say. -But I will tell you my idea: my idea is that she went as far as she was -able--as far as she could bear it--as far as she had to . . . " - - - - -PART II--THE KNIGHT - - -CHAPTER ONE--THE FERNDALE - - -I have said that the story of Flora de Barral was imparted to me in -stages. At this stage I did not see Marlow for some time. At last, one -evening rather early, very soon after dinner, he turned up in my rooms. - -I had been waiting for his call primed with a remark which had not -occurred to me till after he had gone away. - -"I say," I tackled him at once, "how can you be certain that Flora de -Barral ever went to sea? After all, the wife of the captain of the -_Ferndale_--" the lady that mustn't be disturbed "of the old -ship-keeper--may not have been Flora." - -"Well, I do know," he said, "if only because I have been keeping in touch -with Mr. Powell." - -"You have!" I cried. "This is the first I hear of it. And since when?" - -"Why, since the first day. You went up to town leaving me in the inn. I -slept ashore. In the morning Mr. Powell came in for breakfast; and after -the first awkwardness of meeting a man you have been yarning with over- -night had worn off, we discovered a liking for each other." - -As I had discovered the fact of their mutual liking before either of -them, I was not surprised. - -"And so you kept in touch," I said. - -"It was not so very difficult. As he was always knocking about the river -I hired Dingle's sloop-rigged three-tonner to be more on an equality. -Powell was friendly but elusive. I don't think he ever wanted to avoid -me. But it is a fact that he used to disappear out of the river in a -very mysterious manner sometimes. A man may land anywhere and bolt -inland--but what about his five-ton cutter? You can't carry that in your -hand like a suit-case. - -"Then as suddenly he would reappear in the river, after one had given him -up. I did not like to be beaten. That's why I hired Dingle's decked -boat. There was just the accommodation in her to sleep a man and a dog. -But I had no dog-friend to invite. Fyne's dog who saved Flora de -Barral's life is the last dog-friend I had. I was rather lonely cruising -about; but that, too, on the river has its charm, sometimes. I chased -the mystery of the vanishing Powell dreamily, looking about me at the -ships, thinking of the girl Flora, of life's chances--and, do you know, -it was very simple." - -"What was very simple?" I asked innocently. - -"The mystery." - -"They generally are that," I said. - -Marlow eyed me for a moment in a peculiar manner. - -"Well, I have discovered the mystery of Powell's disappearances. The -fellow used to run into one of these narrow tidal creeks on the Essex -shore. These creeks are so inconspicuous that till I had studied the -chart pretty carefully I did not know of their existence. One afternoon, -I made Powell's boat out, heading into the shore. By the time I got -close to the mud-flat his craft had disappeared inland. But I could see -the mouth of the creek by then. The tide being on the turn I took the -risk of getting stuck in the mud suddenly and headed in. All I had to -guide me was the top of the roof of some sort of small building. I got -in more by good luck than by good management. The sun had set some time -before; my boat glided in a sort of winding ditch between two low grassy -banks; on both sides of me was the flatness of the Essex marsh, perfectly -still. All I saw moving was a heron; he was flying low, and disappeared -in the murk. Before I had gone half a mile, I was up with the building -the roof of which I had seen from the river. It looked like a small -barn. A row of piles driven into the soft bank in front of it and -supporting a few planks made a sort of wharf. All this was black in the -falling dusk, and I could just distinguish the whitish ruts of a cart- -track stretching over the marsh towards the higher land, far away. Not a -sound was to be heard. Against the low streak of light in the sky I -could see the mast of Powell's cutter moored to the bank some twenty -yards, no more, beyond that black barn or whatever it was. I hailed him -with a loud shout. Got no answer. After making fast my boat just -astern, I walked along the bank to have a look at Powell's. Being so -much bigger than mine she was aground already. Her sails were furled; -the slide of her scuttle hatch was closed and padlocked. Powell was -gone. He had walked off into that dark, still marsh somewhere. I had -not seen a single house anywhere near; there did not seem to be any human -habitation for miles; and now as darkness fell denser over the land I -couldn't see the glimmer of a single light. However, I supposed that -there must be some village or hamlet not very far away; or only one of -these mysterious little inns one comes upon sometimes in most unexpected -and lonely places. - -"The stillness was oppressive. I went back to my boat, made some coffee -over a spirit-lamp, devoured a few biscuits, and stretched myself aft, to -smoke and gaze at the stars. The earth was a mere shadow, formless and -silent, and empty, till a bullock turned up from somewhere, quite shadowy -too. He came smartly to the very edge of the bank as though he meant to -step on board, stretched his muzzle right over my boat, blew heavily -once, and walked off contemptuously into the darkness from which he had -come. I had not expected a call from a bullock, though a moment's -thought would have shown me that there must be lots of cattle and sheep -on that marsh. Then everything became still as before. I might have -imagined myself arrived on a desert island. In fact, as I reclined -smoking a sense of absolute loneliness grew on me. And just as it had -become intense, very abruptly and without any preliminary sound I heard -firm, quick footsteps on the little wharf. Somebody coming along the -cart-track had just stepped at a swinging gait on to the planks. That -somebody could only have been Mr. Powell. Suddenly he stopped short, -having made out that there were two masts alongside the bank where he had -left only one. Then he came on silent on the grass. When I spoke to him -he was astonished. - -"Who would have thought of seeing you here!" he exclaimed, after -returning my good evening. - -"I told him I had run in for company. It was rigorously true." - -"You knew I was here?" he exclaimed. - -"Of course," I said. "I tell you I came in for company." - -"He is a really good fellow," went on Marlow. "And his capacity for -astonishment is quickly exhausted, it seems. It was in the most matter- -of-fact manner that he said, 'Come on board of me, then; I have here -enough supper for two.' He was holding a bulky parcel in the crook of -his arm. I did not wait to be asked twice, as you may guess. His cutter -has a very neat little cabin, quite big enough for two men not only to -sleep but to sit and smoke in. We left the scuttle wide open, of course. -As to his provisions for supper, they were not of a luxurious kind. He -complained that the shops in the village were miserable. There was a big -village within a mile and a half. It struck me he had been very long -doing his shopping; but naturally I made no remark. I didn't want to -talk at all except for the purpose of setting him going." - -"And did you set him going?" I asked. - -"I did," said Marlow, composing his features into an impenetrable -expression which somehow assured me of his success better than an air of -triumph could have done. - -* * * * * - -"You made him talk?" I said after a silence. - -"Yes, I made him . . . about himself." - -"And to the point?" - -"If you mean by this," said Marlow, "that it was about the voyage of the -_Ferndale_, then again, yes. I brought him to talk about that voyage, -which, by the by, was not the first voyage of Flora de Barral. The man -himself, as I told you, is simple, and his faculty of wonder not very -great. He's one of those people who form no theories about facts. -Straightforward people seldom do. Neither have they much penetration. -But in this case it did not matter. I--we--have already the inner -knowledge. We know the history of Flora de Barral. We know something of -Captain Anthony. We have the secret of the situation. The man was -intoxicated with the pity and tenderness of his part. Oh yes! -Intoxicated is not too strong a word; for you know that love and desire -take many disguises. I believe that the girl had been frank with him, -with the frankness of women to whom perfect frankness is impossible, -because so much of their safety depends on judicious reticences. I am -not indulging in cheap sneers. There is necessity in these things. And -moreover she could not have spoken with a certain voice in the face of -his impetuosity, because she did not have time to understand either the -state of her feelings, or the precise nature of what she was doing. - -Had she spoken ever so clearly he was, I take it, too elated to hear her -distinctly. I don't mean to imply that he was a fool. Oh dear no! But -he had no training in the usual conventions, and we must remember that he -had no experience whatever of women. He could only have an ideal -conception of his position. An ideal is often but a flaming vision of -reality. - -To him enters Fyne, wound up, if I may express myself so irreverently, -wound up to a high pitch by his wife's interpretation of the girl's -letter. He enters with his talk of meanness and cruelty, like a bucket -of water on the flame. Clearly a shock. But the effects of a bucket of -water are diverse. They depend on the kind of flame. A mere blaze of -dry straw, of course . . . but there can be no question of straw there. -Anthony of the _Ferndale_ was not, could not have been, a straw-stuffed -specimen of a man. There are flames a bucket of water sends leaping sky- -high. - -We may well wonder what happened when, after Fyne had left him, the -hesitating girl went up at last and opened the door of that room where -our man, I am certain, was not extinguished. Oh no! Nor cold; whatever -else he might have been. - -It is conceivable he might have cried at her in the first moment of -humiliation, of exasperation, "Oh, it's you! Why are you here? If I am -so odious to you that you must write to my sister to say so, I give you -back your word." But then, don't you see, it could not have been that. I -have the practical certitude that soon afterwards they went together in a -hansom to see the ship--as agreed. That was my reason for saying that -Flora de Barral did go to sea . . . " - -"Yes. It seems conclusive," I agreed. "But even without that--if, as -you seem to think, the very desolation of that girlish figure had a sort -of perversely seductive charm, making its way through his compassion to -his senses (and everything is possible)--then such words could not have -been spoken." - -"They might have escaped him involuntarily," observed Marlow. "However, -a plain fact settles it. They went off together to see the ship." - -"Do you conclude from this that nothing whatever was said?" I inquired. - -"I should have liked to see the first meeting of their glances upstairs -there," mused Marlow. "And perhaps nothing was said. But no man comes -out of such a 'wrangle' (as Fyne called it) without showing some traces -of it. And you may be sure that a girl so bruised all over would feel -the slightest touch of anything resembling coldness. She was -mistrustful; she could not be otherwise; for the energy of evil is so -much more forcible than the energy of good that she could not help -looking still upon her abominable governess as an authority. How could -one have expected her to throw off the unholy prestige of that long -domination? She could not help believing what she had been told; that -she was in some mysterious way odious and unlovable. It was cruelly -true--_to her_. The oracle of so many years had spoken finally. Only -other people did not find her out at once . . . I would not go so far as -to say she believed it altogether. That would be hardly possible. But -then haven't the most flattered, the most conceited of us their moments -of doubt? Haven't they? Well, I don't know. There may be lucky beings -in this world unable to believe any evil of themselves. For my own part -I'll tell you that once, many years ago now, it came to my knowledge that -a fellow I had been mixed up with in a certain transaction--a clever -fellow whom I really despised--was going around telling people that I was -a consummate hypocrite. He could know nothing of it. It suited his -humour to say so. I had given him no ground for that particular calumny. -Yet to this day there are moments when it comes into my mind, and -involuntarily I ask myself, 'What if it were true?' It's absurd, but it -has on one or two occasions nearly affected my conduct. And yet I was -not an impressionable ignorant young girl. I had taken the exact measure -of the fellow's utter worthlessness long before. He had never been for -me a person of prestige and power, like that awful governess to Flora de -Barral. See the might of suggestion? We live at the mercy of a -malevolent word. A sound, a mere disturbance of the air, sinks into our -very soul sometimes. Flora de Barral had been more astounded than -convinced by the first impetuosity of Roderick Anthony. She let herself -be carried along by a mysterious force which her person had called into -being, as her father had been carried away out of his depth by the -unexpected power of successful advertising. - -They went on board that morning. The _Ferndale_ had just come to her -loading berth. The only living creature on board was the -ship-keeper--whether the same who had been described to us by Mr. Powell, -or another, I don't know. Possibly some other man. He, looking over the -side, saw, in his own words, 'the captain come sailing round the corner -of the nearest cargo-shed, in company with a girl.' He lowered the -accommodation ladder down on to the jetty . . . " - -"How do you know all this?" I interrupted. - -Marlow interjected an impatient: - -"You shall see by and by . . . Flora went up first, got down on deck and -stood stock-still till the captain took her by the arm and led her aft. -The ship-keeper let them into the saloon. He had the keys of all the -cabins, and stumped in after them. The captain ordered him to open all -the doors, every blessed door; state-rooms, passages, pantry, -fore-cabin--and then sent him away. - -"The _Ferndale_ had magnificent accommodation. At the end of a passage -leading from the quarter-deck there was a long saloon, its sumptuosity -slightly tarnished perhaps, but having a grand air of roominess and -comfort. The harbour carpets were down, the swinging lamps hung, and -everything in its place, even to the silver on the sideboard. Two large -stern cabins opened out of it, one on each side of the rudder casing. -These two cabins communicated through a small bathroom between them, and -one was fitted up as the captain's state-room. The other was vacant, and -furnished with arm-chairs and a round table, more like a room on shore, -except for the long curved settee following the shape of the ship's -stern. In a dim inclined mirror, Flora caught sight down to the waist of -a pale-faced girl in a white straw hat trimmed with roses, distant, -shadowy, as if immersed in water, and was surprised to recognize herself -in those surroundings. They seemed to her arbitrary, bizarre, strange. -Captain Anthony moved on, and she followed him. He showed her the other -cabins. He talked all the time loudly in a voice she seemed to have -known extremely well for a long time; and yet, she reflected, she had not -heard it often in her life. What he was saying she did not quite follow. -He was speaking of comparatively indifferent things in a rather moody -tone, but she felt it round her like a caress. And when he stopped she -could hear, alarming in the sudden silence, the precipitated beating of -her heart. - -The ship-keeper dodged about the quarter-deck, out of hearing, and trying -to keep out of sight. At the same time, taking advantage of the open -doors with skill and prudence, he could see the captain and "that girl" -the captain had brought aboard. The captain was showing her round very -thoroughly. Through the whole length of the passage, far away aft in the -perspective of the saloon the ship-keeper had interesting glimpses of -them as they went in and out of the various cabins, crossing from side to -side, remaining invisible for a time in one or another of the -state-rooms, and then reappearing again in the distance. The girl, -always following the captain, had her sunshade in her hands. Mostly she -would hang her head, but now and then she would look up. They had a lot -to say to each other, and seemed to forget they weren't alone in the -ship. He saw the captain put his hand on her shoulder, and was preparing -himself with a certain zest for what might follow, when the "old man" -seemed to recollect himself, and came striding down all the length of the -saloon. At this move the ship-keeper promptly dodged out of sight, as -you may believe, and heard the captain slam the inner door of the -passage. After that disappointment the ship-keeper waited resentfully -for them to clear out of the ship. It happened much sooner than he had -expected. The girl walked out on deck first. As before she did not look -round. She didn't look at anything; and she seemed to be in such a hurry -to get ashore that she made for the gangway and started down the ladder -without waiting for the captain. - -What struck the ship-keeper most was the absent, unseeing expression of -the captain, striding after the girl. He passed him, the ship-keeper, -without notice, without an order, without so much as a look. The captain -had never done so before. Always had a nod and a pleasant word for a -man. From this slight the ship-keeper drew a conclusion unfavourable to -the strange girl. He gave them time to get down on the wharf before -crossing the deck to steal one more look at the pair over the rail. The -captain took hold of the girl's arm just before a couple of railway -trucks drawn by a horse came rolling along and hid them from the ship- -keeper's sight for good. - -Next day, when the chief mate joined the ship, he told him the tale of -the visit, and expressed himself about the girl "who had got hold of the -captain" disparagingly. She didn't look healthy, he explained. "Shabby -clothes, too," he added spitefully. - -The mate was very much interested. He had been with Anthony for several -years, and had won for himself in the course of many long voyages, a -footing of familiarity, which was to be expected with a man of Anthony's -character. But in that slowly-grown intimacy of the sea, which in its -duration and solitude had its unguarded moments, no words had passed, -even of the most casual, to prepare him for the vision of his captain -associated with any kind of girl. His impression had been that women did -not exist for Captain Anthony. Exhibiting himself with a girl! A girl! -What did he want with a girl? Bringing her on board and showing her -round the cabin! That was really a little bit too much. Captain Anthony -ought to have known better. - -Franklin (the chief mate's name was Franklin) felt disappointed; almost -disillusioned. Silly thing to do! Here was a confounded old ship-keeper -set talking. He snubbed the ship-keeper, and tried to think of that -insignificant bit of foolishness no more; for it diminished Captain -Anthony in his eyes of a jealously devoted subordinate. - -Franklin was over forty; his mother was still alive. She stood in the -forefront of all women for him, just as Captain Anthony stood in the -forefront of all men. We may suppose that these groups were not very -large. He had gone to sea at a very early age. The feeling which caused -these two people to partly eclipse the rest of mankind were of course not -similar; though in time he had acquired the conviction that he was -"taking care" of them both. The "old lady" of course had to be looked -after as long as she lived. In regard to Captain Anthony, he used to say -that: why should he leave him? It wasn't likely that he would come -across a better sailor or a better man or a more comfortable ship. As to -trying to better himself in the way of promotion, commands were not the -sort of thing one picked up in the streets, and when it came to that, -Captain Anthony was as likely to give him a lift on occasion as anyone in -the world. - -From Mr. Powell's description Franklin was a short, thick black-haired -man, bald on the top. His head sunk between the shoulders, his staring -prominent eyes and a florid colour, gave him a rather apoplectic -appearance. In repose, his congested face had a humorously melancholy -expression. - -The ship-keeper having given him up all the keys and having been chased -forward with the admonition to mind his own business and not to chatter -about what did not concern him, Mr. Franklin went under the poop. He -opened one door after another; and, in the saloon, in the captain's state- -room and everywhere, he stared anxiously as if expecting to see on the -bulkheads, on the deck, in the air, something unusual--sign, mark, -emanation, shadow--he hardly knew what--some subtle change wrought by the -passage of a girl. But there was nothing. He entered the unoccupied -stern cabin and spent some time there unscrewing the two stern ports. In -the absence of all material evidences his uneasiness was passing away. -With a last glance round he came out and found himself in the presence of -his captain advancing from the other end of the saloon. - -Franklin, at once, looked for the girl. She wasn't to be seen. The -captain came up quickly. 'Oh! you are here, Mr. Franklin.' And the mate -said, 'I was giving a little air to the place, sir.' Then the captain, -his hat pulled down over his eyes, laid his stick on the table and asked -in his kind way: 'How did you find your mother, Franklin?'--'The old -lady's first-rate, sir, thank you.' And then they had nothing to say to -each other. It was a strange and disturbing feeling for Franklin. He, -just back from leave, the ship just come to her loading berth, the -captain just come on board, and apparently nothing to say! The several -questions he had been anxious to ask as to various things which had to be -done had slipped out of his mind. He, too, felt as though he had nothing -to say. - -The captain, picking up his stick off the table, marched into his state- -room and shut the door after him. Franklin remained still for a moment -and then started slowly to go on deck. But before he had time to reach -the other end of the saloon he heard himself called by name. He turned -round. The captain was staring from the doorway of his state-room. -Franklin said, "Yes, sir." But the captain, silent, leaned a little -forward grasping the door handle. So he, Franklin, walked aft keeping -his eyes on him. When he had come up quite close he said again, "Yes, -sir?" interrogatively. Still silence. The mate didn't like to be stared -at in that manner, a manner quite new in his captain, with a defiant and -self-conscious stare, like a man who feels ill and dares you to notice -it. Franklin gazed at his captain, felt that there was something wrong, -and in his simplicity voiced his feelings by asking point-blank: - -"What's wrong, sir?" - -The captain gave a slight start, and the character of his stare changed -to a sort of sinister surprise. Franklin grew very uncomfortable, but -the captain asked negligently: - -"What makes you think that there's something wrong?" - -"I can't say exactly. You don't look quite yourself, sir," Franklin -owned up. - -"You seem to have a confoundedly piercing eye," said the captain in such -an aggressive tone that Franklin was moved to defend himself. - -"We have been together now over six years, sir, so I suppose I know you a -bit by this time. I could see there was something wrong directly you -came on board." - -"Mr. Franklin," said the captain, "we have been more than six years -together, it is true, but I didn't know you for a reader of faces. You -are not a correct reader though. It's very far from being wrong. You -understand? As far from being wrong as it can very well be. It ought to -teach you not to make rash surmises. You should leave that to the shore -people. They are great hands at spying out something wrong. I dare say -they know what they have made of the world. A dam' poor job of it and -that's plain. It's a confoundedly ugly place, Mr. Franklin. You don't -know anything of it? Well--no, we sailors don't. Only now and then one -of us runs against something cruel or underhand, enough to make your hair -stand on end. And when you do see a piece of their wickedness you find -that to set it right is not so easy as it looks . . . Oh! I called you -back to tell you that there will be a lot of workmen, joiners and all -that sent down on board first thing to-morrow morning to start making -alterations in the cabin. You will see to it that they don't loaf. There -isn't much time." - -Franklin was impressed by this unexpected lecture upon the wickedness of -the solid world surrounded by the salt, uncorruptible waters on which he -and his captain had dwelt all their lives in happy innocence. What he -could not understand was why it should have been delivered, and what -connection it could have with such a matter as the alterations to be -carried out in the cabin. The work did not seem to him to be called for -in such a hurry. What was the use of altering anything? It was a very -good accommodation, spacious, well-distributed, on a rather old-fashioned -plan, and with its decorations somewhat tarnished. But a dab of varnish, -a touch of gilding here and there, was all that was necessary. As to -comfort, it could not be improved by any alterations. He resented the -notion of change; but he said dutifully that he would keep his eye on the -workmen if the captain would only let him know what was the nature of the -work he had ordered to be done. - -"You'll find a note of it on this table. I'll leave it for you as I go -ashore," said Captain Anthony hastily. Franklin thought there was no -more to hear, and made a movement to leave the saloon. But the captain -continued after a slight pause, "You will be surprised, no doubt, when -you look at it. There'll be a good many alterations. It's on account of -a lady coming with us. I am going to get married, Mr. Franklin!" - - - -CHAPTER TWO--YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS - - -"You remember," went on Marlow, "how I feared that Mr. Powell's want of -experience would stand in his way of appreciating the unusual. The -unusual I had in my mind was something of a very subtle sort: the unusual -in marital relations. I may well have doubted the capacity of a young -man too much concerned with the creditable performance of his -professional duties to observe what in the nature of things is not easily -observable in itself, and still less so under the special circumstances. -In the majority of ships a second officer has not many points of contact -with the captain's wife. He sits at the same table with her at meals, -generally speaking; he may now and then be addressed more or less kindly -on insignificant matters, and have the opportunity to show her some small -attentions on deck. And that is all. Under such conditions, signs can -be seen only by a sharp and practised eye. I am alluding now to troubles -which are subtle often to the extent of not being understood by the very -hearts they devastate or uplift. - -Yes, Mr. Powell, whom the chance of his name had thrown upon the floating -stage of that tragicomedy would have been perfectly useless for my -purpose if the unusual of an obvious kind had not aroused his attention -from the first. - -We know how he joined that ship so suddenly offered to his anxious desire -to make a real start in his profession. He had come on board breathless -with the hurried winding up of his shore affairs, accompanied by two -horrible night-birds, escorted by a dock policeman on the make, received -by an asthmatic shadow of a ship-keeper, warned not to make a noise in -the darkness of the passage because the captain and his wife were already -on board. That in itself was already somewhat unusual. Captains and -their wives do not, as a rule, join a moment sooner than is necessary. -They prefer to spend the last moments with their friends and relations. A -ship in one of London's older docks with their restrictions as to lights -and so on is not the place for a happy evening. Still, as the tide -served at six in the morning, one could understand them coming on board -the evening before. - -Just then young Powell felt as if anybody ought to be glad enough to be -quit of the shore. We know he was an orphan from a very early age, -without brothers or sisters--no near relations of any kind, I believe, -except that aunt who had quarrelled with his father. No affection stood -in the way of the quiet satisfaction with which he thought that now all -the worries were over, that there was nothing before him but duties, that -he knew what he would have to do as soon as the dawn broke and for a long -succession of days. A most soothing certitude. He enjoyed it in the -dark, stretched out in his bunk with his new blankets pulled over him. -Some clock ashore beyond the dock-gates struck two. And then he heard -nothing more, because he went off into a light sleep from which he woke -up with a start. He had not taken his clothes off, it was hardly worth -while. He jumped up and went on deck. - -The morning was clear, colourless, grey overhead; the dock like a sheet -of darkling glass crowded with upside-down reflections of warehouses, of -hulls and masts of silent ships. Rare figures moved here and there on -the distant quays. A knot of men stood alongside with clothes-bags and -wooden chests at their feet. Others were coming down the lane between -tall, blind walls, surrounding a hand-cart loaded with more bags and -boxes. It was the crew of the _Ferndale_. They began to come on board. -He scanned their faces as they passed forward filling the roomy deck with -the shuffle of their footsteps and the murmur of voices, like the -awakening to life of a world about to be launched into space. - -Far away down the clear glassy stretch in the middle of the long dock Mr. -Powell watched the tugs coming in quietly through the open gates. A -subdued firm voice behind him interrupted this contemplation. It was -Franklin, the thick chief mate, who was addressing him with a watchful -appraising stare of his prominent black eyes: "You'd better take a couple -of these chaps with you and look out for her aft. We are going to cast -off." - -"Yes, sir," Powell said with proper alacrity; but for a moment they -remained looking at each other fixedly. Something like a faint smile -altered the set of the chief mate's lips just before he moved off forward -with his brisk step. - -Mr. Powell, getting up on the poop, touched his cap to Captain Anthony, -who was there alone. He tells me that it was only then that he saw his -captain for the first time. The day before, in the shipping office, what -with the bad light and his excitement at this berth obtained as if by a -brusque and unscrupulous miracle, did not count. He had then seemed to -him much older and heavier. He was surprised at the lithe figure, broad -of shoulder, narrow at the hips, the fire of the deep-set eyes, the -springiness of the walk. The captain gave him a steady stare, nodded -slightly, and went on pacing the poop with an air of not being aware of -what was going on, his head rigid, his movements rapid. - -Powell stole several glances at him with a curiosity very natural under -the circumstances. He wore a short grey jacket and a grey cap. In the -light of the dawn, growing more limpid rather than brighter, Powell -noticed the slightly sunken cheeks under the trimmed beard, the -perpendicular fold on the forehead, something hard and set about the -mouth. - -It was too early yet for the work to have begun in the dock. The water -gleamed placidly, no movement anywhere on the long straight lines of the -quays, no one about to be seen except the few dock hands busy alongside -the _Ferndale_, knowing their work, mostly silent or exchanging a few -words in low tones as if they, too, had been aware of that lady 'who -mustn't be disturbed.' The _Ferndale_ was the only ship to leave that -tide. The others seemed still asleep, without a sound, and only here and -there a figure, coming up on the forecastle, leaned on the rail to watch -the proceedings idly. Without trouble and fuss and almost without a -sound was the _Ferndale_ leaving the land, as if stealing away. Even the -tugs, now with their engines stopped, were approaching her without a -ripple, the burly-looking paddle-boat sheering forward, while the other, -a screw, smaller and of slender shape, made for her quarter so gently -that she did not divide the smooth water, but seemed to glide on its -surface as if on a sheet of plate-glass, a man in her bow, the master at -the wheel visible only from the waist upwards above the white screen of -the bridge, both of them so still-eyed as to fascinate young Powell into -curious self-forgetfulness and immobility. He was steeped, sunk in the -general quietness, remembering the statement 'she's a lady that mustn't -be disturbed,' and repeating to himself idly: 'No. She won't be -disturbed. She won't be disturbed.' Then the first loud words of that -morning breaking that strange hush of departure with a sharp hail: 'Look -out for that line there,' made him start. The line whizzed past his -head, one of the sailors aft caught it, and there was an end to the -fascination, to the quietness of spirit which had stolen on him at the -very moment of departure. From that moment till two hours afterwards, -when the ship was brought up in one of the lower reaches of the Thames -off an apparently uninhabited shore, near some sort of inlet where -nothing but two anchored barges flying a red flag could be seen, Powell -was too busy to think of the lady 'that mustn't be disturbed,' or of his -captain--or of anything else unconnected with his immediate duties. In -fact, he had no occasion to go on the poop, or even look that way much; -but while the ship was about to anchor, casting his eyes in that -direction, he received an absurd impression that his captain (he was up -there, of course) was sitting on both sides of the aftermost skylight at -once. He was too occupied to reflect on this curious delusion, this -phenomenon of seeing double as though he had had a drop too much. He -only smiled at himself. - -As often happens after a grey daybreak the sun had risen in a warm and -glorious splendour above the smooth immense gleam of the enlarged -estuary. Wisps of mist floated like trails of luminous dust, and in the -dazzling reflections of water and vapour, the shores had the murky semi- -transparent darkness of shadows cast mysteriously from below. Powell, -who had sailed out of London all his young seaman's life, told me that it -was then, in a moment of entranced vision an hour or so after sunrise, -that the river was revealed to him for all time, like a fair face often -seen before, which is suddenly perceived to be the expression of an inner -and unsuspected beauty, of that something unique and only its own which -rouses a passion of wonder and fidelity and an unappeasable memory of its -charm. The hull of the _Ferndale_, swung head to the eastward, caught -the light, her tall spars and rigging steeped in a bath of red-gold, from -the water-line full of glitter to the trucks slight and gleaming against -the delicate expanse of the blue. - -"Time we had a mouthful to eat," said a voice at his side. It was Mr. -Franklin, the chief mate, with his head sunk between his shoulders, and -melancholy eyes. "Let the men have their breakfast, bo'sun," he went on, -"and have the fire out in the galley in half an hour at the latest, so -that we can call these barges of explosives alongside. Come along, young -man. I don't know your name. Haven't seen the captain, to speak to, -since yesterday afternoon when he rushed off to pick up a second mate -somewhere. How did he get you?" - -Young Powell, a little shy notwithstanding the friendly disposition of -the other, answered him smilingly, aware somehow that there was something -marked in this inquisitiveness, natural, after all--something anxious. -His name was Powell, and he was put in the way of this berth by Mr. -Powell, the shipping master. He blushed. - -"Ah, I see. Well, you have been smart in getting ready. The -ship-keeper, before he went away, told me you joined at one o'clock. I -didn't sleep on board last night. Not I. There was a time when I never -cared to leave this ship for more than a couple of hours in the evening, -even while in London, but now, since--" - -He checked himself with a roll of his prominent eyes towards that -youngster, that stranger. Meantime, he was leading the way across the -quarter-deck under the poop into the long passage with the door of the -saloon at the far end. It was shut. But Mr. Franklin did not go so far. -After passing the pantry he opened suddenly a door on the left of the -passage, to Powell's great surprise. - -"Our mess-room," he said, entering a small cabin painted white, bare, -lighted from part of the foremost skylight, and furnished only with a -table and two settees with movable backs. "That surprises you? Well, it -isn't usual. And it wasn't so in this ship either, before. It's only -since--" - -He checked himself again. "Yes. Here we shall feed, you and I, facing -each other for the next twelve months or more--God knows how much more! -The bo'sun keeps the deck at meal-times in fine weather." - -He talked not exactly wheezing, but like a man whose breath is somewhat -short, and the spirit (young Powell could not help thinking) embittered -by some mysterious grievance. - -There was enough of the unusual there to be recognized even by Powell's -inexperience. The officers kept out of the cabin against the custom of -the service, and then this sort of accent in the mate's talk. Franklin -did not seem to expect conversational ease from the new second mate. He -made several remarks about the old, deploring the accident. Awkward. -Very awkward this thing to happen on the very eve of sailing. - -"Collar-bone and arm broken," he sighed. "Sad, very sad. Did you notice -if the captain was at all affected? Eh? Must have been." - -Before this congested face, these globular eyes turned yearningly upon -him, young Powell (one must keep in mind he was but a youngster then) who -could not remember any signs of visible grief, confessed with an -embarrassed laugh that, owing to the suddenness of this lucky chance -coming to him, he was not in a condition to notice the state of other -people. - -"I was so pleased to get a ship at last," he murmured, further -disconcerted by the sort of pent-up gravity in Mr. Franklin's aspect. - -"One man's food another man's poison," the mate remarked. "That holds -true beyond mere victuals. I suppose it didn't occur to you that it was -a dam' poor way for a good man to be knocked out." - -Mr. Powell admitted openly that he had not thought of that. He was ready -to admit that it was very reprehensible of him. But Franklin had no -intention apparently to moralize. He did not fall silent either. His -further remarks were to the effect that there had been a time when -Captain Anthony would have showed more than enough concern for the least -thing happening to one of his officers. Yes, there had been a time! - -"And mind," he went on, laying down suddenly a half-consumed piece of -bread and butter and raising his voice, "poor Mathews was the second man -the longest on board. I was the first. He joined a month later--about -the same time as the steward by a few days. The bo'sun and the carpenter -came the voyage after. Steady men. Still here. No good man need ever -have thought of leaving the _Ferndale_ unless he were a fool. Some good -men are fools. Don't know when they are well off. I mean the best of -good men; men that you would do anything for. They go on for years, then -all of a sudden--" - -Our young friend listened to the mate with a queer sense of discomfort -growing on him. For it was as though Mr. Franklin were thinking aloud, -and putting him into the delicate position of an unwilling eavesdropper. -But there was in the mess-room another listener. It was the steward, who -had come in carrying a tin coffee-pot with a long handle, and stood -quietly by: a man with a middle-aged, sallow face, long features, heavy -eyelids, a soldierly grey moustache. His body encased in a short black -jacket with narrow sleeves, his long legs in very tight trousers, made up -an agile, youthful, slender figure. He moved forward suddenly, and -interrupted the mate's monologue. - -"More coffee, Mr. Franklin? Nice fresh lot. Piping hot. I am going to -give breakfast to the saloon directly, and the cook is raking his fire -out. Now's your chance." - -The mate who, on account of his peculiar build, could not turn his head -freely, twisted his thick trunk slightly, and ran his black eyes in the -corners towards the steward. - -"And is the precious pair of them out?" he growled. - -The steward, pouring out the coffee into the mate's cup, muttered moodily -but distinctly: "The lady wasn't when I was laying the table." - -Powell's ears were fine enough to detect something hostile in this -reference to the captain's wife. For of what other person could they be -speaking? The steward added with a gloomy sort of fairness: "But she -will be before I bring the dishes in. She never gives that sort of -trouble. That she doesn't." - -"No. Not in that way," Mr. Franklin agreed, and then both he and the -steward, after glancing at Powell--the stranger to the ship--said nothing -more. - -But this had been enough to rouse his curiosity. Curiosity is natural to -man. Of course it was not a malevolent curiosity which, if not exactly -natural, is to be met fairly frequently in men and perhaps more -frequently in women--especially if a woman be in question; and that woman -under a cloud, in a manner of speaking. For under a cloud Flora de -Barral was fated to be even at sea. Yes. Even that sort of darkness -which attends a woman for whom there is no clear place in the world hung -over her. Yes. Even at sea! - -* * * * * - -And this is the pathos of being a woman. A man can struggle to get a -place for himself or perish. But a woman's part is passive, say what you -like, and shuffle the facts of the world as you may, hinting at lack of -energy, of wisdom, of courage. As a matter of fact, almost all women -have all that--of their own kind. But they are not made for attack. Wait -they must. I am speaking here of women who are really women. And it's -no use talking of opportunities, either. I know that some of them do -talk of it. But not the genuine women. Those know better. Nothing can -beat a true woman for a clear vision of reality; I would say a cynical -vision if I were not afraid of wounding your chivalrous feelings--for -which, by the by, women are not so grateful as you may think, to fellows -of your kind . . . - -"Upon my word, Marlow," I cried, "what are you flying out at me for like -this? I wouldn't use an ill-sounding word about women, but what right -have you to imagine that I am looking for gratitude?" - -Marlow raised a soothing hand. - -"There! There! I take back the ill-sounding word, with the remark, -though, that cynicism seems to me a word invented by hypocrites. But let -that pass. As to women, they know that the clamour for opportunities for -them to become something which they cannot be is as reasonable as if -mankind at large started asking for opportunities of winning immortality -in this world, in which death is the very condition of life. You must -understand that I am not talking here of material existence. That -naturally is implied; but you won't maintain that a woman who, say, -enlisted, for instance (there have been cases) has conquered her place in -the world. She has only got her living in it--which is quite -meritorious, but not quite the same thing. - -All these reflections which arise from my picking up the thread of Flora -de Barral's existence did not, I am certain, present themselves to Mr. -Powell--not the Mr. Powell we know taking solitary week-end cruises in -the estuary of the Thames (with mysterious dashes into lonely creeks) but -to the young Mr. Powell, the chance second officer of the ship -_Ferndale_, commanded (and for the most part owned) by Roderick Anthony, -the son of the poet--you know. A Mr. Powell, much slenderer than our -robust friend is now, with the bloom of innocence not quite rubbed off -his smooth cheeks, and apt not only to be interested but also to be -surprised by the experience life was holding in store for him. This -would account for his remembering so much of it with considerable -vividness. For instance, the impressions attending his first breakfast -on board the _Ferndale_, both visual and mental, were as fresh to him as -if received yesterday. - -The surprise, it is easy to understand, would arise from the inability to -interpret aright the signs which experience (a thing mysterious in -itself) makes to our understanding and emotions. For it is never more -than that. Our experience never gets into our blood and bones. It -always remains outside of us. That's why we look with wonder at the -past. And this persists even when from practice and through growing -callousness of fibre we come to the point when nothing that we meet in -that rapid blinking stumble across a flick of sunshine--which our life -is--nothing, I say, which we run against surprises us any more. Not at -the time, I mean. If, later on, we recover the faculty with some such -exclamation: 'Well! Well! I'll be hanged if I ever, . . . ' it is -probably because this very thing that there should be a past to look back -upon, other people's, is very astounding in itself when one has the time, -a fleeting and immense instant to think of it . . . " - -I was on the point of interrupting Marlow when he stopped of himself, his -eyes fixed on vacancy, or--perhaps--(I wouldn't be too hard on him) on a -vision. He has the habit, or, say, the fault, of defective mantelpiece -clocks, of suddenly stopping in the very fulness of the tick. If you -have ever lived with a clock afflicted with that perversity, you know how -vexing it is--such a stoppage. I was vexed with Marlow. He was smiling -faintly while I waited. He even laughed a little. And then I said -acidly: - -"Am I to understand that you have ferreted out something comic in the -history of Flora de Barral?" - -"Comic!" he exclaimed. "No! What makes you say? . . . Oh, I -laughed--did I? But don't you know that people laugh at absurdities that -are very far from being comic? Didn't you read the latest books about -laughter written by philosophers, psychologists? There is a lot of them -. . . " - -"I dare say there has been a lot of nonsense written about laughter--and -tears, too, for that matter," I said impatiently. - -"They say," pursued the unabashed Marlow, "that we laugh from a sense of -superiority. Therefore, observe, simplicity, honesty, warmth of feeling, -delicacy of heart and of conduct, self-confidence, magnanimity are -laughed at, because the presence of these traits in a man's character -often puts him into difficult, cruel or absurd situations, and makes us, -the majority who are fairly free as a rule from these peculiarities, feel -pleasantly superior." - -"Speak for yourself," I said. "But have you discovered all these fine -things in the story; or has Mr. Powell discovered them to you in his -artless talk? Have you two been having good healthy laughs together? -Come! Are your sides aching yet, Marlow?" - -Marlow took no offence at my banter. He was quite serious. - -"I should not like to say off-hand how much of that there was," he -pursued with amusing caution. "But there was a situation, tense enough -for the signs of it to give many surprises to Mr. Powell--neither of them -shocking in itself, but with a cumulative effect which made the whole -unforgettable in the detail of its progress. And the first surprise came -very soon, when the explosives (to which he owed his sudden chance of -engagement)--dynamite in cases and blasting powder in barrels--taken on -board, main hatch battened for sea, cook restored to his functions in the -galley, anchor fished and the tug ahead, rounding the South Foreland, and -with the sun sinking clear and red down the purple vista of the channel, -he went on the poop, on duty, it is true, but with time to take the first -freer breath in the busy day of departure. The pilot was still on board, -who gave him first a silent glance, and then passed an insignificant -remark before resuming his lounging to and fro between the steering wheel -and the binnacle. Powell took his station modestly at the break of the -poop. He had noticed across the skylight a head in a grey cap. But -when, after a time, he crossed over to the other side of the deck he -discovered that it was not the captain's head at all. He became aware of -grey hairs curling over the nape of the neck. How could he have made -that mistake? But on board ship away from the land one does not expect -to come upon a stranger. - -Powell walked past the man. A thin, somewhat sunken face, with a tightly -closed mouth, stared at the distant French coast, vague like a suggestion -of solid darkness, lying abeam beyond the evening light reflected from -the level waters, themselves growing more sombre than the sky; a stare, -across which Powell had to pass and did pass with a quick side glance, -noting its immovable stillness. His passage disturbed those eyes no more -than if he had been as immaterial as a ghost. And this failure of his -person in producing an impression affected him strangely. Who could that -old man be? - -He was so curious that he even ventured to ask the pilot in a low voice. -The pilot turned out to be a good-natured specimen of his kind, -condescending, sententious. He had been down to his meals in the main -cabin, and had something to impart. - -"That? Queer fish--eh? Mrs. Anthony's father. I've been introduced to -him in the cabin at breakfast time. Name of Smith. Wonder if he has all -his wits about him. They take him about with them, it seems. Don't look -very happy--eh?" - -Then, changing his tone abruptly, he desired Powell to get all hands on -deck and make sail on the ship. "I shall be leaving you in half an hour. -You'll have plenty of time to find out all about the old gent," he added -with a thick laugh. - -* * * * * - -In the secret emotion of giving his first order as a fully responsible -officer, young Powell forgot the very existence of that old man in a -moment. The following days, in the interest of getting in touch with the -ship, with the men in her, with his duties, in the rather anxious period -of settling down, his curiosity slumbered; for of course the pilot's few -words had not extinguished it. - -This settling down was made easy for him by the friendly character of his -immediate superior--the chief. Powell could not defend himself from some -sympathy for that thick, bald man, comically shaped, with his crimson -complexion and something pathetic in the rolling of his very movable -black eyes in an apparently immovable head, who was so tactfully ready to -take his competency for granted. - -There can be nothing more reassuring to a young man tackling his life's -work for the first time. Mr. Powell, his mind at ease about himself, had -time to observe the people around with friendly interest. Very early in -the beginning of the passage, he had discovered with some amusement that -the marriage of Captain Anthony was resented by those to whom Powell -(conscious of being looked upon as something of an outsider) referred in -his mind as 'the old lot.' - -They had the funny, regretful glances, intonations, nods of men who had -seen other, better times. What difference it could have made to the -bo'sun and the carpenter Powell could not very well understand. Yet -these two pulled long faces and even gave hostile glances to the poop. -The cook and the steward might have been more directly concerned. But -the steward used to remark on occasion, 'Oh, she gives no extra trouble,' -with scrupulous fairness of the most gloomy kind. He was rather a silent -man with a great sense of his personal worth which made his speeches -guarded. The cook, a neat man with fair side whiskers, who had been only -three years in the ship, seemed the least concerned. He was even known -to have inquired once or twice as to the success of some of his dishes -with the captain's wife. This was considered a sort of disloyal falling -away from the ruling feeling. - -The mate's annoyance was yet the easiest to understand. As he let it out -to Powell before the first week of the passage was over: 'You can't -expect me to be pleased at being chucked out of the saloon as if I -weren't good enough to sit down to meat with that woman.' But he -hastened to add: 'Don't you think I'm blaming the captain. He isn't a -man to be found fault with. You, Mr. Powell, are too young yet to -understand such matters.' - -Some considerable time afterwards, at the end of a conversation of that -aggrieved sort, he enlarged a little more by repeating: 'Yes! You are -too young to understand these things. I don't say you haven't plenty of -sense. You are doing very well here. Jolly sight better than I -expected, though I liked your looks from the first.' - -It was in the trade-winds, at night, under a velvety, bespangled sky; a -great multitude of stars watching the shadows of the sea gleaming -mysteriously in the wake of the ship; while the leisurely swishing of the -water to leeward was like a drowsy comment on her progress. Mr. Powell -expressed his satisfaction by a half-bashful laugh. The mate mused on: -'And of course you haven't known the ship as she used to be. She was -more than a home to a man. She was not like any other ship; and Captain -Anthony was not like any other master to sail with. Neither is she now. -But before one never had a care in the world as to her--and as to him, -too. No, indeed, there was never anything to worry about.' - -Young Powell couldn't see what there was to worry about even then. The -serenity of the peaceful night seemed as vast as all space, and as -enduring as eternity itself. It's true the sea is an uncertain element, -but no sailor remembers this in the presence of its bewitching power any -more than a lover ever thinks of the proverbial inconstancy of women. And -Mr. Powell, being young, thought naively that the captain being married, -there could be no occasion for anxiety as to his condition. I suppose -that to him life, perhaps not so much his own as that of others, was -something still in the nature of a fairy-tale with a 'they lived happy -ever after' termination. We are the creatures of our light literature -much more than is generally suspected in a world which prides itself on -being scientific and practical, and in possession of incontrovertible -theories. Powell felt in that way the more because the captain of a ship -at sea is a remote, inaccessible creature, something like a prince of a -fairy-tale, alone of his kind, depending on nobody, not to be called to -account except by powers practically invisible and so distant, that they -might well be looked upon as supernatural for all that the rest of the -crew knows of them, as a rule. - -So he did not understand the aggrieved attitude of the mate--or rather he -understood it obscurely as a result of simple causes which did not seem -to him adequate. He would have dismissed all this out of his mind with a -contemptuous: 'What the devil do I care?' if the captain's wife herself -had not been so young. To see her the first time had been something of a -shock to him. He had some preconceived ideas as to captain's wives -which, while he did not believe the testimony of his eyes, made him open -them very wide. He had stared till the captain's wife noticed it plainly -and turned her face away. Captain's wife! That girl covered with rugs -in a long chair. Captain's . . . ! He gasped mentally. It had never -occurred to him that a captain's wife could be anything but a woman to be -described as stout or thin, as jolly or crabbed, but always mature, and -even, in comparison with his own years, frankly old. But this! It was a -sort of moral upset as though he had discovered a case of abduction or -something as surprising as that. You understand that nothing is more -disturbing than the upsetting of a preconceived idea. Each of us -arranges the world according to his own notion of the fitness of things. -To behold a girl where your average mediocre imagination had placed a -comparatively old woman may easily become one of the strongest shocks -. . . " - -Marlow paused, smiling to himself. - -"Powell remained impressed after all these years by the very -recollection," he continued in a voice, amused perhaps but not mocking. -"He said to me only the other day with something like the first awe of -that discovery lingering in his tone--he said to me: "Why, she seemed so -young, so girlish, that I looked round for some woman which would be the -captain's wife, though of course I knew there was no other woman on board -that voyage." The voyage before, it seems, there had been the steward's -wife to act as maid to Mrs. Anthony; but she was not taken that time for -some reason he didn't know. Mrs. Anthony . . . ! If it hadn't been the -captain's wife he would have referred to her mentally as a kid, he said. -I suppose there must be a sort of divinity hedging in a captain's wife -(however incredible) which prevented him applying to her that -contemptuous definition in the secret of his thoughts. - -I asked him when this had happened; and he told me that it was three days -after parting from the tug, just outside the channel--to be precise. A -head wind had set in with unpleasant damp weather. He had come up to -leeward of the poop, still feeling very much of a stranger, and an -untried officer, at six in the evening to take his watch. To see her was -quite as unexpected as seeing a vision. When she turned away her head he -recollected himself and dropped his eyes. What he could see then was -only, close to the long chair on which she reclined, a pair of long, thin -legs ending in black cloth boots tucked in close to the skylight seat. -Whence he concluded that the 'old gentleman,' who wore a grey cap like -the captain's, was sitting by her--his daughter. In his first -astonishment he had stopped dead short, with the consequence that now he -felt very much abashed at having betrayed his surprise. But he couldn't -very well turn tail and bolt off the poop. He had come there on duty. -So, still with downcast eyes, he made his way past them. Only when he -got as far as the wheel-grating did he look up. She was hidden from him -by the back of her deck-chair; but he had the view of the owner of the -thin, aged legs seated on the skylight, his clean-shaved cheek, his thin -compressed mouth with a hollow in each corner, the sparse grey locks -escaping from under the tweed cap, and curling slightly on the collar of -the coat. He leaned forward a little over Mrs. Anthony, but they were -not talking. Captain Anthony, walking with a springy hurried gait on the -other side of the poop from end to end, gazed straight before him. Young -Powell might have thought that his captain was not aware of his presence -either. However, he knew better, and for that reason spent a most -uncomfortable hour motionless by the compass before his captain stopped -in his swift pacing and with an almost visible effort made some remark to -him about the weather in a low voice. Before Powell, who was startled, -could find a word of answer, the captain swung off again on his endless -tramp with a fixed gaze. And till the supper bell rang silence dwelt -over that poop like an evil spell. The captain walked up and down -looking straight before him, the helmsman steered, looking upwards at the -sails, the old gent on the skylight looked down on his daughter--and Mr. -Powell confessed to me that he didn't know where to look, feeling as -though he had blundered in where he had no business--which was absurd. At -last he fastened his eyes on the compass card, took refuge, in spirit, -inside the binnacle. He felt chilled more than he should have been by -the chilly dusk falling on the muddy green sea of the soundings from a -smoothly clouded sky. A fitful wind swept the cheerless waste, and the -ship, hauled up so close as to check her way, seemed to progress by -languid fits and starts against the short seas which swept along her -sides with a snarling sound. - -Young Powell thought that this was the dreariest evening aspect of the -sea he had ever seen. He was glad when the other occupants of the poop -left it at the sound of the bell. The captain first, with a sudden -swerve in his walk towards the companion, and not even looking once -towards his wife and his wife's father. Those two got up and moved -towards the companion, the old gent very erect, his thin locks stirring -gently about the nape of his neck, and carrying the rugs over his arm. -The girl who was Mrs. Anthony went down first. The murky twilight had -settled in deep shadow on her face. She looked at Mr. Powell in passing. -He thought that she was very pale. Cold perhaps. The old gent stopped a -moment, thin and stiff, before the young man, and in a voice which was -low but distinct enough, and without any particular accent--not even of -inquiry--he said: - -"You are the new second officer, I believe." - -Mr. Powell answered in the affirmative, wondering if this were a friendly -overture. He had noticed that Mr. Smith's eyes had a sort of inward look -as though he had disliked or disdained his surroundings. The captain's -wife had disappeared then down the companion stairs. Mr. Smith said -'Ah!' and waited a little longer to put another question in his incurious -voice. - -"And did you know the man who was here before you?" - -"No," said young Powell, "I didn't know anybody belonging to this ship -before I joined." - -"He was much older than you. Twice your age. Perhaps more. His hair -was iron grey. Yes. Certainly more." - -The low, repressed voice paused, but the old man did not move away. He -added: "Isn't it unusual?" - -Mr. Powell was surprised not only by being engaged in conversation, but -also by its character. It might have been the suggestion of the word -uttered by this old man, but it was distinctly at that moment that he -became aware of something unusual not only in this encounter but -generally around him, about everybody, in the atmosphere. The very sea, -with short flashes of foam bursting out here and there in the gloomy -distances, the unchangeable, safe sea sheltering a man from all passions, -except its own anger, seemed queer to the quick glance he threw to -windward where the already effaced horizon traced no reassuring limit to -the eye. In the expiring, diffused twilight, and before the clouded -night dropped its mysterious veil, it was the immensity of space made -visible--almost palpable. Young Powell felt it. He felt it in the -sudden sense of his isolation; the trustworthy, powerful ship of his -first acquaintance reduced to a speck, to something almost -undistinguishable, the mere support for the soles of his two feet before -that unexpected old man becoming so suddenly articulate in a darkening -universe. - -It took him a moment or so to seize the drift of the question. He -repeated slowly: 'Unusual . . . Oh, you mean for an elderly man to be the -second of a ship. I don't know. There are a good many of us who don't -get on. He didn't get on, I suppose.' - -The other, his head bowed a little, had the air of listening with acute -attention. - -"And now he has been taken to the hospital," he said. - -"I believe so. Yes. I remember Captain Anthony saying so in the -shipping office." - -"Possibly about to die," went on the old man, in his careful deliberate -tone. "And perhaps glad enough to die." - -Mr. Powell was young enough to be startled at the suggestion, which -sounded confidential and blood-curdling in the dusk. He said sharply -that it was not very likely, as if defending the absent victim of the -accident from an unkind aspersion. He felt, in fact, indignant. The -other emitted a short stifled laugh of a conciliatory nature. The second -bell rang under the poop. He made a movement at the sound, but lingered. - -"What I said was not meant seriously," he murmured, with that strange air -of fearing to be overheard. "Not in this case. I know the man." - -The occasion, or rather the want of occasion, for this conversation, had -sharpened the perceptions of the unsophisticated second officer of the -_Ferndale_. He was alive to the slightest shade of tone, and felt as if -this "I know the man" should have been followed by a "he was no friend of -mine." But after the shortest possible break the old gentleman continued -to murmur distinctly and evenly: - -"Whereas you have never seen him. Nevertheless, when you have gone -through as many years as I have, you will understand how an event putting -an end to one's existence may not be altogether unwelcome. Of course -there are stupid accidents. And even then one needn't be very angry. -What is it to be deprived of life? It's soon done. But what would you -think of the feelings of a man who should have had his life stolen from -him? Cheated out of it, I say!" - -He ceased abruptly, and remained still long enough for the astonished -Powell to stammer out an indistinct: "What do you mean? I don't -understand." Then, with a low 'Good-night' glided a few steps, and sank -through the shadow of the companion into the lamplight below which did -not reach higher than the turn of the staircase. - -The strange words, the cautious tone, the whole person left a strong -uneasiness in the mind of Mr. Powell. He started walking the poop in -great mental confusion. He felt all adrift. This was funny talk and no -mistake. And this cautious low tone as though he were watched by someone -was more than funny. The young second officer hesitated to break the -established rule of every ship's discipline; but at last could not resist -the temptation of getting hold of some other human being, and spoke to -the man at the wheel. - -"Did you hear what this gentleman was saying to me?" - -"No, sir," answered the sailor quietly. Then, encouraged by this -evidence of laxity in his officer, made bold to add, "A queer fish, sir." -This was tentative, and Mr. Powell, busy with his own view, not saying -anything, he ventured further. "They are more like passengers. One sees -some queer passengers." - -"Who are like passengers?" asked Powell gruffly. - -"Why, these two, sir." - - - -CHAPTER THREE--DEVOTED SERVANTS--AND THE LIGHT OF A FLARE - - -Young Powell thought to himself: "The men, too, are noticing it." Indeed, -the captain's behaviour to his wife and to his wife's father was -noticeable enough. It was as if they had been a pair of not very -congenial passengers. But perhaps it was not always like that. The -captain might have been put out by something. - -When the aggrieved Franklin came on deck Mr. Powell made a remark to that -effect. For his curiosity was aroused. - -The mate grumbled "Seems to you? . . . Putout? . . . eh?" He buttoned -his thick jacket up to the throat, and only then added a gloomy "Aye, -likely enough," which discouraged further conversation. But no -encouragement would have induced the newly-joined second mate to enter -the way of confidences. His was an instinctive prudence. Powell did not -know why it was he had resolved to keep his own counsel as to his -colloquy with Mr. Smith. But his curiosity did not slumber. Some time -afterwards, again at the relief of watches, in the course of a little -talk, he mentioned Mrs. Anthony's father quite casually, and tried to -find out from the mate who he was. - -"It would take a clever man to find that out, as things are on board -now," Mr. Franklin said, unexpectedly communicative. "The first I saw of -him was when she brought him alongside in a four-wheeler one morning -about half-past eleven. The captain had come on board early, and was -down in the cabin that had been fitted out for him. Did I tell you that -if you want the captain for anything you must stamp on the port side of -the deck? That's so. This ship is not only unlike what she used to be, -but she is like no other ship, anyhow. Did you ever hear of the -captain's room being on the port side? Both of them stern cabins have -been fitted up afresh like a blessed palace. A gang of people from some -tip-top West-End house were fussing here on board with hangings and -furniture for a fortnight, as if the Queen were coming with us. Of -course the starboard cabin is the bedroom one, but the poor captain hangs -out to port on a couch, so that in case we want him on deck at night, -Mrs. Anthony should not be startled. Nervous! Phoo! A woman who -marries a sailor and makes up her mind to come to sea should have no -blamed jumpiness about her, I say. But never mind. Directly the old cab -pointed round the corner of the warehouse I called out to the captain -that his lady was coming aboard. He answered me, but as I didn't see him -coming, I went down the gangway myself to help her alight. She jumps out -excitedly without touching my arm, or as much as saying "thank you" or -"good morning" or anything, turns back to the cab, and then that old -joker comes out slowly. I hadn't noticed him inside. I hadn't expected -to see anybody. It gave me a start. She says: "My father--Mr. -Franklin." He was staring at me like an owl. "How do you do, sir?" says -I. Both of them looked funny. It was as if something had happened to -them on the way. Neither of them moved, and I stood by waiting. The -captain showed himself on the poop; and I saw him at the side looking -over, and then he disappeared; on the way to meet them on shore, I -expected. But he just went down below again. So, not seeing him, I -said: "Let me help you on board, sir." "On board!" says he in a silly -fashion. "On board!" "It's not a very good ladder, but it's quite -firm," says I, as he seemed to be afraid of it. And he didn't look a -broken-down old man, either. You can see yourself what he is. Straight -as a poker, and life enough in him yet. But he made no move, and I began -to feel foolish. Then she comes forward. "Oh! Thank you, Mr. Franklin. -I'll help my father up." Flabbergasted me--to be choked off like this. -Pushed in between him and me without as much as a look my way. So of -course I dropped it. What do you think? I fell back. I would have gone -up on board at once and left them on the quay to come up or stay there -till next week, only they were blocking the way. I couldn't very well -shove them on one side. Devil only knows what was up between them. There -she was, pale as death, talking to him very fast. He got as red as a -turkey-cock--dash me if he didn't. A bad-tempered old bloke, I can tell -you. And a bad lot, too. Never mind. I couldn't hear what she was -saying to him, but she put force enough into it to shake her. It -seemed--it seemed, mind!--that he didn't want to go on board. Of course -it couldn't have been that. I know better. Well, she took him by the -arm, above the elbow, as if to lead him, or push him rather. I was -standing not quite ten feet off. Why should I have gone away? I was -anxious to get back on board as soon as they would let me. I didn't want -to overhear her blamed whispering either. But I couldn't stay there for -ever, so I made a move to get past them if I could. And that's how I -heard a few words. It was the old chap--something nasty about being -"under the heel" of somebody or other. Then he says, "I don't want this -sacrifice." What it meant I can't tell. It was a quarrel--of that I am -certain. She looks over her shoulder, and sees me pretty close to them. -I don't know what she found to say into his ear, but he gave way -suddenly. He looked round at me too, and they went up together so -quickly then that when I got on the quarter-deck I was only in time to -see the inner door of the passage close after them. Queer--eh? But if -it were only queerness one wouldn't mind. Some luggage in new trunks -came on board in the afternoon. We undocked at midnight. And may I be -hanged if I know who or what he was or is. I haven't been able to find -out. No, I don't know. He may have been anything. All I know is that -once, years ago when I went to see the Derby with a friend, I saw a pea- -and-thimble chap who looked just like that old mystery father out of a -cab." - -All this the goggle-eyed mate had said in a resentful and melancholy -voice, with pauses, to the gentle murmur of the sea. It was for him a -bitter sort of pleasure to have a fresh pair of ears, a newcomer, to whom -he could repeat all these matters of grief and suspicion talked over -endlessly by the band of Captain Anthony's faithful subordinates. It was -evidently so refreshing to his worried spirit that it made him forget the -advisability of a little caution with a complete stranger. But really -with Mr. Powell there was no danger. Amused, at first, at these plaints, -he provoked them for fun. Afterwards, turning them over in his mind, he -became impressed, and as the impression grew stronger with the days his -resolution to keep it to himself grew stronger too. - -* * * * * - -What made it all the easier to keep--I mean the resolution--was that -Powell's sentiment of amused surprise at what struck him at first as mere -absurdity was not unmingled with indignation. And his years were too -few, his position too novel, his reliance on his own opinion not yet firm -enough to allow him to express it with any effect. And then--what would -have been the use, anyhow--and where was the necessity? - -But this thing, familiar and mysterious at the same time, occupied his -imagination. The solitude of the sea intensifies the thoughts and the -facts of one's experience which seems to lie at the very centre of the -world, as the ship which carries one always remains the centre figure of -the round horizon. He viewed the apoplectic, goggle-eyed mate and the -saturnine, heavy-eyed steward as the victims of a peculiar and secret -form of lunacy which poisoned their lives. But he did not give them his -sympathy on that account. No. That strange affliction awakened in him a -sort of suspicious wonder. - -Once--and it was at night again; for the officers of the _Ferndale_ -keeping watch and watch as was customary in those days, had but few -occasions for intercourse--once, I say, the thick Mr. Franklin, a -quaintly bulky figure under the stars, the usual witnesses of his -outpourings, asked him with an abruptness which was not callous, but in -his simple way: - -"I believe you have no parents living?" - -Mr. Powell said that he had lost his father and mother at a very early -age. - -"My mother is still alive," declared Mr. Franklin in a tone which -suggested that he was gratified by the fact. "The old lady is lasting -well. Of course she's got to be made comfortable. A woman must be -looked after, and, if it comes to that, I say, give me a mother. I dare -say if she had not lasted it out so well I might have gone and got -married. I don't know, though. We sailors haven't got much time to look -about us to any purpose. Anyhow, as the old lady was there I haven't, I -may say, looked at a girl in all my life. Not that I wasn't partial to -female society in my time," he added with a pathetic intonation, while -the whites of his goggle eyes gleamed amorously under the clear night -sky. "Very partial, I may say." - -Mr. Powell was amused; and as these communications took place only when -the mate was relieved off duty he had no serious objection to them. The -mate's presence made the first half-hour and sometimes even more of his -watch on deck pass away. If his senior did not mind losing some of his -rest it was not Mr. Powell's affair. Franklin was a decent fellow. His -intention was not to boast of his filial piety. - -"Of course I mean respectable female society," he explained. "The other -sort is neither here nor there. I blame no man's conduct, but a well- -brought-up young fellow like you knows that there's precious little fun -to be got out of it." He fetched a deep sigh. "I wish Captain Anthony's -mother had been a lasting sort like my old lady. He would have had to -look after her and he would have done it well. Captain Anthony is a -proper man. And it would have saved him from the most foolish--" - -He did not finish the phrase which certainly was turning bitter in his -mouth. Mr. Powell thought to himself: "There he goes again." He laughed -a little. - -"I don't understand why you are so hard on the captain, Mr. Franklin. I -thought you were a great friend of his." - -Mr. Franklin exclaimed at this. He was not hard on the captain. Nothing -was further from his thoughts. Friend! Of course he was a good friend -and a faithful servant. He begged Powell to understand that if Captain -Anthony chose to strike a bargain with Old Nick to-morrow, and Old Nick -were good to the captain, he (Franklin) would find it in his heart to -love Old Nick for the captain's sake. That was so. On the other hand, -if a saint, an angel with white wings came along and--" - -He broke off short again as if his own vehemence had frightened him. Then -in his strained pathetic voice (which he had never raised) he observed -that it was no use talking. Anybody could see that the man was changed. - -"As to that," said young Powell, "it is impossible for me to judge." - -"Good Lord!" whispered the mate. "An educated, clever young fellow like -you with a pair of eyes on him and some sense too! Is that how a happy -man looks? Eh? Young you may be, but you aren't a kid; and I dare you -to say 'Yes!'" - -Mr. Powell did not take up the challenge. He did not know what to think -of the mate's view. Still, it seemed as if it had opened his -understanding in a measure. He conceded that the captain did not look -very well. - -"Not very well," repeated the mate mournfully. "Do you think a man with -a face like that can hope to live his life out? You haven't knocked -about long in this world yet, but you are a sailor, you have been in -three or four ships, you say. Well, have you ever seen a shipmaster -walking his own deck as if he did not know what he had underfoot? Have -you? Dam'me if I don't think that he forgets where he is. Of course he -can be no other than a prime seaman; but it's lucky, all the same, he has -me on board. I know by this time what he wants done without being told. -Do you know that I have had no order given me since we left port? Do you -know that he has never once opened his lips to me unless I spoke to him -first? I? His chief officer; his shipmate for full six years, with whom -he had no cross word--not once in all that time. Aye. Not a cross look -even. True that when I do make him speak to me, there is his dear old -self, the quick eye, the kind voice. Could hardly be other to his old -Franklin. But what's the good? Eyes, voice, everything's miles away. -And for all that I take good care never to address him when the poop -isn't clear. Yes! Only we two and nothing but the sea with us. You -think it would be all right; the only chief mate he ever had--Mr. -Franklin here and Mr. Franklin there--when anything went wrong the first -word you would hear about the decks was 'Franklin!'--I am thirteen years -older than he is--you would think it would be all right, wouldn't you? -Only we two on this poop on which we saw each other first--he a young -master--told me that he thought I would suit him very well--we two, and -thirty-one days out at sea, and it's no good! It's like talking to a man -standing on shore. I can't get him back. I can't get at him. I feel -sometimes as if I must shake him by the arm: "Wake up! Wake up! You are -wanted, sir . . . !" - -Young Powell recognized the expression of a true sentiment, a thing so -rare in this world where there are so many mutes and so many excellent -reasons even at sea for an articulate man not to give himself away, that -he felt something like respect for this outburst. It was not loud. The -grotesque squat shape, with the knob of the head as if rammed down -between the square shoulders by a blow from a club, moved vaguely in a -circumscribed space limited by the two harness-casks lashed to the front -rail of the poop, without gestures, hands in the pockets of the jacket, -elbows pressed closely to its side; and the voice without resonance, -passed from anger to dismay and back again without a single louder word -in the hurried delivery, interrupted only by slight gasps for air as if -the speaker were being choked by the suppressed passion of his grief. - -Mr. Powell, though moved to a certain extent, was by no means carried -away. And just as he thought that it was all over, the other, fidgeting -in the darkness, was heard again explosive, bewildered but not very loud -in the silence of the ship and the great empty peace of the sea. - -"They have done something to him! What is it? What can it be? Can't -you guess? Don't you know?" - -"Good heavens!" Young Powell was astounded on discovering that this was -an appeal addressed to him. "How on earth can I know?" - -"You do talk to that white-faced, black-eyed . . . I've seen you talking -to her more than a dozen times." - -Young Powell, his sympathy suddenly chilled, remarked in a disdainful -tone that Mrs. Anthony's eyes were not black. - -"I wish to God she had never set them on the captain, whatever colour -they are," retorted Franklin. "She and that old chap with the scraped -jaws who sits over her and stares down at her dead-white face with his -yellow eyes--confound them! Perhaps you will tell us that his eyes are -not yellow?" - -Powell, not interested in the colour of Mr. Smith's eyes, made a vague -gesture. Yellow or not yellow, it was all one to him. - -The mate murmured to himself. "No. He can't know. No! No more than a -baby. It would take an older head." - -"I don't even understand what you mean," observed Mr. Powell coldly. - -"And even the best head would be puzzled by such devil-work," the mate -continued, muttering. "Well, I have heard tell of women doing for a man -in one way or another when they got him fairly ashore. But to bring -their devilry to sea and fasten on such a man! . . . It's something I -can't understand. But I can watch. Let them look out--I say!" - -His short figure, unable to stoop, without flexibility, could not express -dejection. He was very tired suddenly; he dragged his feet going off the -poop. Before he left it with nearly an hour of his watch below -sacrificed, he addressed himself once more to our young man who stood -abreast of the mizzen rigging in an unreceptive mood expressed by silence -and immobility. He did not regret, he said, having spoken openly on this -very serious matter. - -"I don't know about its seriousness, sir," was Mr. Powell's frank answer. -"But if you think you have been telling me something very new you are -mistaken. You can't keep that matter out of your speeches. It's the -sort of thing I've been hearing more or less ever since I came on board." - -Mr. Powell, speaking truthfully, did not mean to speak offensively. He -had instincts of wisdom; he felt that this was a serious affair, for it -had nothing to do with reason. He did not want to raise an enemy for -himself in the mate. And Mr. Franklin did not take offence. To Mr. -Powell's truthful statement he answered with equal truth and simplicity -that it was very likely, very likely. With a thing like that (next door -to witchcraft almost) weighing on his mind, the wonder was that he could -think of anything else. The poor man must have found in the restlessness -of his thoughts the illusion of being engaged in an active contest with -some power of evil; for his last words as he went lingeringly down the -poop ladder expressed the quaint hope that he would get him, Powell, "on -our side yet." - -Mr. Powell--just imagine a straightforward youngster assailed in this -fashion on the high seas--answered merely by an embarrassed and uneasy -laugh which reflected exactly the state of his innocent soul. The -apoplectic mate, already half-way down, went up again three steps of the -poop ladder. Why, yes. A proper young fellow, the mate expected, -wouldn't stand by and see a man, a good sailor and his own skipper, in -trouble without taking his part against a couple of shore people who--Mr. -Powell interrupted him impatiently, asking what was the trouble? - -"What is it you are hinting at?" he cried with an inexplicable -irritation. - -"I don't like to think of him all alone down there with these two," -Franklin whispered impressively. "Upon my word I don't. God only knows -what may be going on there . . . Don't laugh . . . It was bad enough last -voyage when Mrs. Brown had a cabin aft; but now it's worse. It frightens -me. I can't sleep sometimes for thinking of him all alone there, shut -off from us all." - -Mrs. Brown was the steward's wife. You must understand that shortly -after his visit to the Fyne cottage (with all its consequences), Anthony -had got an offer to go to the Western Islands, and bring home the cargo -of some ship which, damaged in a collision or a stranding, took refuge in -St. Michael, and was condemned there. Roderick Anthony had connections -which would put such paying jobs in his way. So Flora de Barral had but -a five months' voyage, a mere excursion, for her first trial of sea-life. -And Anthony, dearly trying to be most attentive, had induced this Mrs. -Brown, the wife of his faithful steward, to come along as maid to his -bride. But for some reason or other this arrangement was not continued. -And the mate, tormented by indefinite alarms and forebodings, regretted -it. He regretted that Jane Brown was no longer on board--as a sort of -representative of Captain Anthony's faithful servants, to watch quietly -what went on in that part of the ship this fatal marriage had closed to -their vigilance. That had been excellent. For she was a dependable -woman. - -Powell did not detect any particular excellence in what seemed a spying -employment. But in his simplicity he said that he should have thought -Mrs. Anthony would have been glad anyhow to have another woman on board. -He was thinking of the white-faced girlish personality which it seemed to -him ought to have been cared for. The innocent young man always looked -upon the girl as immature; something of a child yet. - -"She! glad! Why it was she who had her fired out. She didn't want -anybody around the cabin. Mrs. Brown is certain of it. She told her -husband so. You ask the steward and hear what he has to say about it. -That's why I don't like it. A capable woman who knew her place. But no. -Out she must go. For no fault, mind you. The captain was ashamed to -send her away. But that wife of his--aye the precious pair of them have -got hold of him. I can't speak to him for a minute on the poop without -that thimble-rigging coon coming gliding up. I'll tell you what. I -overheard once--God knows I didn't try to--only he forgot I was on the -other side of the skylight with my sextant--I overheard him--you know how -he sits hanging over her chair and talking away without properly opening -his mouth--yes I caught the word right enough. He was alluding to the -captain as "the jailer." The jail . . . !" - -Franklin broke off with a profane execration. A silence reigned for a -long time and the slight, very gentle rolling of the ship slipping before -the N.E. trade-wind seemed to be a soothing device for lulling to sleep -the suspicions of men who trust themselves to the sea. - -A deep sigh was heard followed by the mate's voice asking dismally if -that was the way one would speak of a man to whom one wished well? No -better proof of something wrong was needed. Therefore he hoped, as he -vanished at last, that Mr. Powell would be on their side. And this time -Mr. Powell did not answer this hope with an embarrassed laugh. - -That young officer was more and more surprised at the nature of the -incongruous revelations coming to him in the surroundings and in the -atmosphere of the open sea. It is difficult for us to understand the -extent, the completeness, the comprehensiveness of his inexperience, for -us who didn't go to sea out of a small private school at the age of -fourteen years and nine months. Leaning on his elbow in the mizzen -rigging and so still that the helmsman over there at the other end of the -poop might have (and he probably did) suspect him of being criminally -asleep on duty, he tried to "get hold of that thing" by some side which -would fit in with his simple notions of psychology. "What the deuce are -they worrying about?" he asked himself in a dazed and contemptuous -impatience. But all the same "jailer" was a funny name to give a man; -unkind, unfriendly, nasty. He was sorry that Mr. Smith was guilty in -that matter because, the truth must be told, he had been to a certain -extent sensible of having been noticed in a quiet manner by the father of -Mrs. Anthony. Youth appreciates that sort of recognition which is the -subtlest form of flattery age can offer. Mr. Smith seized opportunities -to approach him on deck. His remarks were sometimes weird and -enigmatical. - -He was doubtless an eccentric old gent. But from that to calling his son- -in-law (whom he never approached on deck) nasty names behind his back was -a long step. - -And Mr. Powell marvelled . . . " - -"While he was telling me all this,"--Marlow changed his tone--"I -marvelled even more. It was as if misfortune marked its victims on the -forehead for the dislike of the crowd. I am not thinking here of -numbers. Two men may behave like a crowd, three certainly will when -their emotions are engaged. It was as if the forehead of Flora de Barral -were marked. Was the girl born to be a victim; to be always disliked and -crushed as if she were too fine for this world? Or too luckless--since -that also is often counted as sin. - -Yes, I marvelled more since I knew more of the girl than Mr. Powell--if -only her true name; and more of Captain Anthony--if only the fact that he -was the son of a delicate erotic poet of a markedly refined and -autocratic temperament. Yes, I knew their joint stories which Mr. Powell -did not know. The chapter in it he was opening to me, the sea-chapter, -with such new personages as the sentimental and apoplectic chief-mate and -the morose steward, however astounding to him in its detached condition -was much more so to me as a member of a series, following the chapter -outside the Eastern Hotel in which I myself had played my part. In view -of her declarations and my sage remarks it was very unexpected. She had -meant well, and I had certainly meant well too. Captain Anthony--as far -as I could gather from little Fyne--had meant well. As far as such lofty -words may be applied to the obscure personages of this story we were all -filled with the noblest sentiments and intentions. The sea was there to -give them the shelter of its solitude free from the earth's petty -suggestions. I could well marvel in myself, as to what had happened. - -I hope that if he saw it, Mr. Powell forgave me the smile of which I was -guilty at that moment. The light in the cabin of his little cutter was -dim. And the smile was dim too. Dim and fleeting. The girl's life had -presented itself to me as a tragi-comical adventure, the saddest thing on -earth, slipping between frank laughter and unabashed tears. Yes, the -saddest facts and the most common, and, being common perhaps the most -worthy of our unreserved pity. - -The purely human reality is capable of lyrism but not of abstraction. -Nothing will serve for its understanding but the evidence of rational -linking up of characters and facts. And beginning with Flora de Barral, -in the light of my memories I was certain that she at least must have -been passive; for that is of necessity the part of women, this waiting on -fate which some of them, and not the most intelligent, cover up by the -vain appearances of agitation. Flora de Barral was not exceptionally -intelligent but she was thoroughly feminine. She would be passive (and -that does not mean inanimate) in the circumstances, where the mere fact -of being a woman was enough to give her an occult and supreme -significance. And she would be enduring which is the essence of woman's -visible, tangible power. Of that I was certain. Had she not endured -already? Yet it is so true that the germ of destruction lies in wait for -us mortals, even at the very source of our strength, that one may die of -too much endurance as well as of too little of it. - -Such was my train of thought. And I was mindful also of my first view of -her--toying or perhaps communing in earnest with the possibilities of a -precipice. But I did not ask Mr. Powell anxiously what had happened to -Mrs. Anthony in the end. I let him go on in his own way feeling that no -matter what strange facts he would have to disclose, I was certain to -know much more of them than he ever did know or could possibly guess -. . . " - -Marlow paused for quite a long time. He seemed uncertain as though he -had advanced something beyond my grasp. Purposely I made no sign. "You -understand?" he asked. - -"Perfectly," I said. "You are the expert in the psychological -wilderness. This is like one of those Red-skin stories where the noble -savages carry off a girl and the honest backwoodsman with his -incomparable knowledge follows the track and reads the signs of her fate -in a footprint here, a broken twig there, a trinket dropped by the way. I -have always liked such stories. Go on." - -Marlow smiled indulgently at my jesting. "It is not exactly a story for -boys," he said. "I go on then. The sign, as you call it, was not very -plentiful but very much to the purpose, and when Mr. Powell heard (at a -certain moment I felt bound to tell him) when he heard that I had known -Mrs. Anthony before her marriage, that, to a certain extent, I was her -confidant . . . For you can't deny that to a certain extent . . . Well -let us say that I had a look in . . . A young girl, you know, is -something like a temple. You pass by and wonder what mysterious rites -are going on in there, what prayers, what visions? The privileged men, -the lover, the husband, who are given the key of the sanctuary do not -always know how to use it. For myself, without claim, without merit, -simply by chance I had been allowed to look through the half-opened door -and I had seen the saddest possible desecration, the withered brightness -of youth, a spirit neither made cringing nor yet dulled but as if -bewildered in quivering hopelessness by gratuitous cruelty; -self-confidence destroyed and, instead, a resigned recklessness, a -mournful callousness (and all this simple, almost naive)--before the -material and moral difficulties of the situation. The passive anguish of -the luckless! - -I asked myself: wasn't that ill-luck exhausted yet? Ill-luck which is -like the hate of invisible powers interpreted, made sensible and -injurious by the actions of men? - -Mr. Powell as you may well imagine had opened his eyes at my statement. -But he was full of his recalled experiences on board the _Ferndale_, and -the strangeness of being mixed up in what went on aboard, simply because -his name was also the name of a shipping-master, kept him in a state of -wonder which made other coincidences, however unlikely, not so very -surprising after all. - -This astonishing occurrence was so present to his mind that he always -felt as though he were there under false pretences. And this feeling was -so uncomfortable that it nerved him to break through the awe-inspiring -aloofness of his captain. He wanted to make a clean breast of it. I -imagine that his youth stood in good stead to Mr. Powell. Oh, yes. Youth -is a power. Even Captain Anthony had to take some notice of it, as if it -refreshed him to see something untouched, unscarred, unhardened by -suffering. Or perhaps the very novelty of that face, on board a ship -where he had seen the same faces for years, attracted his attention. - -Whether one day he dropped a word to his new second officer or only -looked at him I don't know; but Mr. Powell seized the opportunity -whatever it was. The captain who had started and stopped in his -everlasting rapid walk smoothed his brow very soon, heard him to the end -and then laughed a little. - -"Ah! That's the story. And you felt you must put me right as to this." - -"Yes, sir." - -"It doesn't matter how you came on board," said Anthony. And then -showing that perhaps he was not so utterly absent from his ship as -Franklin supposed: "That's all right. You seem to be getting on very -well with everybody," he said in his curt hurried tone, as if talking -hurt him, and his eyes already straying over the sea as usual. - -"Yes, sir." - -Powell tells me that looking then at the strong face to which that -haggard expression was returning, he had the impulse, from some confused -friendly feeling, to add: "I am very happy on board here, sir." - -The quickly returning glance, its steadiness, abashed Mr. Powell and made -him even step back a little. The captain looked as though he had -forgotten the meaning of the word. - -"You--what? Oh yes . . . You . . . of course . . . Happy. Why not?" - -This was merely muttered; and next moment Anthony was off on his headlong -tramp his eyes turned to the sea away from his ship. - -A sailor indeed looks generally into the great distances, but in Captain -Anthony's case there was--as Powell expressed it--something particular, -something purposeful like the avoidance of pain or temptation. It was -very marked once one had become aware of it. Before, one felt only a -pronounced strangeness. Not that the captain--Powell was careful to -explain--didn't see things as a ship-master should. The proof of it was -that on that very occasion he desired him suddenly after a period of -silent pacing, to have all the staysails sheets eased off, and he was -going on with some other remarks on the subject of these staysails when -Mrs. Anthony followed by her father emerged from the companion. She -established herself in her chair to leeward of the skylight as usual. -Thereupon the captain cut short whatever he was going to say, and in a -little while went down below. - -I asked Mr. Powell whether the captain and his wife never conversed on -deck. He said no--or at any rate they never exchanged more than a couple -of words. There was some constraint between them. For instance, on that -very occasion, when Mrs. Anthony came out they did look at each other; -the captain's eyes indeed followed her till she sat down; but he did not -speak to her; he did not approach her; and afterwards left the deck -without turning his head her way after this first silent exchange of -glances. - -I asked Mr. Powell what did he do then, the captain being out of the way. -"I went over and talked to Mrs. Anthony. I was thinking that it must be -very dull for her. She seemed to be such a stranger to the ship." - -"The father was there of course?" - -"Always," said Powell. "He was always there sitting on the skylight, as -if he were keeping watch over her. And I think," he added, "that he was -worrying her. Not that she showed it in any way. Mrs. Anthony was -always very quiet and always ready to look one straight in the face." - -"You talked together a lot?" I pursued my inquiries. "She mostly let me -talk to her," confessed Mr. Powell. "I don't know that she was very much -interested--but still she let me. She never cut me short." - -All the sympathies of Mr. Powell were for Flora Anthony nee de Barral. -She was the only human being younger than himself on board that ship -since the _Ferndale_ carried no boys and was manned by a full crew of -able seamen. Yes! their youth had created a sort of bond between them. -Mr. Powell's open countenance must have appeared to her distinctly -pleasing amongst the mature, rough, crabbed or even inimical faces she -saw around her. With the warm generosity of his age young Powell was on -her side, as it were, even before he knew that there were sides to be -taken on board that ship, and what this taking sides was about. There -was a girl. A nice girl. He asked himself no questions. Flora de -Barral was not so much younger in years than himself; but for some -reason, perhaps by contrast with the accepted idea of a captain's wife, -he could not regard her otherwise but as an extremely youthful creature. -At the same time, apart from her exalted position, she exercised over him -the supremacy a woman's earlier maturity gives her over a young man of -her own age. As a matter of fact we can see that, without ever having -more than a half an hour's consecutive conversation together, and the -distances duly preserved, these two were becoming friends--under the eye -of the old man, I suppose. - -How he first got in touch with his captain's wife Powell relates in this -way. It was long before his memorable conversation with the mate and -shortly after getting clear of the channel. It was gloomy weather; dead -head wind, blowing quite half a gale; the _Ferndale_ under reduced sail -was stretching close-hauled across the track of the homeward bound ships, -just moving through the water and no more, since there was no object in -pressing her and the weather looked threatening. About ten o'clock at -night he was alone on the poop, in charge, keeping well aft by the -weather rail and staring to windward, when amongst the white, breaking -seas, under the black sky, he made out the lights of a ship. He watched -them for some time. She was running dead before the wind of course. She -will pass jolly close--he said to himself; and then suddenly he felt a -great mistrust of that approaching ship. She's heading straight for -us--he thought. It was not his business to get out of the way. On the -contrary. And his uneasiness grew by the recollection of the forty tons -of dynamite in the body of the _Ferndale_; not the sort of cargo one -thinks of with equanimity in connection with a threatened collision. He -gazed at the two small lights in the dark immensity filled with the angry -noise of the seas. They fascinated him till their plainness to his sight -gave him a conviction that there was danger there. He knew in his mind -what to do in the emergency, but very properly he felt that he must call -the captain out at once. - -He crossed the deck in one bound. By the immemorial custom and usage of -the sea the captain's room is on the starboard side. You would just as -soon expect your captain to have his nose at the back of his head as to -have his state-room on the port side of the ship. Powell forgot all -about the direction on that point given him by the chief. He flew over -as I said, stamped with his foot and then putting his face to the cowl of -the big ventilator shouted down there: "Please come on deck, sir," in a -voice which was not trembling or scared but which we may call fairly -expressive. There could not be a mistake as to the urgence of the call. -But instead of the expected alert "All right!" and the sound of a rush -down there, he heard only a faint exclamation--then silence. - -Think of his astonishment! He remained there, his ear in the cowl of the -ventilator, his eyes fastened on those menacing sidelights dancing on the -gusts of wind which swept the angry darkness of the sea. It was as -though he had waited an hour but it was something much less than a minute -before he fairly bellowed into the wide tube "Captain Anthony!" An -agitated "What is it?" was what he heard down there in Mrs. Anthony's -voice, light rapid footsteps . . . Why didn't she try to wake him up! "I -want the captain," he shouted, then gave it up, making a dash at the -companion where a blue light was kept, resolved to act for himself. - -On the way he glanced at the helmsman whose face lighted up by the -binnacle lamps was calm. He said rapidly to him: "Stand by to spin that -helm up at the first word." The answer "Aye, aye, sir," was delivered in -a steady voice. Then Mr. Powell after a shout for the watch on deck to -"lay aft," ran to the ship's side and struck the blue light on the rail. - -A sort of nasty little spitting of sparks was all that came. The light -(perhaps affected by damp) had failed to ignite. The time of all these -various acts must be counted in seconds. Powell confessed to me that at -this failure he experienced a paralysis of thought, of voice, of limbs. -The unexpectedness of this misfire positively overcame his faculties. It -was the only thing for which his imagination was not prepared. It was -knocked clean over. When it got up it was with the suggestion that he -must do something at once or there would be a broadside smash accompanied -by the explosion of dynamite, in which both ships would be blown up and -every soul on board of them would vanish off the earth in an enormous -flame and uproar. - -He saw the catastrophe happening and at the same moment, before he could -open his mouth or stir a limb to ward off the vision, a voice very near -his ear, the measured voice of Captain Anthony said: "Wouldn't light--eh? -Throw it down! Jump for the flare-up." - -The spring of activity in Mr. Powell was released with great force. He -jumped. The flare-up was kept inside the companion with a box of matches -ready to hand. Almost before he knew he had moved he was diving under -the companion slide. He got hold of the can in the dark and tried to -strike a light. But he had to press the flare-holder to his breast with -one arm, his fingers were damp and stiff, his hands trembled a little. -One match broke. Another went out. In its flame he saw the colourless -face of Mrs. Anthony a little below him, standing on the cabin stairs. -Her eyes which were very close to his (he was in a crouching posture on -the top step) seemed to burn darkly in the vanishing light. On deck the -captain's voice was heard sudden and unexpectedly sardonic: "You had -better look sharp, if you want to be in time." - -"Let me have the box," said Mrs. Anthony in a hurried and familiar -whisper which sounded amused as if they had been a couple of children up -to some lark behind a wall. He was glad of the offer which seemed to him -very natural, and without ceremony-- - -"Here you are. Catch hold." - -Their hands touched in the dark and she took the box while he held the -paraffin soaked torch in its iron holder. He thought of warning her: -"Look out for yourself." But before he had the time to finish the -sentence the flare blazed up violently between them and he saw her throw -herself back with an arm across her face. "Hallo," he exclaimed; only he -could not stop a moment to ask if she was hurt. He bolted out of the -companion straight into his captain who took the flare from him and held -it high above his head. - -The fierce flame fluttered like a silk flag, throwing an angry swaying -glare mingled with moving shadows over the poop, lighting up the concave -surfaces of the sails, gleaming on the wet paint of the white rails. And -young Powell turned his eyes to windward with a catch in his breath. - -The strange ship, a darker shape in the night, did not seem to be moving -onwards but only to grow more distinct right abeam, staring at the -_Ferndale_ with one green and one red eye which swayed and tossed as if -they belonged to the restless head of some invisible monster ambushed in -the night amongst the waves. A moment, long like eternity, elapsed, and, -suddenly, the monster which seemed to take to itself the shape of a -mountain shut its green eye without as much as a preparatory wink. - -Mr. Powell drew a free breath. "All right now," said Captain Anthony in -a quiet undertone. He gave the blazing flare to Powell and walked aft to -watch the passing of that menace of destruction coming blindly with its -parti-coloured stare out of a blind night on the wings of a sweeping -wind. Her very form could be distinguished now black and elongated -amongst the hissing patches of foam bursting along her path. - -As is always the case with a ship running before wind and sea she did not -seem to an onlooker to move very fast; but to be progressing indolently -in long leisurely bounds and pauses in the midst of the overtaking waves. -It was only when actually passing the stern within easy hail of the -_Ferndale_, that her headlong speed became apparent to the eye. With the -red light shut off and soaring like an immense shadow on the crest of a -wave she was lost to view in one great, forward swing, melting into the -lightless space. - -"Close shave," said Captain Anthony in an indifferent voice just raised -enough to be heard in the wind. "A blind lot on board that ship. Put -out the flare now." - -Silently Mr. Powell inverted the holder, smothering the flame in the can, -bringing about by the mere turn of his wrist the fall of darkness upon -the poop. And at the same time vanished out of his mind's eye the vision -of another flame enormous and fierce shooting violently from a white -churned patch of the sea, lighting up the very clouds and carrying -upwards in its volcanic rush flying spars, corpses, the fragments of two -destroyed ships. It vanished and there was an immense relief. He told -me he did not know how scared he had been, not generally but of that very -thing his imagination had conjured, till it was all over. He measured it -(for fear is a great tension) by the feeling of slack weariness which -came over him all at once. - -He walked to the companion and stooping low to put the flare in its usual -place saw in the darkness the motionless pale oval of Mrs. Anthony's -face. She whispered quietly: - -"Is anything going to happen? What is it?" - -"It's all over now," he whispered back. - -He remained bent low, his head inside the cover staring at that white -ghostly oval. He wondered she had not rushed out on deck. She had -remained quietly there. This was pluck. Wonderful self-restraint. And -it was not stupidity on her part. She knew there was imminent danger and -probably had some notion of its nature. - -"You stayed here waiting for what would come," he murmured admiringly. - -"Wasn't that the best thing to do?" she asked. - -He didn't know. Perhaps. He confessed he could not have done it. Not -he. His flesh and blood could not have stood it. He would have felt he -must see what was coming. Then he remembered that the flare might have -scorched her face, and expressed his concern. - -"A bit. Nothing to hurt. Smell the singed hair?" - -There was a sort of gaiety in her tone. She might have been frightened -but she certainly was not overcome and suffered from no reaction. This -confirmed and augmented if possible Mr. Powell's good opinion of her as a -"jolly girl," though it seemed to him positively monstrous to refer in -such terms to one's captain's wife. "But she doesn't look it," he -thought in extenuation and was going to say something more to her about -the lighting of that flare when another voice was heard in the companion, -saying some indistinct words. Its tone was contemptuous; it came from -below, from the bottom of the stairs. It was a voice in the cabin. And -the only other voice which could be heard in the main cabin at this time -of the evening was the voice of Mrs. Anthony's father. The indistinct -white oval sank from Mr. Powell's sight so swiftly as to take him by -surprise. For a moment he hung at the opening of the companion and now -that her slight form was no longer obstructing the narrow and winding -staircase the voices came up louder but the words were still indistinct. -The old gentleman was excited about something and Mrs. Anthony was -"managing him" as Powell expressed it. They moved away from the bottom -of the stairs and Powell went away from the companion. Yet he fancied he -had heard the words "Lost to me" before he withdrew his head. They had -been uttered by Mr. Smith. - -Captain Anthony had not moved away from the taffrail. He remained in the -very position he took up to watch the other ship go by rolling and -swinging all shadowy in the uproar of the following seas. He stirred -not; and Powell keeping near by did not dare speak to him, so enigmatical -in its contemplation of the night did his figure appear to his young -eyes: indistinct--and in its immobility staring into gloom, the prey of -some incomprehensible grief, longing or regret. - -Why is it that the stillness of a human being is often so impressive, so -suggestive of evil--as if our proper fate were a ceaseless agitation? The -stillness of Captain Anthony became almost intolerable to his second -officer. Mr. Powell loitering about the skylight wanted his captain off -the deck now. "Why doesn't he go below?" he asked himself impatiently. -He ventured a cough. - -Whether the effect of the cough or not Captain Anthony spoke. He did not -move the least bit. With his back remaining turned to the whole length -of the ship he asked Mr. Powell with some brusqueness if the chief mate -had neglected to instruct him that the captain was to be found on the -port side. - -"Yes, sir," said Mr. Powell approaching his back. "The mate told me to -stamp on the port side when I wanted you; but I didn't remember at the -moment." - -"You should remember," the captain uttered with an effort. Then added -mumbling "I don't want Mrs. Anthony frightened. Don't you see? . . ." - -"She wasn't this time," Powell said innocently: "She lighted the flare-up -for me, sir." - -"This time," Captain Anthony exclaimed and turned round. "Mrs. Anthony -lighted the flare? Mrs. Anthony! . . . " Powell explained that she was -in the companion all the time. - -"All the time," repeated the captain. It seemed queer to Powell that -instead of going himself to see the captain should ask him: - -"Is she there now?" - -Powell said that she had gone below after the ship had passed clear of -the _Ferndale_. Captain Anthony made a movement towards the companion -himself, when Powell added the information. "Mr. Smith called to Mrs. -Anthony from the saloon, sir. I believe they are talking there now." - -He was surprised to see the captain give up the idea of going below after -all. - -He began to walk the poop instead regardless of the cold, of the damp -wind and of the sprays. And yet he had nothing on but his sleeping suit -and slippers. Powell placing himself on the break of the poop kept a -look-out. When after some time he turned his head to steal a glance at -his eccentric captain he could not see his active and shadowy figure -swinging to and fro. The second mate of the _Ferndale_ walked aft -peering about and addressed the seaman who steered. - -"Captain gone below?" - -"Yes, sir," said the fellow who with a quid of tobacco bulging out his -left cheek kept his eyes on the compass card. "This minute. He -laughed." - -"Laughed," repeated Powell incredulously. "Do you mean the captain did? -You must be mistaken. What would he want to laugh for?" - -"Don't know, sir." - -The elderly sailor displayed a profound indifference towards human -emotions. However, after a longish pause he conceded a few words more to -the second officer's weakness. "Yes. He was walking the deck as usual -when suddenly he laughed a little and made for the companion. Thought of -something funny all at once." - -Something funny! That Mr. Powell could not believe. He did not ask -himself why, at the time. Funny thoughts come to men, though, in all -sorts of situations; they come to all sorts of men. Nevertheless Mr. -Powell was shocked to learn that Captain Anthony had laughed without -visible cause on a certain night. The impression for some reason was -disagreeable. And it was then, while finishing his watch, with the -chilly gusts of wind sweeping at him out of the darkness where the short -sea of the soundings growled spitefully all round the ship, that it -occurred to his unsophisticated mind that perhaps things are not what -they are confidently expected to be; that it was possible that Captain -Anthony was not a happy man . . . In so far you will perceive he was to a -certain extent prepared for the apoplectic and sensitive Franklin's -lamentations about his captain. And though he treated them with a -contempt which was in a great measure sincere, yet he admitted to me that -deep down within him an inexplicable and uneasy suspicion that all was -not well in that cabin, so unusually cut off from the rest of the ship, -came into being and grew against his will. - - - -CHAPTER FOUR--ANTHONY AND FLORA - - -Marlow emerged out of the shadow of the book-case to get himself a cigar -from a box which stood on a little table by my side. In the full light -of the room I saw in his eyes that slightly mocking expression with which -he habitually covers up his sympathetic impulses of mirth and pity before -the unreasonable complications the idealism of mankind puts into the -simple but poignant problem of conduct on this earth. - -He selected and lit the cigar with affected care, then turned upon me, I -had been looking at him silently. - -"I suppose," he said, the mockery of his eyes giving a pellucid quality -to his tone, "that you think it's high time I told you something -definite. I mean something about that psychological cabin mystery of -discomfort (for it's obvious that it must be psychological) which -affected so profoundly Mr. Franklin the chief mate, and had even -disturbed the serene innocence of Mr. Powell, the second of the ship -_Ferndale_, commanded by Roderick Anthony--the son of the poet, you -know." - -"You are going to confess now that you have failed to find it out," I -said in pretended indignation. - -"It would serve you right if I told you that I have. But I won't. I -haven't failed. I own though that for a time, I was puzzled. However, I -have now seen our Powell many times under the most favourable -conditions--and besides I came upon a most unexpected source of -information . . . But never mind that. The means don't concern you -except in so far as they belong to the story. I'll admit that for some -time the old-maiden-lady-like occupation of putting two and two together -failed to procure a coherent theory. I am speaking now as an -investigator--a man of deductions. With what we know of Roderick Anthony -and Flora de Barral I could not deduct an ordinary marital quarrel -beautifully matured in less than a year--could I? If you ask me what is -an ordinary marital quarrel I will tell you, that it is a difference -about nothing; I mean, these nothings which, as Mr. Powell told us when -we first met him, shore people are so prone to start a row about, and -nurse into hatred from an idle sense of wrong, from perverted ambition, -for spectacular reasons too. There are on earth no actors too humble and -obscure not to have a gallery; that gallery which envenoms the play by -stealthy jeers, counsels of anger, amused comments or words of perfidious -compassion. However, the Anthonys were free from all demoralizing -influences. At sea, you know, there is no gallery. You hear no -tormenting echoes of your own littleness there, where either a great -elemental voice roars defiantly under the sky or else an elemental -silence seems to be part of the infinite stillness of the universe. - -Remembering Flora de Barral in the depths of moral misery, and Roderick -Anthony carried away by a gust of tempestuous tenderness, I asked myself, -Is it all forgotten already? What could they have found to estrange them -from each other with this rapidity and this thoroughness so far from all -temptations, in the peace of the sea and in an isolation so complete that -if it had not been the jealous devotion of the sentimental Franklin -stimulating the attention of Powell, there would have been no record, no -evidence of it at all. - -I must confess at once that it was Flora de Barral whom I suspected. In -this world as at present organized women are the suspected half of the -population. There are good reasons for that. These reasons are so -discoverable with a little reflection that it is not worth my while to -set them out for you. I will only mention this: that the part falling to -women's share being all "influence" has an air of occult and mysterious -action, something not altogether trustworthy like all natural forces -which, for us, work in the dark because of our imperfect comprehension. - -If women were not a force of nature, blind in its strength and capricious -in its power, they would not be mistrusted. As it is one can't help it. -You will say that this force having been in the person of Flora de Barral -captured by Anthony . . . Why yes. He had dealt with her masterfully. -But man has captured electricity too. It lights him on his way, it warms -his home, it will even cook his dinner for him--very much like a woman. -But what sort of conquest would you call it? He knows nothing of it. He -has got to be mighty careful what he is about with his captive. And the -greater the demand he makes on it in the exultation of his pride the more -likely it is to turn on him and burn him to a cinder . . . " - -"A far-fetched enough parallel," I observed coldly to Marlow. He had -returned to the arm-chair in the shadow of the bookcase. "But accepting -the meaning you have in your mind it reduces itself to the knowledge of -how to use it. And if you mean that this ravenous Anthony--" - -"Ravenous is good," interrupted Marlow. "He was a-hungering and -a-thirsting for femininity to enter his life in a way no mere feminist -could have the slightest conception of. I reckon that this accounts for -much of Fyne's disgust with him. Good little Fyne. You have no idea -what infernal mischief he had worked during his call at the hotel. But -then who could have suspected Anthony of being a heroic creature. There -are several kinds of heroism and one of them at least is idiotic. It is -the one which wears the aspect of sublime delicacy. It is apparently the -one of which the son of the delicate poet was capable. - -He certainly resembled his father, who, by the way, wore out two women -without any satisfaction to himself, because they did not come up to his -supra-refined standard of the delicacy which is so perceptible in his -verses. That's your poet. He demands too much from others. The -inarticulate son had set up a standard for himself with that need for -embodying in his conduct the dreams, the passion, the impulses the poet -puts into arrangements of verses, which are dearer to him than his own -self--and may make his own self appear sublime in the eyes of other -people, and even in his own eyes. - -Did Anthony wish to appear sublime in his own eyes? I should not like to -make that charge; though indeed there are other, less noble, ambitions at -which the world does not dare to smile. But I don't think so; I do not -even think that there was in what he did a conscious and lofty confidence -in himself, a particularly pronounced sense of power which leads men so -often into impossible or equivocal situations. Looked at abstractedly -(the way in which truth is often seen in its real shape) his life had -been a life of solitude and silence--and desire. - -Chance had thrown that girl in his way; and if we may smile at his -violent conquest of Flora de Barral we must admit also that this eager -appropriation was truly the act of a man of solitude and desire; a man -also, who, unless a complete imbecile, must have been a man of long and -ardent reveries wherein the faculty of sincere passion matures slowly in -the unexplored recesses of the heart. And I know also that a passion, -dominating or tyrannical, invading the whole man and subjugating all his -faculties to its own unique end, may conduct him whom it spurs and -drives, into all sorts of adventures, to the brink of unfathomable -dangers, to the limits of folly, and madness, and death. - -To the man then of a silence made only more impressive by the -inarticulate thunders and mutters of the great seas, an utter stranger to -the clatter of tongues, there comes the muscular little Fyne, the most -marked representative of that mankind whose voice is so strange to him, -the husband of his sister, a personality standing out from the misty and -remote multitude. He comes and throws at him more talk than he had ever -heard boomed out in an hour, and certainly touching the deepest things -Anthony had ever discovered in himself, and flings words like "unfair" -whose very sound is abhorrent to him. Unfair! Undue advantage! He! -Unfair to that girl? Cruel to her! - -No scorn could stand against the impression of such charges advanced with -heat and conviction. They shook him. They were yet vibrating in the air -of that stuffy hotel-room, terrific, disturbing, impossible to get rid -of, when the door opened and Flora de Barral entered. - -He did not even notice that she was late. He was sitting on a sofa -plunged in gloom. Was it true? Having himself always said exactly what -he meant he imagined that people (unless they were liars, which of course -his brother-in-law could not be) never said more than they meant. The -deep chest voice of little Fyne was still in his ear. "He knows," -Anthony said to himself. He thought he had better go away and never see -her again. But she stood there before him accusing and appealing. How -could he abandon her? That was out of the question. She had no one. Or -rather she had someone. That father. Anthony was willing to take him at -her valuation. This father may have been the victim of the most -atrocious injustice. But what could a man coming out of jail do? An old -man too. And then--what sort of man? What would become of them both? -Anthony shuddered slightly and the faint smile with which Flora had -entered the room faded on her lips. She was used to his impetuous -tenderness. She was no longer afraid of it. But she had never seen him -look like this before, and she suspected at once some new cruelty of -life. He got up with his usual ardour but as if sobered by a momentous -resolve and said: - -"No. I can't let you out of my sight. I have seen you. You have told -me your story. You are honest. You have never told me you loved me." - -She waited, saying to herself that he had never given her time, that he -had never asked her! And that, in truth, she did not know! - -I am inclined to believe that she did not. As abundance of experience is -not precisely her lot in life, a woman is seldom an expert in matters of -sentiment. It is the man who can and generally does "see himself" pretty -well inside and out. Women's self-possession is an outward thing; -inwardly they flutter, perhaps because they are, or they feel themselves -to be, engaged. All this speaking generally. In Flora de Barral's -particular case ever since Anthony had suddenly broken his way into her -hopeless and cruel existence she lived like a person liberated from a -condemned cell by a natural cataclysm, a tempest, an earthquake; not -absolutely terrified, because nothing can be worse than the eve of -execution, but stunned, bewildered--abandoning herself passively. She -did not want to make a sound, to move a limb. She hadn't the strength. -What was the good? And deep down, almost unconsciously she was seduced -by the feeling of being supported by this violence. A sensation she had -never experienced before in her life. - -She felt as if this whirlwind were calming down somehow! As if this -feeling of support, which was tempting her to close her eyes deliciously -and let herself be carried on and on into the unknown undefiled by vile -experiences, were less certain, had wavered threateningly. She tried to -read something in his face, in that energetic kindly face to which she -had become accustomed so soon. But she was not yet capable of -understanding its expression. Scared, discouraged on the threshold of -adolescence, plunged in moral misery of the bitterest kind, she had not -learned to read--not that sort of language. - -If Anthony's love had been as egoistic as love generally is, it would -have been greater than the egoism of his vanity--or of his generosity, if -you like--and all this could not have happened. He would not have hit -upon that renunciation at which one does not know whether to grin or -shudder. It is true too that then his love would not have fastened -itself upon the unhappy daughter of de Barral. But it was a love born of -that rare pity which is not akin to contempt because rooted in an -overwhelmingly strong capacity for tenderness--the tenderness of the -fiery kind--the tenderness of silent solitary men, the voluntary, -passionate outcasts of their kind. At the time I am forced to think that -his vanity must have been enormous. - -"What big eyes she has," he said to himself amazed. No wonder. She was -staring at him with all the might of her soul awakening slowly from a -poisoned sleep, in which it could only quiver with pain but could neither -expand nor move. He plunged into them breathless and tense, deep, deep, -like a mad sailor taking a desperate dive from the masthead into the blue -unfathomable sea so many men have execrated and loved at the same time. -And his vanity was immense. It had been touched to the quick by that -muscular little feminist, Fyne. "I! I! Take advantage of her -helplessness. I! Unfair to that creature--that wisp of mist, that white -shadow homeless in an ugly dirty world. I could blow her away with a -breath," he was saying to himself with horror. "Never!" All the -supremely refined delicacy of tenderness, expressed in so many fine lines -of verse by Carleon Anthony, grew to the size of a passion filling with -inward sobs the big frame of the man who had never in his life read a -single one of those famous sonnets singing of the most highly civilized, -chivalrous love, of those sonnets which . . . You know there's a volume -of them. My edition has the portrait of the author at thirty, and when I -showed it to Mr. Powell the other day he exclaimed: "Wonderful! One -would think this the portrait of Captain Anthony himself if . . ." I -wanted to know what that if was. But Powell could not say. There was -something--a difference. No doubt there was--in fineness perhaps. The -father, fastidious, cerebral, morbidly shrinking from all contacts, could -only sing in harmonious numbers of what the son felt with a dumb and -reckless sincerity. - -* * * * * - -Possessed by most strong men's touching illusion as to the frailness of -women and their spiritual fragility, it seemed to Anthony that he would -be destroying, breaking something very precious inside that being. In -fact nothing less than partly murdering her. This seems a very extreme -effect to flow from Fyne's words. But Anthony, unaccustomed to the -chatter of the firm earth, never stayed to ask himself what value these -words could have in Fyne's mouth. And indeed the mere dark sound of them -was utterly abhorrent to his native rectitude, sea-salted, hardened in -the winds of wide horizons, open as the day. - -He wished to blurt out his indignation but she regarded him with an -expectant air which checked him. His visible discomfort made her uneasy. -He could only repeat "Oh yes. You are perfectly honest. You might have, -but I dare say you are right. At any rate you have never said anything -to me which you didn't mean." - -"Never," she whispered after a pause. - -He seemed distracted, choking with an emotion she could not understand -because it resembled embarrassment, a state of mind inconceivable in that -man. - -She wondered what it was she had said; remembering that in very truth she -had hardly spoken to him except when giving him the bare outline of her -story which he seemed to have hardly had the patience to hear, waving it -perpetually aside with exclamations of horror and anger, with fiercely -sombre mutters "Enough! Enough!" and with alarming starts from a forced -stillness, as though he meant to rush out at once and take vengeance on -somebody. She was saying to herself that he caught her words in the air, -never letting her finish her thought. Honest. Honest. Yes certainly -she had been that. Her letter to Mrs. Fyne had been prompted by honesty. -But she reflected sadly that she had never known what to say to him. That -perhaps she had nothing to say. - -"But you'll find out that I can be honest too," he burst out in a -menacing tone, she had learned to appreciate with an amused thrill. - -She waited for what was coming. But he hung in the wind. He looked -round the room with disgust as if he could see traces on the walls of all -the casual tenants that had ever passed through it. People had -quarrelled in that room; they had been ill in it, there had been misery -in that room, wickedness, crime perhaps--death most likely. This was not -a fit place. He snatched up his hat. He had made up his mind. The -ship--the ship he had known ever since she came off the stocks, his -home--her shelter--the uncontaminated, honest ship, was the place. - -"Let us go on board. We'll talk there," he said. "And you will have to -listen to me. For whatever happens, no matter what they say, I cannot -let you go." - -You can't say that (misgivings or no misgivings) she could have done -anything else but go on board. It was the appointed business of that -morning. During the drive he was silent. Anthony was the last man to -condemn conventionally any human being, to scorn and despise even -deserved misfortune. He was ready to take old de Barral--the convict--on -his daughter's valuation without the slightest reserve. But love like -his, though it may drive one into risky folly by the proud consciousness -of its own strength, has a sagacity of its own. And now, as if lifted up -into a higher and serene region by its purpose of renunciation, it gave -him leisure to reflect for the first time in these last few days. He -said to himself: "I don't know that man. She does not know him either. -She was barely sixteen when they locked him up. She was a child. What -will he say? What will he do? No, he concluded, I cannot leave her -behind with that man who would come into the world as if out of a grave. - -They went on board in silence, and it was after showing her round and -when they had returned to the saloon that he assailed her in his fiery, -masterful fashion. At first she did not understand. Then when she -understood that he was giving her her liberty she went stiff all over, -her hand resting on the edge of the table, her face set like a carving of -white marble. It was all over. It was as that abominable governess had -said. She was insignificant, contemptible. Nobody could love her. -Humiliation clung to her like a cold shroud--never to be shaken off, -unwarmed by this madness of generosity. - -"Yes. Here. Your home. I can't give it to you and go away, but it is -big enough for us two. You need not be afraid. If you say so I shall -not even look at you. Remember that grey head of which you have been -thinking night and day. Where is it going to rest? Where else if not -here, where nothing evil can touch it. Don't you understand that I won't -let you buy shelter from me at the cost of your very soul. I won't. You -are too much part of me. I have found myself since I came upon you and I -would rather sell my own soul to the devil than let you go out of my -keeping. But I must have the right." - -He went away brusquely to shut the door leading on deck and came back the -whole length of the cabin repeating: - -"I must have the legal right. Are you ashamed of letting people think -you are my wife?" - -He opened his arms as if to clasp her to his breast but mastered the -impulse and shook his clenched hands at her, repeating: "I must have the -right if only for your father's sake. I must have the right. Where -would you take him? To that infernal cardboard box-maker. I don't know -what keeps me from hunting him up in his virtuous home and bashing his -head in. I can't bear the thought. Listen to me, Flora! Do you hear -what I am saying to you? You are not so proud that you can't understand -that I as a man have my pride too?" - -He saw a tear glide down her white cheek from under each lowered eyelid. -Then, abruptly, she walked out of the cabin. He stood for a moment, -concentrated, reckoning his own strength, interrogating his heart, before -he followed her hastily. Already she had reached the wharf. - -At the sound of his pursuing footsteps her strength failed her. Where -could she escape from this? From this new perfidy of life taking upon -itself the form of magnanimity. His very voice was changed. The -sustaining whirlwind had let her down, to stumble on again, weakened by -the fresh stab, bereft of moral support which is wanted in life more than -all the charities of material help. She had never had it. Never. Not -from the Fynes. But where to go? Oh yes, this dock--a placid sheet of -water close at hand. But there was that old man with whom she had walked -hand in hand on the parade by the sea. She seemed to see him coming to -meet her, pitiful, a little greyer, with an appealing look and an -extended, tremulous arm. It was for her now to take the hand of that -wronged man more helpless than a child. But where could she lead him? -Where? And what was she to say to him? What words of cheer, of courage -and of hope? There were none. Heaven and earth were mute, unconcerned -at their meeting. But this other man was coming up behind her. He was -very close now. His fiery person seemed to radiate heat, a tingling -vibration into the atmosphere. She was exhausted, careless, afraid to -stumble, ready to fall. She fancied she could hear his breathing. A -wave of languid warmth overtook her, she seemed to lose touch with the -ground under her feet; and when she felt him slip his hand under her arm -she made no attempt to disengage herself from that grasp which closed -upon her limb, insinuating and firm. - -He conducted her through the dangers of the quayside. Her sight was dim. -A moving truck was like a mountain gliding by. Men passed by as if in a -mist; and the buildings, the sheds, the unexpected open spaces, the -ships, had strange, distorted, dangerous shapes. She said to herself -that it was good not to be bothered with what all these things meant in -the scheme of creation (if indeed anything had a meaning), or were just -piled-up matter without any sense. She felt how she had always been -unrelated to this world. She was hanging on to it merely by that one arm -grasped firmly just above the elbow. It was a captivity. So be it. Till -they got out into the street and saw the hansom waiting outside the gates -Anthony spoke only once, beginning brusquely but in a much gentler tone -than she had ever heard from his lips. - -"Of course I ought to have known that you could not care for a man like -me, a stranger. Silence gives consent. Yes? Eh? I don't want any of -that sort of consent. And unless some day you find you can speak . . . -No! No! I shall never ask you. For all the sign I will give you you -may go to your grave with sealed lips. But what I have said you must -do!" - -He bent his head over her with tender care. At the same time she felt -her arm pressed and shaken inconspicuously, but in an undeniable manner. -"You must do it." A little shake that no passer-by could notice; and -this was going on in a deserted part of the dock. "It must be done. You -are listening to me--eh? or would you go again to my sister?" - -His ironic tone, perhaps from want of use, had an awful grating ferocity. - -"Would you go to her?" he pursued in the same strange voice. "Your best -friend! And say nicely--I am sorry. Would you? No! You couldn't. -There are things that even you, poor dear lost girl, couldn't stand. Eh? -Die rather. That's it. Of course. Or can you be thinking of taking -your father to that infernal cousin's house. No! Don't speak. I can't -bear to think of it. I would follow you there and smash the door!" - -The catch in his voice astonished her by its resemblance to a sob. It -frightened her too. The thought that came to her head was: "He mustn't." -He was putting her into the hansom. "Oh! He mustn't, he mustn't." She -was still more frightened by the discovery that he was shaking all over. -Bewildered, shrinking into the far off corner, avoiding his eyes, she yet -saw the quivering of his mouth and made a wild attempt at a smile, which -broke the rigidity of her lips and set her teeth chattering suddenly. - -"I am not coming with you," he was saying. "I'll tell the man . . . I -can't. Better not. What is it? Are you cold? Come! What is it? Only -to go to a confounded stuffy room, a hole of an office. Not a quarter of -an hour. I'll come for you--in ten days. Don't think of it too much. -Think of no man, woman or child of all that silly crowd cumbering the -ground. Don't think of me either. Think of yourself. Ha! Nothing will -be able to touch you then--at last. Say nothing. Don't move. I'll have -everything arranged; and as long as you don't hate the sight of me--and -you don't--there's nothing to be frightened about. One of their silly -offices with a couple of ink-slingers of no consequence; poor, scribbling -devils." - -The hansom drove away with Flora de Barral inside, without movement, -without thought, only too glad to rest, to be alone and still moving away -without effort, in solitude and silence. - -Anthony roamed the streets for hours without being able to remember in -the evening where he had been--in the manner of a happy and exulting -lover. But nobody could have thought so from his face, which bore no -signs of blissful anticipation. Exulting indeed he was but it was a -special sort of exultation which seemed to take him by the throat like an -enemy. - -Anthony's last words to Flora referred to the registry office where they -were married ten days later. During that time Anthony saw no one or -anything, though he went about restlessly, here and there, amongst men -and things. This special state is peculiar to common lovers, who are -known to have no eyes for anything except for the contemplation, actual -or inward, of one human form which for them contains the soul of the -whole world in all its beauty, perfection, variety and infinity. It must -be extremely pleasant. But felicity was denied to Roderick Anthony's -contemplation. He was not a common sort of lover; and he was punished -for it as if Nature (which it is said abhors a vacuum) were so very -conventional as to abhor every sort of exceptional conduct. Roderick -Anthony had begun already to suffer. That is why perhaps he was so -industrious in going about amongst his fellowmen who would have been -surprised and humiliated, had they known how little solidity and even -existence they had in his eyes. But they could not suspect anything so -queer. They saw nothing extraordinary in him during that fortnight. The -proof of this is that they were willing to transact business with him. -Obviously they were; since it is then that the offer of chartering his -ship for the special purpose of proceeding to the Western Islands was put -in his way by a firm of shipbrokers who had no doubt of his sanity. - -He probably looked sane enough for all the practical purposes of -commercial life. But I am not so certain that he really was quite sane -at that time. - -However, he jumped at the offer. Providence itself was offering him this -opportunity to accustom the girl to sea-life by a comparatively short -trip. This was the time when everything that happened, everything he -heard, casual words, unrelated phrases, seemed a provocation or an -encouragement, confirmed him in his resolution. And indeed to be busy -with material affairs is the best preservative against reflection, fears, -doubts--all these things which stand in the way of achievement. I -suppose a fellow proposing to cut his throat would experience a sort of -relief while occupied in stropping his razor carefully. - -And Anthony was extremely careful in preparing for himself and for the -luckless Flora, an impossible existence. He went about it with no more -tremors than if he had been stuffed with rags or made of iron instead of -flesh and blood. An existence, mind you, which, on shore, in the thick -of mankind, of varied interests, of distractions, of infinite -opportunities to preserve your distance from each other, is hardly -conceivable; but on board ship, at sea, _en tete-a-tete_ for days and -weeks and months together, could mean nothing but mental torture, an -exquisite absurdity of torment. He was a simple soul. His hopelessly -masculine ingenuousness is displayed in a touching way by his care to -procure some woman to attend on Flora. The condition of guaranteed -perfect respectability gave him moments of anxious thought. When he -remembered suddenly his steward's wife he must have exclaimed _eureka_ -with particular exultation. One does not like to call Anthony an ass. -But really to put any woman within scenting distance of such a secret and -suppose that she would not track it out! - -No woman, however simple, could be as ingenuous as that. I don't know -how Flora de Barral qualified him in her thoughts when he told her of -having done this amongst other things intended to make her comfortable. I -should think that, for all _her_ simplicity, she must have been appalled. -He stood before her on the appointed day outwardly calmer than she had -ever seen him before. And this very calmness, that scrupulous attitude -which he felt bound in honour to assume then and for ever, unless she -would condescend to make a sign at some future time, added to the -heaviness of her heart innocent of the most pardonable guile. - -The night before she had slept better than she had done for the past ten -nights. Both youth and weariness will assert themselves in the end -against the tyranny of nerve-racking stress. She had slept but she woke -up with her eyes full of tears. There were no traces of them when she -met him in the shabby little parlour downstairs. She had swallowed them -up. She was not going to let him see. She felt bound in honour to -accept the situation for ever and ever unless . . . Ah, unless . . . She -dissembled all her sentiments but it was not duplicity on her part. All -she wanted was to get at the truth; to see what would come of it. - -She beat him at his own honourable game and the thoroughness of her -serenity disconcerted Anthony a bit. It was he who stammered when it -came to talking. The suppressed fierceness of his character carried him -on after the first word or two masterfully enough. But it was as if they -both had taken a bite of the same bitter fruit. He was thinking with -mournful regret not unmixed with surprise: "That fellow Fyne has been -telling me the truth. She does not care for me a bit." It humiliated -him and also increased his compassion for the girl who in this darkness -of life, buffeted and despairing, had fallen into the grip of his -stronger will, abandoning herself to his arms as on a night of shipwreck. -Flora on her side with partial insight (for women are never blind with -the complete masculine blindness) looked on him with some pity; and she -felt pity for herself too. It was a rejection, a casting out; nothing -new to her. But she who supposed all her sensibility dead by this time, -discovered in herself a resentment of this ultimate betrayal. She had no -resignation for this one. With a sort of mental sullenness she said to -herself: "Well, I am here. I am here without any nonsense. It is not my -fault that I am a mere worthless object of pity." - -And these things which she could tell herself with a clear conscience -served her better than the passionate obstinacy of purpose could serve -Roderick Anthony. She was much more sure of herself than he was. Such -are the advantages of mere rectitude over the most exalted generosity. - -And so they went out to get married, the people of the house where she -lodged having no suspicion of anything of the sort. They were only -excited at a "gentleman friend" (a very fine man too) calling on Miss -Smith for the first time since she had come to live in the house. When -she returned, for she did come back alone, there were allusions made to -that outing. She had to take her meals with these rather vulgar people. -The woman of the house, a scraggy, genteel person, tried even to provoke -confidences. Flora's white face with the deep blue eyes did not strike -their hearts as it did the heart of Captain Anthony, as the very face of -the suffering world. Her pained reserve had no power to awe them into -decency. - -Well, she returned alone--as in fact might have been expected. After -leaving the Registry Office Flora de Barral and Roderick Anthony had gone -for a walk in a park. It must have been an East-End park but I am not -sure. Anyway that's what they did. It was a sunny day. He said to her: -"Everything I have in the world belongs to you. I have seen to that -without troubling my brother-in-law. They have no call to interfere." - -She walked with her hand resting lightly on his arm. He had offered it -to her on coming out of the Registry Office, and she had accepted it -silently. Her head drooped, she seemed to be turning matters over in her -mind. She said, alluding to the Fynes: "They have been very good to me." -At that he exclaimed: - -"They have never understood you. Well, not properly. My sister is not a -bad woman, but . . . " - -Flora didn't protest; asking herself whether he imagined that he himself -understood her so much better. Anthony dismissing his family out of his -thoughts went on: "Yes. Everything is yours. I have kept nothing back. -As to the piece of paper we have just got from that miserable -quill-driver if it wasn't for the law, I wouldn't mind if you tore it up -here, now, on this spot. But don't you do it. Unless you should some -day feel that--" - -He choked, unexpectedly. She, reflective, hesitated a moment then making -up her mind bravely. - -"Neither am I keeping anything back from you." - -She had said it! But he in his blind generosity assumed that she was -alluding to her deplorable history and hastened to mutter: - -"Of course! Of course! Say no more. I have been lying awake thinking -of it all no end of times." - -He made a movement with his other arm as if restraining himself from -shaking an indignant fist at the universe; and she never even attempted -to look at him. His voice sounded strangely, incredibly lifeless in -comparison with these tempestuous accents that in the broad fields, in -the dark garden had seemed to shake the very earth under her weary and -hopeless feet. - -She regretted them. Hearing the sigh which escaped her Anthony instead -of shaking his fist at the universe began to pat her hand resting on his -arm and then desisted, suddenly, as though he had burnt himself. Then -after a silence: - -"You will have to go by yourself to-morrow. I . . . No, I think I -mustn't come. Better not. What you two will have to say to each other--" - -She interrupted him quickly: - -"Father is an innocent man. He was cruelly wronged." - -"Yes. That's why," Anthony insisted earnestly. "And you are the only -human being that can make it up to him. You alone must reconcile him -with the world if anything can. But of course you shall. You'll have to -find words. Oh you'll know. And then the sight of you, alone, would -soothe--" - -"He's the gentlest of men," she interrupted again. - -Anthony shook his head. "It would take no end of generosity, no end of -gentleness to forgive such a dead set. For my part I would have liked -better to have been killed and done with at once. It could not have been -worse for you--and I suppose it was of you that he was thinking most -while those infernal lawyers were badgering him in court. Of you. And -now I think of it perhaps the sight of you may bring it all back to him. -All these years, all these years--and you his child left alone in the -world. I would have gone crazy. For even if he had done wrong--" - -"But he hasn't," insisted Flora de Barral with a quite unexpected -fierceness. "You mustn't even suppose it. Haven't you read the accounts -of the trial?" - -"I am not supposing anything," Anthony defended himself. He just -remembered hearing of the trial. He assured her that he was away from -England, the second voyage of the _Ferndale_. He was crossing the -Pacific from Australia at the time and didn't see any papers for weeks -and weeks. He interrupted himself to suggest: - -"You had better tell him at once that you are happy." - -He had stammered a little, and Flora de Barral uttered a deliberate and -concise "Yes." - -A short silence ensued. She withdrew her hand from his arm. They -stopped. Anthony looked as if a totally unexpected catastrophe had -happened. - -"Ah," he said. "You mind . . . " - -"No! I think I had better," she murmured. - -"I dare say. I dare say. Bring him along straight on board to-morrow. -Stop nowhere." - -She had a movement of vague gratitude, a momentary feeling of peace which -she referred to the man before her. She looked up at Anthony. His face -was sombre. He was miles away and muttered as if to himself: - -"Where could he want to stop though?" - -"There's not a single being on earth that I would want to look at his -dear face now, to whom I would willingly take him," she said extending -her hand frankly and with a slight break in her voice, "but -you--Roderick." - -He took that hand, felt it very small and delicate in his broad palm. - -"That's right. That's right," he said with a conscious and hasty -heartiness and, as if suddenly ashamed of the sound of his voice, turned -half round and absolutely walked away from the motionless girl. He even -resisted the temptation to look back till it was too late. The gravel -path lay empty to the very gate of the park. She was gone--vanished. He -had an impression that he had missed some sort of chance. He felt sad. -That excited sense of his own conduct which had kept him up for the last -ten days buoyed him no more. He had succeeded! - -He strolled on aimlessly a prey to gentle melancholy. He walked and -walked. There were but few people about in this breathing space of a -poor neighbourhood. Under certain conditions of life there is precious -little time left for mere breathing. But still a few here and there were -indulging in that luxury; yet few as they were Captain Anthony, though -the least exclusive of men, resented their presence. Solitude had been -his best friend. He wanted some place where he could sit down and be -alone. And in his need his thoughts turned to the sea which had given -him so much of that congenial solitude. There, if always with his ship -(but that was an integral part of him) he could always be as solitary as -he chose. Yes. Get out to sea! - -The night of the town with its strings of lights, rigid, and crossed like -a net of flames, thrown over the sombre immensity of walls, closed round -him, with its artificial brilliance overhung by an emphatic blackness, -its unnatural animation of a restless, overdriven humanity. His thoughts -which somehow were inclined to pity every passing figure, every single -person glimpsed under a street lamp, fixed themselves at last upon a -figure which certainly could not have been seen under the lamps on that -particular night. A figure unknown to him. A figure shut up within high -unscaleable walls of stone or bricks till next morning . . . The figure -of Flora de Barral's father. De Barral the financier--the convict. - -There is something in that word with its suggestions of guilt and -retribution which arrests the thought. We feel ourselves in the presence -of the power of organized society--a thing mysterious in itself and still -more mysterious in its effect. Whether guilty or innocent, it was as if -old de Barral had been down to the Nether Regions. Impossible to imagine -what he would bring out from there to the light of this world of -uncondemned men. What would he think? What would he have to say? And -what was one to say to him? - -Anthony, a little awed, as one is by a range of feelings stretching -beyond one's grasp, comforted himself by the thought that probably the -old fellow would have little to say. He wouldn't want to talk about it. -No man would. It must have been a real hell to him. - -And then Anthony, at the end of the day in which he had gone through a -marriage ceremony with Flora de Barral, ceased to think of Flora's father -except, as in some sort, the captive of his triumph. He turned to the -mental contemplation of the white, delicate and appealing face with great -blue eyes which he had seen weep and wonder and look profoundly at him, -sometimes with incredulity, sometimes with doubt and pain, but always -irresistible in the power to find their way right into his breast, to -stir there a deep response which was something more than love--he said to -himself,--as men understand it. More? Or was it only something other? -Yes. It was something other. More or less. Something as incredible as -the fulfilment of an amazing and startling dream in which he could take -the world in his arms--all the suffering world--not to possess its -pathetic fairness but to console and cherish its sorrow. - -Anthony walked slowly to the ship and that night slept without dreams. - - - -CHAPTER FIVE--THE GREAT DE BARRAL - - -Renovated certainly the saloon of the _Ferndale_ was to receive the -"strange woman." The mellowness of its old-fashioned, tarnished -decoration was gone. And Anthony looking round saw the glitter, the -gleams, the colour of new things, untried, unused, very bright--too -bright. The workmen had gone only last night; and the last piece of work -they did was the hanging of the heavy curtains which looped midway the -length of the saloon--divided it in two if released, cutting off the -after end with its companion-way leading direct on the poop, from the -forepart with its outlet on the deck; making a privacy within a privacy, -as though Captain Anthony could not place obstacles enough between his -new happiness and the men who shared his life at sea. He inspected that -arrangement with an approving eye then made a particular visitation of -the whole, ending by opening a door which led into a large state-room -made of two knocked into one. It was very well furnished and had, -instead of the usual bedplace of such cabins, an elaborate swinging cot -of the latest pattern. Anthony tilted it a little by way of trial. "The -old man will be very comfortable in here," he said to himself, and -stepped back into the saloon closing the door gently. Then another -thought occurred to him obvious under the circumstances but strangely -enough presenting itself for the first time. "Jove! Won't he get a -shock," thought Roderick Anthony. - -He went hastily on deck. "Mr. Franklin, Mr. Franklin." The mate was not -very far. "Oh! Here you are. Miss . . . Mrs. Anthony'll be coming on -board presently. Just give me a call when you see the cab." - -Then, without noticing the gloominess of the mate's countenance he went -in again. Not a friendly word, not a professional remark, or a small -joke, not as much as a simple and inane "fine day." Nothing. Just -turned about and went in. - -We know that, when the moment came, he thought better of it and decided -to meet Flora's father in that privacy of the main cabin which he had -been so careful to arrange. Why Anthony appeared to shrink from the -contact, he who was sufficiently self-confident not only to face but to -absolutely create a situation almost insane in its audacious generosity, -is difficult to explain. Perhaps when he came on the poop for a glance -he found that man so different outwardly from what he expected that he -decided to meet him for the first time out of everybody's sight. Possibly -the general secrecy of his relation to the girl might have influenced -him. Truly he may well have been dismayed. That man's coming brought -him face to face with the necessity to speak and act a lie; to appear -what he was not and what he could never be, unless, unless-- - -In short, we'll say if you like that for various reasons, all having to -do with the delicate rectitude of his nature, Roderick Anthony (a man of -whom his chief mate used to say: he doesn't know what fear is) was -frightened. There is a Nemesis which overtakes generosity too, like all -the other imprudences of men who dare to be lawless and proud . . . " - -"Why do you say this?" I inquired, for Marlow had stopped abruptly and -kept silent in the shadow of the bookcase. - -"I say this because that man whom chance had thrown in Flora's way was -both: lawless and proud. Whether he knew anything about it or not it -does not matter. Very likely not. One may fling a glove in the face of -nature and in the face of one's own moral endurance quite innocently, -with a simplicity which wears the aspect of perfectly Satanic conceit. -However, as I have said it does not matter. It's a transgression all the -same and has got to be paid for in the usual way. But never mind that. I -paused because, like Anthony, I find a difficulty, a sort of dread in -coming to grips with old de Barral. - -You remember I had a glimpse of him once. He was not an imposing -personality: tall, thin, straight, stiff, faded, moving with short steps -and with a gliding motion, speaking in an even low voice. When the sea -was rough he wasn't much seen on deck--at least not walking. He caught -hold of things then and dragged himself along as far as the after -skylight where he would sit for hours. Our, then young, friend offered -once to assist him and this service was the first beginning of a sort of -friendship. He clung hard to one--Powell says, with no figurative -intention. Powell was always on the lookout to assist, and to assist -mainly Mrs. Anthony, because he clung so jolly hard to her that Powell -was afraid of her being dragged down notwithstanding that she very soon -became very sure-footed in all sorts of weather. And Powell was the only -one ready to assist at hand because Anthony (by that time) seemed to be -afraid to come near them; the unforgiving Franklin always looked -wrathfully the other way; the boatswain, if up there, acted likewise but -sheepishly; and any hands that happened to be on the poop (a feeling -spreads mysteriously all over a ship) shunned him as though he had been -the devil. - -We know how he arrived on board. For my part I know so little of prisons -that I haven't the faintest notion how one leaves them. It seems as -abominable an operation as the other, the shutting up with its mental -suggestions of bang, snap, crash and the empty silence outside--where an -instant before you were--you _were_--and now no longer are. Perfectly -devilish. And the release! I don't know which is worse. How do they do -it? Pull the string, door flies open, man flies through: Out you go! -_Adios_! And in the space where a second before you were not, in the -silent space there is a figure going away, limping. Why limping? I -don't know. That's how I see it. One has a notion of a maiming, -crippling process; of the individual coming back damaged in some subtle -way. I admit it is a fantastic hallucination, but I can't help it. Of -course I know that the proceedings of the best machine-made humanity are -employed with judicious care and so on. I am absurd, no doubt, but still -. . . Oh yes it's idiotic. When I pass one of these places . . . did you -notice that there is something infernal about the aspect of every -individual stone or brick of them, something malicious as if matter were -enjoying its revenge of the contemptuous spirit of man. Did you notice? -You didn't? Eh? Well I am perhaps a little mad on that point. When I -pass one of these places I must avert my eyes. I couldn't have gone to -meet de Barral. I should have shrunk from the ordeal. You'll notice -that it looks as if Anthony (a brave man indubitably) had shirked it too. -Little Fyne's flight of fancy picturing three people in the fatal four -wheeler--you remember?--went wide of the truth. There were only two -people in the four wheeler. Flora did not shrink. Women can stand -anything. The dear creatures have no imagination when it comes to solid -facts of life. In sentimental regions--I won't say. It's another thing -altogether. There they shrink from or rush to embrace ghosts of their -own creation just the same as any fool-man would. - -No. I suppose the girl Flora went on that errand reasonably. And then, -why! This was the moment for which she had lived. It was her only point -of contact with existence. Oh yes. She had been assisted by the Fynes. -And kindly. Certainly. Kindly. But that's not enough. There is a kind -way of assisting our fellow-creatures which is enough to break their -hearts while it saves their outer envelope. How cold, how infernally -cold she must have felt--unless when she was made to burn with -indignation or shame. Man, we know, cannot live by bread alone but hang -me if I don't believe that some women could live by love alone. If there -be a flame in human beings fed by varied ingredients earthly and -spiritual which tinge it in different hues, then I seem to see the colour -of theirs. It is azure . . . What the devil are you laughing at . . . " - -Marlow jumped up and strode out of the shadow as if lifted by indignation -but there was the flicker of a smile on his lips. "You say I don't know -women. Maybe. It's just as well not to come too close to the shrine. -But I have a clear notion of _woman_. In all of them, termagant, flirt, -crank, washerwoman, blue-stocking, outcast and even in the ordinary fool -of the ordinary commerce there is something left, if only a spark. And -when there is a spark there can always be a flame . . . " - -He went back into the shadow and sat down again. - -"I don't mean to say that Flora de Barral was one of the sort that could -live by love alone. In fact she had managed to live without. But still, -in the distrust of herself and of others she looked for love, any kind of -love, as women will. And that confounded jail was the only spot where -she could see it--for she had no reason to distrust her father. - -She was there in good time. I see her gazing across the road at these -walls which are, properly speaking, awful. You do indeed seem to feel -along the very lines and angles of the unholy bulk, the fall of time, -drop by drop, hour by hour, leaf by leaf, with a gentle and implacable -slowness. And a voiceless melancholy comes over one, invading, -overpowering like a dream, penetrating and mortal like poison. - -When de Barral came out she experienced a sort of shock to see that he -was exactly as she remembered him. Perhaps a little smaller. Otherwise -unchanged. You come out in the same clothes, you know. I can't tell -whether he was looking for her. No doubt he was. Whether he recognized -her? Very likely. She crossed the road and at once there was reproduced -at a distance of years, as if by some mocking witchcraft, the sight so -familiar on the Parade at Brighton of the financier de Barral walking -with his only daughter. One comes out of prison in the same clothes one -wore on the day of condemnation, no matter how long one has been put away -there. Oh, they last! They last! But there is something which is -preserved by prison life even better than one's discarded clothing. It -is the force, the vividness of one's sentiments. A monastery will do -that too; but in the unholy claustration of a jail you are thrown back -wholly upon yourself--for God and Faith are not there. The people -outside disperse their affections, you hoard yours, you nurse them into -intensity. What they let slip, what they forget in the movement and -changes of free life, you hold on to, amplify, exaggerate into a rank -growth of memories. They can look with a smile at the troubles and pains -of the past; but you can't. Old pains keep on gnawing at your heart, old -desires, old deceptions, old dreams, assailing you in the dead stillness -of your present where nothing moves except the irrecoverable minutes of -your life. - -De Barral was out and, for a time speechless, being led away almost -before he had taken possession of the free world, by his daughter. Flora -controlled herself well. They walked along quickly for some distance. -The cab had been left round the corner--round several corners for all I -know. He was flustered, out of breath, when she helped him in and -followed herself. Inside that rolling box, turning towards that -recovered presence with her heart too full for words she felt the desire -of tears she had managed to keep down abandon her suddenly, her -half-mournful, half-triumphant exultation subside, every fibre of her -body, relaxed in tenderness, go stiff in the close look she took at his -face. He _was_ different. There was something. Yes, there was -something between them, something hard and impalpable, the ghost of these -high walls. - -How old he was, how unlike! - -She shook off this impression, amazed and frightened by it of course. And -remorseful too. Naturally. She threw her arms round his neck. He -returned that hug awkwardly, as if not in perfect control of his arms, -with a fumbling and uncertain pressure. She hid her face on his breast. -It was as though she were pressing it against a stone. They released -each other and presently the cab was rolling along at a jog-trot to the -docks with those two people as far apart as they could get from each -other, in opposite corners. - -After a silence given up to mutual examination he uttered his first -coherent sentence outside the walls of the prison. - -"What has done for me was envy. Envy. There was a lot of them just -bursting with it every time they looked my way. I was doing too well. So -they went to the Public Prosecutor--" - -She said hastily "Yes! Yes! I know," and he glared as if resentful that -the child had turned into a young woman without waiting for him to come -out. "What do you know about it?" he asked. "You were too young." His -speech was soft. The old voice, the old voice! It gave her a thrill. -She recognized its pointless gentleness always the same no matter what he -had to say. And she remembered that he never had much to say when he -came down to see her. It was she who chattered, chattered, on their -walks, while stiff and with a rigidly-carried head, he dropped a gentle -word now and then. - -Moved by these recollections waking up within her, she explained to him -that within the last year she had read and studied the report of the -trial. - -"I went through the files of several papers, papa." - -He looked at her suspiciously. The reports were probably very -incomplete. No doubt the reporters had garbled his evidence. They were -determined to give him no chance either in court or before the public -opinion. It was a conspiracy . . . "My counsel was a fool too," he -added. "Did you notice? A perfect fool." - -She laid her hand on his arm soothingly. "Is it worth while talking -about that awful time? It is so far away now." She shuddered slightly -at the thought of all the horrible years which had passed over her young -head; never guessing that for him the time was but yesterday. He folded -his arms on his breast, leaned back in his corner and bowed his head. But -in a little while he made her jump by asking suddenly: - -"Who has got hold of the Lone Valley Railway? That's what they were -after mainly. Somebody has got it. Parfitts and Co. grabbed it--eh? Or -was it that fellow Warner . . . " - -"I--I don't know," she said quite scared by the twitching of his lips. - -"Don't know!" he exclaimed softly. Hadn't her cousin told her? Oh yes. -She had left them--of course. Why did she? It was his first question -about herself but she did not answer it. She did not want to talk of -these horrors. They were impossible to describe. She perceived though -that he had not expected an answer, because she heard him muttering to -himself that: "There was half a million's worth of work done and material -accumulated there." - -"You mustn't think of these things, papa," she said firmly. And he asked -her with that invariable gentleness, in which she seemed now to detect -some rather ugly shades, what else had he to think about? Another year -or two, if they had only left him alone, he and everybody else would have -been all right, rolling in money; and she, his daughter, could have -married anybody--anybody. A lord. - -All this was to him like yesterday, a long yesterday, a yesterday gone -over innumerable times, analysed, meditated upon for years. It had a -vividness and force for that old man of which his daughter who had not -been shut out of the world could have no idea. She was to him the only -living figure out of that past, and it was perhaps in perfect good faith -that he added, coldly, inexpressive and thin-lipped: "I lived only for -you, I may say. I suppose you understand that. There were only you and -me." - -Moved by this declaration, wondering that it did not warm her heart more, -she murmured a few endearing words while the uppermost thought in her -mind was that she must tell him now of the situation. She had expected -to be questioned anxiously about herself--and while she desired it she -shrank from the answers she would have to make. But her father seemed -strangely, unnaturally incurious. It looked as if there would be no -questions. Still this was an opening. This seemed to be the time for -her to begin. And she began. She began by saying that she had always -felt like that. There were two of them, to live for each other. And if -he only knew what she had gone through! - -Ensconced in his corner, with his arms folded, he stared out of the cab -window at the street. How little he was changed after all. It was the -unmovable expression, the faded stare she used to see on the esplanade -whenever walking by his side hand in hand she raised her eyes to his -face--while she chattered, chattered. It was the same stiff, silent -figure which at a word from her would turn rigidly into a shop and buy -her anything it occurred to her that she would like to have. Flora de -Barral's voice faltered. He bent on her that well-remembered glance in -which she had never read anything as a child, except the consciousness of -her existence. And that was enough for a child who had never known -demonstrative affection. But she had lived a life so starved of all -feeling that this was no longer enough for her. What was the good of -telling him the story of all these miseries now past and gone, of all -those bewildering difficulties and humiliations? What she must tell him -was difficult enough to say. She approached it by remarking cheerfully: - -"You haven't even asked me where I am taking you." He started like a -somnambulist awakened suddenly, and there was now some meaning in his -stare; a sort of alarmed speculation. He opened his mouth slowly. Flora -struck in with forced gaiety. "You would never, guess." - -He waited, still more startled and suspicious. "Guess! Why don't you -tell me?" - -He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward towards her. She got hold of -one of his hands. "You must know first . . . " She paused, made an -effort: "I am married, papa." - -For a moment they kept perfectly still in that cab rolling on at a steady -jog-trot through a narrow city street full of bustle. Whatever she -expected she did not expect to feel his hand snatched away from her grasp -as if from a burn or a contamination. De Barral fresh from the stagnant -torment of the prison (where nothing happens) had not expected that sort -of news. It seemed to stick in his throat. In strangled low tones he -cried out, "You--married? You, Flora! When? Married! What for? Who -to? Married!" - -His eyes which were blue like hers, only faded, without depth, seemed to -start out of their orbits. He did really look as if he were choking. He -even put his hand to his collar . . . " - -* * * * * - -"You know," continued Marlow out of the shadow of the bookcase and nearly -invisible in the depths of the arm-chair, "the only time I saw him he had -given me the impression of absolute rigidity, as though he had swallowed -a poker. But it seems that he could collapse. I can hardly picture this -to myself. I understand that he did collapse to a certain extent in his -corner of the cab. The unexpected had crumpled him up. She regarded him -perplexed, pitying, a little disillusioned, and nodded at him gravely: -Yes. Married. What she did not like was to see him smile in a manner -far from encouraging to the devotion of a daughter. There was something -unintentionally savage in it. Old de Barral could not quite command his -muscles, as yet. But he had recovered command of his gentle voice. - -"You were just saying that in this wide world there we were, only you and -I, to stick to each other." - -She was dimly aware of the scathing intention lurking in these soft low -tones, in these words which appealed to her poignantly. She defended -herself. Never, never for a single moment had she ceased to think of -him. Neither did he cease to think of her, he said, with as much -sinister emphasis as he was capable of. - -"But, papa," she cried, "I haven't been shut up like you." She didn't -mind speaking of it because he was innocent. He hadn't been understood. -It was a misfortune of the most cruel kind but no more disgraceful than -an illness, a maiming accident or some other visitation of blind fate. "I -wish I had been too. But I was alone out in the world, the horrid world, -that very world which had used you so badly." - -"And you couldn't go about in it without finding somebody to fall in love -with?" he said. A jealous rage affected his brain like the fumes of -wine, rising from some secret depths of his being so long deprived of all -emotions. The hollows at the corners of his lips became more pronounced -in the puffy roundness of his cheeks. Images, visions, obsess with -particular force, men withdrawn from the sights and sounds of active -life. "And I did nothing but think of you!" he exclaimed under his -breath, contemptuously. "Think of you! You haunted me, I tell you." - -Flora said to herself that there was a being who loved her. "Then we -have been haunting each other," she declared with a pang of remorse. For -indeed he had haunted her nearly out of the world, into a final and -irremediable desertion. "Some day I shall tell you . . . No. I don't -think I can ever tell you. There was a time when I was mad. But what's -the good? It's all over now. We shall forget all this. There shall be -nothing to remind us." - -De Barral moved his shoulders. - -"I should think you were mad to tie yourself to . . . How long is it -since you are married?" - -She answered "Not long" that being the only answer she dared to make. -Everything was so different from what she imagined it would be. He -wanted to know why she had said nothing of it in any of her letters; in -her last letter. She said: - -"It was after." - -"So recently!" he wondered. "Couldn't you wait at least till I came out? -You could have told me; asked me; consulted me! Let me see--" - -She shook her head negatively. And he was appalled. He thought to -himself: Who can he be? Some miserable, silly youth without a penny. Or -perhaps some scoundrel? Without making any expressive movement he wrung -his loosely-clasped hands till the joints cracked. He looked at her. She -was pretty. Some low scoundrel who will cast her off. Some plausible -vagabond . . . "You couldn't wait--eh?" - -Again she made a slight negative sign. - -"Why not? What was the hurry?" She cast down her eyes. "It had to be. -Yes. It was sudden, but it had to be." - -He leaned towards her, his mouth open, his eyes wild with virtuous anger, -but meeting the absolute candour of her raised glance threw himself back -into his corner again. - -"So tremendously in love with each other--was that it? Couldn't let a -father have his daughter all to himself even for a day after--after such -a separation. And you know I never had anyone, I had no friends. What -did I want with those people one meets in the City. The best of them are -ready to cut your throat. Yes! Business men, gentlemen, any sort of men -and women--out of spite, or to get something. Oh yes, they can talk fair -enough if they think there's something to be got out of you . . . " His -voice was a mere breath yet every word came to Flora as distinctly as if -charged with all the moving power of passion . . . "My girl, I looked at -them making up to me and I would say to myself: What do I care for all -that! I am a business man. I am the great Mr. de Barral (yes, yes, some -of them twisted their mouths at it, but I _was_ the great Mr. de Barral) -and I have my little girl. I wanted nobody and I have never had -anybody." - -A true emotion had unsealed his lips but the words that came out of them -were no louder than the murmur of a light wind. It died away. - -"That's just it," said Flora de Barral under her breath. Without -removing his eyes from her he took off his hat. It was a tall hat. The -hat of the trial. The hat of the thumb-nail sketches in the illustrated -papers. One comes out in the same clothes, but seclusion counts! It is -well known that lurid visions haunt secluded men, monks, hermits--then -why not prisoners? De Barral the convict took off the silk hat of the -financier de Barral and deposited it on the front seat of the cab. Then -he blew out his cheeks. He was red in the face. - -"And then what happens?" he began again in his contained voice. "Here I -am, overthrown, broken by envy, malice and all uncharitableness. I come -out--and what do I find? I find that my girl Flora has gone and married -some man or other, perhaps a fool, how do I know; or perhaps--anyway not -good enough." - -"Stop, papa." - -"A silly love affair as likely as not," he continued monotonously, his -thin lips writhing between the ill-omened sunk corners. "And a very -suspicious thing it is too, on the part of a loving daughter." - -She tried to interrupt him but he went on till she actually clapped her -hand on his mouth. He rolled his eyes a bit but when she took her hand -away he remained silent. - -"Wait. I must tell you . . . And first of all, papa, understand this, -for everything's in that: he is the most generous man in the world. He -is . . . " - -De Barral very still in his corner uttered with an effort "You are in -love with him." - -"Papa! He came to me. I was thinking of you. I had no eyes for -anybody. I could no longer bear to think of you. It was then that he -came. Only then. At that time when--when I was going to give up." - -She gazed into his faded blue eyes as if yearning to be understood, to be -given encouragement, peace--a word of sympathy. He declared without -animation "I would like to break his neck." - -She had the mental exclamation of the overburdened. - -"Oh my God!" and watched him with frightened eyes. But he did not appear -insane or in any other way formidable. This comforted her. The silence -lasted for some little time. Then suddenly he asked: - -"What's your name then?" - -For a moment in the profound trouble of the task before her she did not -understand what the question meant. Then, her face faintly flushing, she -whispered: "Anthony." - -Her father, a red spot on each cheek, leaned his head back wearily in the -corner of the cab. - -"Anthony. What is he? Where did he spring from?" - -"Papa, it was in the country, on a road--" - -He groaned, "On a road," and closed his eyes. - -"It's too long to explain to you now. We shall have lots of time. There -are things I could not tell you now. But some day. Some day. For now -nothing can part us. Nothing. We are safe as long as we live--nothing -can ever come between us." - -"You are infatuated with the fellow," he remarked, without opening his -eyes. And she said: "I believe in him," in a low voice. "You and I must -believe in him." - -"Who the devil is he?" - -"He's the brother of the lady--you know Mrs. Fyne, she knew mother--who -was so kind to me. I was staying in the country, in a cottage, with Mr. -and Mrs. Fyne. It was there that we met. He came on a visit. He -noticed me. I--well--we are married now." - -She was thankful that his eyes were shut. It made it easier to talk of -the future she had arranged, which now was an unalterable thing. She did -not enter on the path of confidences. That was impossible. She felt he -would not understand her. She felt also that he suffered. Now and then -a great anxiety gripped her heart with a mysterious sense of guilt--as -though she had betrayed him into the hands of an enemy. With his eyes -shut he had an air of weary and pious meditation. She was a little -afraid of it. Next moment a great pity for him filled her heart. And in -the background there was remorse. His face twitched now and then just -perceptibly. He managed to keep his eyelids down till he heard that the -'husband' was a sailor and that he, the father, was being taken straight -on board ship ready to sail away from this abominable world of -treacheries, and scorns and envies and lies, away, away over the blue -sea, the sure, the inaccessible, the uncontaminated and spacious refuge -for wounded souls. - -Something like that. Not the very words perhaps but such was the general -sense of her overwhelming argument--the argument of refuge. - -I don't think she gave a thought to material conditions. But as part of -that argument set forth breathlessly, as if she were afraid that if she -stopped for a moment she could never go on again, she mentioned that -generosity of a stormy type, which had come to her from the sea, had -caught her up on the brink of unmentionable failure, had whirled her away -in its first ardent gust and could be trusted now, implicitly trusted, to -carry them both, side by side, into absolute safety. - -She believed it, she affirmed it. He understood thoroughly at last, and -at once the interior of that cab, of an aspect so pacific in the eyes of -the people on the pavements, became the scene of a great agitation. The -generosity of Roderick Anthony--the son of the poet--affected the -ex-financier de Barral in a manner which must have brought home to Flora -de Barral the extreme arduousness of the business of being a woman. Being -a woman is a terribly difficult trade since it consists principally of -dealings with men. This man--the man inside the cab--cast oft his stiff -placidity and behaved like an animal. I don't mean it in an offensive -sense. What he did was to give way to an instinctive panic. Like some -wild creature scared by the first touch of a net falling on its back, old -de Barral began to struggle, lank and angular, against the empty air--as -much of it as there was in the cab--with staring eyes and gasping mouth -from which his daughter shrank as far as she could in the confined space. - -"Stop the cab. Stop him I tell you. Let me get out!" were the strangled -exclamations she heard. Why? What for? To do what? He would hear -nothing. She cried to him "Papa! Papa! What do you want to do?" And -all she got from him was: "Stop. I must get out. I want to think. I -must get out to think." - -It was a mercy that he didn't attempt to open the door at once. He only -stuck his head and shoulders out of the window crying to the cabman. She -saw the consequences, the cab stopping, a crowd collecting around a -raving old gentleman . . . In this terrible business of being a woman so -full of fine shades, of delicate perplexities (and very small rewards) -you can never know what rough work you may have to do, at any moment. -Without hesitation Flora seized her father round the body and pulled -back--being astonished at the ease with which she managed to make him -drop into his seat again. She kept him there resolutely with one hand -pressed against his breast, and leaning across him, she, in her turn put -her head and shoulders out of the window. By then the cab had drawn up -to the curbstone and was stopped. "No! I've changed my mind. Go on -please where you were told first. To the docks." - -She wondered at the steadiness of her own voice. She heard a grunt from -the driver and the cab began to roll again. Only then she sank into her -place keeping a watchful eye on her companion. He was hardly anything -more by this time. Except for her childhood's impressions he was just--a -man. Almost a stranger. How was one to deal with him? And there was -the other too. Also almost a stranger. The trade of being a woman was -very difficult. Too difficult. Flora closed her eyes saying to herself: -"If I think too much about it I shall go mad." And then opening them she -asked her father if the prospect of living always with his daughter and -being taken care of by her affection away from the world, which had no -honour to give to his grey hairs, was such an awful prospect. - -"Tell me, is it so bad as that?" - -She put that question sadly, without bitterness. The famous--or -notorious--de Barral had lost his rigidity now. He was bent. Nothing -more deplorably futile than a bent poker. He said nothing. She added -gently, suppressing an uneasy remorseful sigh: - -"And it might have been worse. You might have found no one, no one in -all this town, no one in all the world, not even me! Poor papa!" - -She made a conscience-stricken movement towards him thinking: "Oh! I am -horrible, I am horrible." And old de Barral, scared, tired, bewildered -by the extraordinary shocks of his liberation, swayed over and actually -leaned his head on her shoulder, as if sorrowing over his regained -freedom. - -The movement by itself was touching. Flora supporting him lightly -imagined that he was crying; and at the thought that had she smashed in a -quarry that shoulder, together with some other of her bones, this grey -and pitiful head would have had nowhere to rest, she too gave way to -tears. They flowed quietly, easing her overstrained nerves. Suddenly he -pushed her away from him so that her head struck the side of the cab, -pushing himself away too from her as if something had stung him. - -All the warmth went out of her emotion. The very last tears turned cold -on her cheek. But their work was done. She had found courage, -resolution, as women do, in a good cry. With his hand covering the upper -part of his face whether to conceal his eyes or to shut out an unbearable -sight, he was stiffening up in his corner to his usual poker-like -consistency. She regarded him in silence. His thin obstinate lips -moved. He uttered the name of the cousin--the man, you remember, who did -not approve of the Fynes, and whom rightly or wrongly little Fyne -suspected of interested motives, in view of de Barral having possibly put -away some plunder, somewhere before the smash. - -I may just as well tell you at once that I don't know anything more of -him. But de Barral was of the opinion, speaking in his low voice from -under his hand, that this relation would have been only too glad to have -secured his guidance. - -"Of course I could not come forward in my own name, or person. But the -advice of a man of my experience is as good as a fortune to anybody -wishing to venture into finance. The same sort of thing can be done -again." - -He shuffled his feet a little, let fall his hand; and turning carefully -toward his daughter his puffy round cheeks, his round chin resting on his -collar, he bent on her the faded, resentful gaze of his pale eyes, which -were wet. - -"The start is really only a matter of judicious advertising. There's no -difficulty. And here you go and . . . " - -He turned his face away. "After all I am still de Barral, _the_ de -Barral. Didn't you remember that?" - -"Papa," said Flora; "listen. It's you who must remember that there is no -longer a de Barral . . . " He looked at her sideways anxiously. "There -is Mr. Smith, whom no harm, no trouble, no wicked lies of evil people can -ever touch." - -"Mr. Smith," he breathed out slowly. "Where does he belong to? There's -not even a Miss Smith." - -"There is your Flora." - -"My Flora! You went and . . . I can't bear to think of it. It's -horrible." - -"Yes. It was horrible enough at times," she said with feeling, because -somehow, obscurely, what this man said appealed to her as if it were her -own thought clothed in an enigmatic emotion. "I think with shame -sometimes how I . . . No not yet. I shall not tell you. At least not -now." - -The cab turned into the gateway of the dock. Flora handed the tall hat -to her father. "Here, papa. And please be good. I suppose you love me. -If you don't, then I wonder who--" - -He put the hat on, and stiffened hard in his corner, kept a sidelong -glance on his girl. "Try to be nice for my sake. Think of the years I -have been waiting for you. I do indeed want support--and peace. A -little peace." - -She clasped his arm suddenly with both hands pressing with all her might -as if to crush the resistance she felt in him. "I could not have peace -if I did not have you with me. I won't let you go. Not after all I went -through. I won't." The nervous force of her grip frightened him a -little. She laughed suddenly. "It's absurd. It's as if I were asking -you for a sacrifice. What am I afraid of? Where could you go? I mean -now, to-day, to-night? You can't tell me. Have you thought of it? Well -I have been thinking of it for the last year. Longer. I nearly went mad -trying to find out. I believe I was mad for a time or else I should -never have thought . . . " - -* * * * * - -"This was as near as she came to a confession," remarked Marlow in a -changed tone. "The confession I mean of that walk to the top of the -quarry which she reproached herself with so bitterly. And he made of it -what his fancy suggested. It could not possibly be a just notion. The -cab stopped alongside the ship and they got out in the manner described -by the sensitive Franklin. I don't know if they suspected each other's -sanity at the end of that drive. But that is possible. We all seem a -little mad to each other; an excellent arrangement for the bulk of -humanity which finds in it an easy motive of forgiveness. Flora crossed -the quarter-deck with a rapidity born of apprehension. It had grown -unbearable. She wanted this business over. She was thankful on looking -back to see he was following her. "If he bolts away," she thought, "then -I shall know that I am of no account indeed! That no one loves me, that -words and actions and protestations and everything in the world is -false--and I shall jump into the dock. _That_ at least won't lie." - -Well I don't know. If it had come to that she would have been most -likely fished out, what with her natural want of luck and the good many -people on the quay and on board. And just where the _Ferndale_ was -moored there hung on a wall (I know the berth) a coil of line, a pole, -and a life-buoy kept there on purpose to save people who tumble into the -dock. It's not so easy to get away from life's betrayals as she thought. -However it did not come to that. He followed her with his quick gliding -walk. Mr. Smith! The liberated convict de Barral passed off the solid -earth for the last time, vanished for ever, and there was Mr. Smith added -to that world of waters which harbours so many queer fishes. An old -gentleman in a silk hat, darting wary glances. He followed, because mere -existence has its claims which are obeyed mechanically. I have no doubt -he presented a respectable figure. Father-in-law. Nothing more -respectable. But he carried in his heart the confused pain of dismay and -affection, of involuntary repulsion and pity. Very much like his -daughter. Only in addition he felt a furious jealousy of the man he was -going to see. - -A residue of egoism remains in every affection--even paternal. And this -man in the seclusion of his prison had thought himself into such a sense -of ownership of that single human being he had to think about, as may -well be inconceivable to us who have not had to serve a long (and -wickedly unjust) sentence of penal servitude. She was positively the -only thing, the one point where his thoughts found a resting-place, for -years. She was the only outlet for his imagination. He had not much of -that faculty to be sure, but there was in it the force of concentration. -He felt outraged, and perhaps it was an absurdity on his part, but I -venture to suggest rather in degree than in kind. I have a notion that -no usual, normal father is pleased at parting with his daughter. No. Not -even when he rationally appreciates "Jane being taken off his hands" or -perhaps is able to exult at an excellent match. At bottom, quite deep -down, down in the dark (in some cases only by digging), there is to be -found a certain repugnance . . . With mothers of course it is different. -Women are more loyal, not to each other, but to their common femininity -which they behold triumphant with a secret and proud satisfaction. - -The circumstances of that match added to Mr. Smith's indignation. And if -he followed his daughter into that ship's cabin it was as if into a house -of disgrace and only because he was still bewildered by the suddenness of -the thing. His will, so long lying fallow, was overborne by her -determination and by a vague fear of that regained liberty. - -You will be glad to hear that Anthony, though he did shirk the welcome on -the quay, behaved admirably, with the simplicity of a man who has no -small meannesses and makes no mean reservations. His eyes did not flinch -and his tongue did not falter. He was, I have it on the best authority, -admirable in his earnestness, in his sincerity and also in his restraint. -He was perfect. Nevertheless the vital force of his unknown -individuality addressing him so familiarly was enough to fluster Mr. -Smith. Flora saw her father trembling in all his exiguous length, though -he held himself stiffer than ever if that was possible. He muttered a -little and at last managed to utter, not loud of course but very -distinctly: "I am here under protest," the corners of his mouth sunk -disparagingly, his eyes stony. "I am here under protest. I have been -locked up by a conspiracy. I--" - -He raised his hands to his forehead--his silk hat was on the table rim -upwards; he had put it there with a despairing gesture as he came in--he -raised his hands to his forehead. "It seems to me unfair. I--" He -broke off again. Anthony looked at Flora who stood by the side of her -father. - -"Well, sir, you will soon get used to me. Surely you and she must have -had enough of shore-people and their confounded half-and-half ways to -last you both for a life-time. A particularly merciful lot they are too. -You ask Flora. I am alluding to my own sister, her best friend, and not -a bad woman either as they go." - -The captain of the _Ferndale_ checked himself. "Lucky thing I was there -to step in. I want you to make yourself at home, and before long--" - -The faded stare of the Great de Barral silenced Anthony by its -inexpressive fixity. He signalled with his eyes to Flora towards the -door of the state-room fitted specially to receive Mr. Smith, the free -man. She seized the free man's hat off the table and took him -caressingly under the arm. "Yes! This is home, come and see your room, -papa!" - -Anthony himself threw open the door and Flora took care to shut it -carefully behind herself and her father. "See," she began but desisted -because it was clear that he would look at none of the contrivances for -his comfort. She herself had hardly seen them before. He was looking -only at the new carpet and she waited till he should raise his eyes. - -He didn't do that but spoke in his usual voice. "So this is your -husband, that . . . And I locked up!" - -"Papa, what's the good of harping on that," she remonstrated no louder. -"He is kind." - -"And you went and . . . married him so that he should be kind to me. Is -that it? How did you know that I wanted anybody to be kind to me?" - -"How strange you are!" she said thoughtfully. - -"It's hard for a man who has gone through what I have gone through to -feel like other people. Has that occurred to you? . . . " He looked up -at last . . . "Mrs. Anthony, I can't bear the sight of the fellow." She -met his eyes without flinching and he added, "You want to go to him now." -His mild automatic manner seemed the effect of tremendous -self-restraint--and yet she remembered him always like that. She felt -cold all over. - -"Why, of course, I must go to him," she said with a slight start. - -He gnashed his teeth at her and she went out. - -Anthony had not moved from the spot. One of his hands was resting on the -table. She went up to him, stopped, then deliberately moved still -closer. "Thank you, Roderick." - -"You needn't thank me," he murmured. "It's I who . . . " - -"No, perhaps I needn't. You do what you like. But you are doing it -well." - -He sighed then hardly above a whisper because they were near the state- -room door, "Upset, eh?" - -She made no sign, no sound of any kind. The thorough falseness of the -position weighed on them both. But he was the braver of the two. "I -dare say. At first. Did you think of telling him you were happy?" - -"He never asked me," she smiled faintly at him. She was disappointed by -his quietness. "I did not say more than I was absolutely obliged to -say--of myself." She was beginning to be irritated with this man a -little. "I told him I had been very lucky," she said suddenly -despondent, missing Anthony's masterful manner, that something arbitrary -and tender which, after the first scare, she had accustomed herself to -look forward to with pleasurable apprehension. He was contemplating her -rather blankly. She had not taken off her outdoor things, hat, gloves. -She was like a caller. And she had a movement suggesting the end of a -not very satisfactory business call. "Perhaps it would be just as well -if we went ashore. Time yet." - -He gave her a glimpse of his unconstrained self in the low vehement "You -dare!" which sprang to his lips and out of them with a most menacing -inflexion. - -"You dare . . . What's the matter now?" - -These last words were shot out not at her but at some target behind her -back. Looking over her shoulder she saw the bald head with black bunches -of hair of the congested and devoted Franklin (he had his cap in his -hand) gazing sentimentally from the saloon doorway with his lobster eyes. -He was heard from the distance in a tone of injured innocence reporting -that the berthing master was alongside and that he wanted to move the -ship into the basin before the crew came on board. - -His captain growled "Well, let him," and waved away the ulcerated and -pathetic soul behind these prominent eyes which lingered on the offensive -woman while the mate backed out slowly. Anthony turned to Flora. - -"You could not have meant it. You are as straight as they make them." - -"I am trying to be." - -"Then don't joke in that way. Think of what would become of--me." - -"Oh yes. I forgot. No, I didn't mean it. It wasn't a joke. It was -forgetfulness. You wouldn't have been wronged. I couldn't have gone. -I--I am too tired." - -He saw she was swaying where she stood and restrained himself violently -from taking her into his arms, his frame trembling with fear as though he -had been tempted to an act of unparalleled treachery. He stepped aside -and lowering his eyes pointed to the door of the stern-cabin. It was -only after she passed by him that he looked up and thus he did not see -the angry glance she gave him before she moved on. He looked after her. -She tottered slightly just before reaching the door and flung it to -behind her nervously. - -Anthony--he had felt this crash as if the door had been slammed inside -his very breast--stood for a moment without moving and then shouted for -Mrs. Brown. This was the steward's wife, his lucky inspiration to make -Flora comfortable. "Mrs. Brown! Mrs. Brown!" At last she appeared from -somewhere. "Mrs. Anthony has come on board. Just gone into the cabin. -Hadn't you better see if you can be of any assistance?" - -"Yes, sir." - -And again he was alone with the situation he had created in the hardihood -and inexperience of his heart. He thought he had better go on deck. In -fact he ought to have been there before. At any rate it would be the -usual thing for him to be on deck. But a sound of muttering and of faint -thuds somewhere near by arrested his attention. They proceeded from Mr. -Smith's room, he perceived. It was very extraordinary. "He's talking to -himself," he thought. "He seems to be thumping the bulkhead with his -fists--or his head." - -Anthony's eyes grew big with wonder while he listened to these noises. He -became so attentive that he did not notice Mrs. Brown till she actually -stopped before him for a moment to say: - -"Mrs. Anthony doesn't want any assistance, sir." - -* * * * * - -This was you understand the voyage before Mr. Powell--young Powell -then--joined the _Ferndale_; chance having arranged that he should get -his start in life in that particular ship of all the ships then in the -port of London. The most unrestful ship that ever sailed out of any port -on earth. I am not alluding to her sea-going qualities. Mr. Powell -tells me she was as steady as a church. I mean unrestful in the sense, -for instance in which this planet of ours is unrestful--a matter of an -uneasy atmosphere disturbed by passions, jealousies, loves, hates and the -troubles of transcendental good intentions, which, though ethically -valuable, I have no doubt cause often more unhappiness than the plots of -the most evil tendency. For those who refuse to believe in chance he, I -mean Mr. Powell, must have been obviously predestined to add his native -ingenuousness to the sum of all the others carried by the honest ship -_Ferndale_. He was too ingenuous. Everybody on board was, exception -being made of Mr. Smith who, however, was simple enough in his way, with -that terrible simplicity of the fixed idea, for which there is also -another name men pronounce with dread and aversion. His fixed idea was -to save his girl from the man who had possessed himself of her (I use -these words on purpose because the image they suggest was clearly in Mr. -Smith's mind), possessed himself unfairly of her while he, the father, -was locked up. - -"I won't rest till I have got you away from that man," he would murmur to -her after long periods of contemplation. We know from Powell how he used -to sit on the skylight near the long deck-chair on which Flora was -reclining, gazing into her face from above with an air of guardianship -and investigation at the same time. - -It is almost impossible to say if he ever had considered the event -rationally. The avatar of de Barral into Mr. Smith had not been effected -without a shock--that much one must recognize. It may be that it drove -all practical considerations out of his mind, making room for awful and -precise visions which nothing could dislodge afterwards. - -And it might have been the tenacity, the unintelligent tenacity, of the -man who had persisted in throwing millions of other people's thrift into -the Lone Valley Railway, the Labrador Docks, the Spotted Leopard Copper -Mine, and other grotesque speculations exposed during the famous de -Barral trial, amongst murmurs of astonishment mingled with bursts of -laughter. For it is in the Courts of Law that Comedy finds its last -refuge in our deadly serious world. As to tears and lamentations, these -were not heard in the august precincts of comedy, because they were -indulged in privately in several thousand homes, where, with a fine -dramatic effect, hunger had taken the place of Thrift. - -But there was one at least who did not laugh in court. That person was -the accused. The notorious de Barral did not laugh because he was -indignant. He was impervious to words, to facts, to inferences. It -would have been impossible to make him see his guilt or his folly--either -by evidence or argument--if anybody had tried to argue. - -Neither did his daughter Flora try to argue with him. The cruelty of her -position was so great, its complications so thorny, if I may express -myself so, that a passive attitude was yet her best refuge--as it had -been before her of so many women. - -For that sort of inertia in woman is always enigmatic and therefore -menacing. It makes one pause. A woman may be a fool, a sleepy fool, an -agitated fool, a too awfully noxious fool, and she may even be simply -stupid. But she is never dense. She's never made of wood through and -through as some men are. There is in woman always, somewhere, a spring. -Whatever men don't know about women (and it may be a lot or it may be -very little) men and even fathers do know that much. And that is why so -many men are afraid of them. - -Mr. Smith I believe was afraid of his daughter's quietness though of -course he interpreted it in his own way. - -He would, as Mr. Powell depicts, sit on the skylight and bend over the -reclining girl, wondering what there was behind the lost gaze under the -darkened eyelids in the still eyes. He would look and look and then he -would say, whisper rather, it didn't take much for his voice to drop to a -mere breath--he would declare, transferring his faded stare to the -horizon, that he would never rest till he had "got her away from that -man." - -"You don't know what you are saying, papa." - -She would try not to show her weariness, the nervous strain of these two -men's antagonism around her person which was the cause of her languid -attitudes. For as a matter of fact the sea agreed with her. - -As likely as not Anthony would be walking on the other side of the deck. -The strain was making him restless. He couldn't sit still anywhere. He -had tried shutting himself up in his cabin; but that was no good. He -would jump up to rush on deck and tramp, tramp up and down that poop till -he felt ready to drop, without being able to wear down the agitation of -his soul, generous indeed, but weighted by its envelope of blood and -muscle and bone; handicapped by the brain creating precise images and -everlastingly speculating, speculating--looking out for signs, watching -for symptoms. - -And Mr. Smith with a slight backward jerk of his small head at the -footsteps on the other side of the skylight would insist in his awful, -hopelessly gentle voice that he knew very well what he was saying. Hadn't -she given herself to that man while he was locked up. - -"Helpless, in jail, with no one to think of, nothing to look forward to, -but my daughter. And then when they let me out at last I find her -gone--for it amounts to this. Sold. Because you've sold yourself; you -know you have." - -With his round unmoved face, a lot of fine white hair waving in the wind- -eddies of the spanker, his glance levelled over the sea he seemed to be -addressing the universe across her reclining form. She would protest -sometimes. - -"I wish you would not talk like this, papa. You are only tormenting me, -and tormenting yourself." - -"Yes, I am tormented enough," he admitted meaningly. But it was not -talking about it that tormented him. It was thinking of it. And to sit -and look at it was worse for him than it possibly could have been for her -to go and give herself up, bad as that must have been. - -"For of course you suffered. Don't tell me you didn't? You must have." - -She had renounced very soon all attempts at protests. It was useless. It -might have made things worse; and she did not want to quarrel with her -father, the only human being that really cared for her, absolutely, -evidently, completely--to the end. There was in him no pity, no -generosity, nothing whatever of these fine things--it was for her, for -her very own self such as it was, that this human being cared. This -certitude would have made her put up with worse torments. For, of -course, she too was being tormented. She felt also helpless, as if the -whole enterprise had been too much for her. This is the sort of -conviction which makes for quietude. She was becoming a fatalist. - -What must have been rather appalling were the necessities of daily life, -the intercourse of current trifles. That naturally had to go on. They -wished good morning to each other, they sat down together to meals--and I -believe there would be a game of cards now and then in the evening, -especially at first. What frightened her most was the duplicity of her -father, at least what looked like duplicity, when she remembered his -persistent, insistent whispers on deck. However her father was a -taciturn person as far back as she could remember him best--on the -Parade. It was she who chattered, never troubling herself to discover -whether he was pleased or displeased. And now she couldn't fathom his -thoughts. Neither did she chatter to him. Anthony with a forced -friendly smile as if frozen to his lips seemed only too thankful at not -being made to speak. Mr. Smith sometimes forgot himself while studying -his hand so long that Flora had to recall him to himself by a murmured -"Papa--your lead." Then he apologized by a faint as if inward -ejaculation "Beg your pardon, Captain." Naturally she addressed Anthony -as Roderick and he addressed her as Flora. This was all the acting that -was necessary to judge from the wincing twitch of the old man's mouth at -every uttered "Flora." On hearing the rare "Rodericks" he had sometimes -a scornful grimace as faint and faded and colourless as his whole stiff -personality. - -He would be the first to retire. He was not infirm. With him too the -life on board ship seemed to agree; but from a sense of duty, of -affection, or to placate his hidden fury, his daughter always accompanied -him to his state-room "to make him comfortable." She lighted his lamp, -helped him into his dressing-gown or got him a book from a bookcase -fitted in there--but this last rarely, because Mr. Smith used to declare -"I am no reader" with something like pride in his low tones. Very often -after kissing her good-night on the forehead he would treat her to some -such fretful remark: "It's like being in jail--'pon my word. I suppose -that man is out there waiting for you. Head jailer! Ough!" - -She would smile vaguely; murmur a conciliatory "How absurd." But once, -out of patience, she said quite sharply "Leave off. It hurts me. One -would think you hate me." - -"It isn't you I hate," he went on monotonously breathing at her. "No, it -isn't you. But if I saw that you loved that man I think I could hate you -too." - -That word struck straight at her heart. "You wouldn't be the first -then," she muttered bitterly. But he was busy with his fixed idea and -uttered an awfully equable "But you don't! Unfortunate girl!" - -She looked at him steadily for a time then said "Good-night, papa." - -As a matter of fact Anthony very seldom waited for her alone at the table -with the scattered cards, glasses, water-jug, bottles and soon. He took -no more opportunities to be alone with her than was absolutely necessary -for the edification of Mrs. Brown. Excellent, faithful woman; the wife -of his still more excellent and faithful steward. And Flora wished all -these excellent people, devoted to Anthony, she wished them all further; -and especially the nice, pleasant-spoken Mrs. Brown with her beady, -mobile eyes and her "Yes certainly, ma'am," which seemed to her to have a -mocking sound. And so this short trip--to the Western Islands only--came -to an end. It was so short that when young Powell joined the _Ferndale_ -by a memorable stroke of chance, no more than seven months had elapsed -since the--let us say the liberation of the convict de Barral and his -avatar into Mr. Smith. - -* * * * * - -For the time the ship was loading in London Anthony took a cottage near a -little country station in Essex, to house Mr. Smith and Mr. Smith's -daughter. It was altogether his idea. How far it was necessary for Mr. -Smith to seek rural retreat I don't know. Perhaps to some extent it was -a judicious arrangement. There were some obligations incumbent on the -liberated de Barral (in connection with reporting himself to the police I -imagine) which Mr. Smith was not anxious to perform. De Barral had to -vanish; the theory was that de Barral had vanished, and it had to be -upheld. Poor Flora liked the country, even if the spot had nothing more -to recommend it than its retired character. - -Now and then Captain Anthony ran down; but as the station was a real -wayside one, with no early morning trains up, he could never stay for -more than the afternoon. It appeared that he must sleep in town so as to -be early on board his ship. The weather was magnificent and whenever the -captain of the _Ferndale_ was seen on a brilliant afternoon coming down -the road Mr. Smith would seize his stick and toddle off for a solitary -walk. But whether he would get tired or because it gave him some -satisfaction to see "that man" go away--or for some cunning reason of his -own, he was always back before the hour of Anthony's departure. On -approaching the cottage he would see generally "that man" lying on the -grass in the orchard at some distance from his daughter seated in a chair -brought out of the cottage's living room. Invariably Mr. Smith made -straight for them and as invariably had the feeling that his approach was -not disturbing a very intimate conversation. He sat with them, through a -silent hour or so, and then it would be time for Anthony to go. Mr. -Smith, perhaps from discretion, would casually vanish a minute or so -before, and then watch through the diamond panes of an upstairs room -"that man" take a lingering look outside the gate at the invisible Flora, -lift his hat, like a caller, and go off down the road. Then only Mr. -Smith would join his daughter again. - -These were the bad moments for her. Not always, of course, but -frequently. It was nothing extraordinary to hear Mr. Smith begin gently -with some observation like this: - -"That man is getting tired of you." - -He would never pronounce Anthony's name. It was always "that man." - -Generally she would remain mute with wide open eyes gazing at nothing -between the gnarled fruit trees. Once, however, she got up and walked -into the cottage. Mr. Smith followed her carrying the chair. He banged -it down resolutely and in that smooth inexpressive tone so many ears used -to bend eagerly to catch when it came from the Great de Barral he said: - -"Let's get away." - -She had the strength of mind not to spin round. On the contrary she went -on to a shabby bit of a mirror on the wall. In the greenish glass her -own face looked far off like the livid face of a drowned corpse at the -bottom of a pool. She laughed faintly. - -"I tell you that man's getting--" - -"Papa," she interrupted him. "I have no illusions as to myself. It has -happened to me before but--" - -Her voice failing her suddenly her father struck in with quite an -unwonted animation. "Let's make a rush for it, then." - -Having mastered both her fright and her bitterness, she turned round, sat -down and allowed her astonishment to be seen. Mr. Smith sat down too, -his knees together and bent at right angles, his thin legs parallel to -each other and his hands resting on the arms of the wooden arm-chair. His -hair had grown long, his head was set stiffly, there was something -fatuously venerable in his aspect. - -"You can't care for him. Don't tell me. I understand your motive. And -I have called you an unfortunate girl. You are that as much as if you -had gone on the streets. Yes. Don't interrupt me, Flora. I was -everlastingly being interrupted at the trial and I can't stand it any -more. I won't be interrupted by my own child. And when I think that it -is on the very day before they let me out that you . . . " - -He had wormed this fact out of her by that time because Flora had got -tired of evading the question. He had been very much struck and -distressed. Was that the trust she had in him? Was that a proof of -confidence and love? The very day before! Never given him even half a -chance. It was as at the trial. They never gave him a chance. They -would not give him time. And there was his own daughter acting exactly -as his bitterest enemies had done. Not giving him time! - -The monotony of that subdued voice nearly lulled her dismay to sleep. She -listened to the unavoidable things he was saying. - -"But what induced that man to marry you? Of course he's a gentleman. One -can see that. And that makes it worse. Gentlemen don't understand -anything about city affairs--finance. Why!--the people who started the -cry after me were a firm of gentlemen. The counsel, the judge--all -gentlemen--quite out of it! No notion of . . . And then he's a sailor -too. Just a skipper--" - -"My grandfather was nothing else," she interrupted. And he made an -angular gesture of impatience. - -"Yes. But what does a silly sailor know of business? Nothing. No -conception. He can have no idea of what it means to be the daughter of -Mr. de Barral--even after his enemies had smashed him. What on earth -induced him--" - -She made a movement because the level voice was getting on her nerves. -And he paused, but only to go on again in the same tone with the remark: - -"Of course you are pretty. And that's why you are lost--like many other -poor girls. Unfortunate is the word for you." - -She said: "It may be. Perhaps it is the right word; but listen, papa. I -mean to be honest." - -He began to exhale more speeches. - -"Just the sort of man to get tired and then leave you and go off with his -beastly ship. And anyway you can never be happy with him. Look at his -face. I want to save you. You see I was not perhaps a very good husband -to your poor mother. She would have done better to have left me long -before she died. I have been thinking it all over. I won't have you -unhappy." - -He ran his eyes over her with an attention which was surprisingly -noticeable. Then said, "H'm! Yes. Let's clear out before it is too -late. Quietly, you and I." - -She said as if inspired and with that calmness which despair often gives: -"There is no money to go away with, papa." - -He rose up straightening himself as though he were a hinged figure. She -said decisively: - -"And of course you wouldn't think of deserting me, papa?" - -"Of course not," sounded his subdued tone. And he left her, gliding away -with his walk which Mr. Powell described to me as being as level and wary -as his voice. He walked as if he were carrying a glass full of water on -his head. - -Flora naturally said nothing to Anthony of that edifying conversation. -His generosity might have taken alarm at it and she did not want to be -left behind to manage her father alone. And moreover she was too honest. -She would be honest at whatever cost. She would not be the first to -speak. Never. And the thought came into her head: "I am indeed an -unfortunate creature!" - -It was by the merest coincidence that Anthony coming for the afternoon -two days later had a talk with Mr. Smith in the orchard. Flora for some -reason or other had left them for a moment; and Anthony took that -opportunity to be frank with Mr. Smith. He said: "It seems to me, sir, -that you think Flora has not done very well for herself. Well, as to -that I can't say anything. All I want you to know is that I have tried -to do the right thing." And then he explained that he had willed -everything he was possessed of to her. "She didn't tell you, I suppose?" - -Mr. Smith shook his head slightly. And Anthony, trying to be friendly, -was just saying that he proposed to keep the ship away from home for at -least two years. "I think, sir, that from every point of view it would -be best," when Flora came back and the conversation, cut short in that -direction, languished and died. Later in the evening, after Anthony had -been gone for hours, on the point of separating for the night, Mr. Smith -remarked suddenly to his daughter after a long period of brooding: - -"A will is nothing. One tears it up. One makes another." Then after -reflecting for a minute he added unemotionally: - -"One tells lies about it." - -Flora, patient, steeled against every hurt and every disgust to the point -of wondering at herself, said: "You push your dislike of--of--Roderick -too far, papa. You have no regard for me. You hurt me." - -He, as ever inexpressive to the point of terrifying her sometimes by the -contrast of his placidity and his words, turned away from her a pair of -faded eyes. - -"I wonder how far your dislike goes," he began. "His very name sticks in -your throat. I've noticed it. It hurts me. What do you think of that? -You might remember that you are not the only person that's hurt by your -folly, by your hastiness, by your recklessness." He brought back his -eyes to her face. "And the very day before they were going to let me -out." His feeble voice failed him altogether, the narrow compressed lips -only trembling for a time before he added with that extraordinary -equanimity of tone, "I call it sinful." - -Flora made no answer. She judged it simpler, kinder and certainly safer -to let him talk himself out. This, Mr. Smith, being naturally taciturn, -never took very long to do. And we must not imagine that this sort of -thing went on all the time. She had a few good days in that cottage. The -absence of Anthony was a relief and his visits were pleasurable. She was -quieter. He was quieter too. She was almost sorry when the time to join -the ship arrived. It was a moment of anguish, of excitement; they -arrived at the dock in the evening and Flora after "making her father -comfortable" according to established usage lingered in the state-room -long enough to notice that he was surprised. She caught his pale eyes -observing her quite stonily. Then she went out after a cheery -good-night. - -Contrary to her hopes she found Anthony yet in the saloon. Sitting in -his arm-chair at the head of the table he was picking up some business -papers which he put hastily in his breast pocket and got up. He asked -her if her day, travelling up to town and then doing some shopping, had -tired her. She shook her head. Then he wanted to know in a half-jocular -way how she felt about going away, and for a long voyage this time. - -"Does it matter how I feel?" she asked in a tone that cast a gloom over -his face. He answered with repressed violence which she did not expect: - -"No, it does not matter, because I cannot go without you. I've told you -. . . You know it. You don't think I could." - -"I assure you I haven't the slightest wish to evade my obligations," she -said steadily. "Even if I could. Even if I dared, even if I had to die -for it!" - -He looked thunderstruck. They stood facing each other at the end of the -saloon. Anthony stuttered. "Oh no. You won't die. You don't mean it. -You have taken kindly to the sea." - -She laughed, but she felt angry. - -"No, I don't mean it. I tell you I don't mean to evade my obligations. I -shall live on . . . feeling a little crushed, nevertheless." - -"Crushed!" he repeated. "What's crushing you?" - -"Your magnanimity," she said sharply. But her voice was softened after a -time. "Yet I don't know. There is a perfection in it--do you understand -me, Roderick?--which makes it almost possible to bear." - -He sighed, looked away, and remarked that it was time to put out the lamp -in the saloon. The permission was only till ten o'clock. - -"But you needn't mind that so much in your cabin. Just see that the -curtains of the ports are drawn close and that's all. The steward might -have forgotten to do it. He lighted your reading lamp in there before he -went ashore for a last evening with his wife. I don't know if it was -wise to get rid of Mrs. Brown. You will have to look after yourself, -Flora." - -He was quite anxious; but Flora as a matter of fact congratulated herself -on the absence of Mrs. Brown. No sooner had she closed the door of her -state-room than she murmured fervently, "Yes! Thank goodness, she is -gone." There would be no gentle knock, followed by her appearance with -her equivocal stare and the intolerable: "Can I do anything for you, -ma'am?" which poor Flora had learned to fear and hate more than any voice -or any words on board that ship--her only refuge from the world which had -no use for her, for her imperfections and for her troubles. - -* * * * * - -Mrs. Brown had been very much vexed at her dismissal. The Browns were a -childless couple and the arrangement had suited them perfectly. Their -resentment was very bitter. Mrs. Brown had to remain ashore alone with -her rage, but the steward was nursing his on board. Poor Flora had no -greater enemy, the aggrieved mate had no greater sympathizer. And Mrs. -Brown, with a woman's quick power of observation and inference (the -putting of two and two together) had come to a certain conclusion which -she had imparted to her husband before leaving the ship. The morose -steward permitted himself once to make an allusion to it in Powell's -hearing. It was in the officers' mess-room at the end of a meal while he -lingered after putting a fruit pie on the table. He and the chief mate -started a dialogue about the alarming change in the captain, the sallow -steward looking down with a sinister frown, Franklin rolling upwards his -eyes, sentimental in a red face. Young Powell had heard a lot of that -sort of thing by that time. It was growing monotonous; it had always -sounded to him a little absurd. He struck in impatiently with the remark -that such lamentations over a man merely because he had taken a wife -seemed to him like lunacy. - -Franklin muttered, "Depends on what the wife is up to." The steward -leaning against the bulkhead near the door glowered at Powell, that -newcomer, that ignoramus, that stranger without right or privileges. He -snarled: - -"Wife! Call her a wife, do you?" - -"What the devil do you mean by this?" exclaimed young Powell. - -"I know what I know. My old woman has not been six months on board for -nothing. You had better ask her when we get back." - -And meeting sullenly the withering stare of Mr. Powell the steward -retreated backwards. - -Our young friend turned at once upon the mate. "And you let that -confounded bottle-washer talk like this before you, Mr. Franklin. Well, -I am astonished." - -"Oh, it isn't what you think. It isn't what you think." Mr. Franklin -looked more apoplectic than ever. "If it comes to that I could astonish -you. But it's no use. I myself can hardly . . . You couldn't -understand. I hope you won't try to make mischief. There was a time, -young fellow, when I would have dared any man--any man, you hear?--to -make mischief between me and Captain Anthony. But not now. Not now. -There's a change! Not in me though . . . " - -Young Powell rejected with indignation any suggestion of making mischief. -"Who do you take me for?" he cried. "Only you had better tell that -steward to be careful what he says before me or I'll spoil his good looks -for him for a month and will leave him to explain the why of it to the -captain the best way he can." - -This speech established Powell as a champion of Mrs. Anthony. Nothing -more bearing on the question was ever said before him. He did not care -for the steward's black looks; Franklin, never conversational even at the -best of times and avoiding now the only topic near his heart, addressed -him only on matters of duty. And for that, too, Powell cared very -little. The woes of the apoplectic mate had begun to bore him long -before. Yet he felt lonely a bit at times. Therefore the little -intercourse with Mrs. Anthony either in one dog-watch or the other was -something to be looked forward to. The captain did not mind it. That -was evident from his manner. One night he inquired (they were then alone -on the poop) what they had been talking about that evening? Powell had -to confess that it was about the ship. Mrs. Anthony had been asking him -questions. - -"Takes interest--eh?" jerked out the captain moving rapidly up and down -the weather side of the poop. - -"Yes, sir. Mrs. Anthony seems to get hold wonderfully of what one's -telling her." - -"Sailor's granddaughter. One of the old school. Old sea-dog of the best -kind, I believe," ejaculated the captain, swinging past his motionless -second officer and leaving the words behind him like a trail of sparks -succeeded by a perfect conversational darkness, because, for the next two -hours till he left the deck, he didn't open his lips again. - -On another occasion . . . we mustn't forget that the ship had crossed the -line and was adding up south latitude every day by then . . . on another -occasion, about seven in the evening, Powell on duty, heard his name -uttered softly in the companion. The captain was on the stairs, thin- -faced, his eyes sunk, on his arm a Shetland wool wrap. - -"Mr. Powell--here." - -"Yes, sir." - -"Give this to Mrs. Anthony. Evenings are getting chilly." - -And the haggard face sank out of sight. Mrs. Anthony was surprised on -seeing the shawl. - -"The captain wants you to put this on," explained young Powell, and as -she raised herself in her seat he dropped it on her shoulders. She -wrapped herself up closely. - -"Where was the captain?" she asked. - -"He was in the companion. Called me on purpose," said Powell, and then -retreated discreetly, because she looked as though she didn't want to -talk any more that evening. Mr. Smith--the old gentleman--was as usual -sitting on the skylight near her head, brooding over the long chair but -by no means inimical, as far as his unreadable face went, to those -conversations of the two youngest people on board. In fact they seemed -to give him some pleasure. Now and then he would raise his faded china -eyes to the animated face of Mr. Powell thoughtfully. When the young -sailor was by, the old man became less rigid, and when his daughter, on -rare occasions, smiled at some artless tale of Mr. Powell, the -inexpressive face of Mr. Smith reflected dimly that flash of evanescent -mirth. For Mr. Powell had come now to entertain his captain's wife with -anecdotes from the not very distant past when he was a boy, on board -various ships,--funny things do happen on board ship. Flora was quite -surprised at times to find herself amused. She was even heard to laugh -twice in the course of a month. It was not a loud sound but it was -startling enough at the after-end of the _Ferndale_ where low tones or -silence were the rule. The second time this happened the captain himself -must have been startled somewhere down below; because he emerged from the -depths of his unobtrusive existence and began his tramping on the -opposite side of the poop. - -Almost immediately he called his young second officer over to him. This -was not done in displeasure. The glance he fastened on Mr. Powell -conveyed a sort of approving wonder. He engaged him in desultory -conversation as if for the only purpose of keeping a man who could -provoke such a sound, near his person. Mr. Powell felt himself liked. He -felt it. Liked by that haggard, restless man who threw at him -disconnected phrases to which his answers were, "Yes, sir," "No, sir," -"Oh, certainly," "I suppose so, sir,"--and might have been clearly -anything else for all the other cared. - -It was then, Mr. Powell told me, that he discovered in himself an already -old-established liking for Captain Anthony. He also felt sorry for him -without being able to discover the origins of that sympathy of which he -had become so suddenly aware. - -Meantime Mr. Smith, bending forward stiffly as though he had a hinged -back, was speaking to his daughter. - -She was a child no longer. He wanted to know if she believed in--in -hell. In eternal punishment? - -His peculiar voice, as if filtered through cotton-wool was inaudible on -the other side of the deck. Poor Flora, taken very much unawares, made -an inarticulate murmur, shook her head vaguely, and glanced in the -direction of the pacing Anthony who was not looking her way. It was no -use glancing in that direction. Of young Powell, leaning against the -mizzen-mast and facing his captain she could only see the shoulder and -part of a blue serge back. - -And the unworried, unaccented voice of her father went on tormenting her. - -"You see, you must understand. When I came out of jail it was with joy. -That is, my soul was fairly torn in two--but anyway to see you happy--I -had made up my mind to that. Once I could be sure that you were happy -then of course I would have had no reason to care for life--strictly -speaking--which is all right for an old man; though naturally . . . no -reason to wish for death either. But this sort of life! What sense, -what meaning, what value has it either for you or for me? It's just -sitting down to look at the death, that's coming, coming. What else is -it? I don't know how you can put up with that. I don't think you can -stand it for long. Some day you will jump overboard." - -Captain Anthony had stopped for a moment staring ahead from the break of -the poop, and poor Flora sent at his back a look of despairing appeal -which would have moved a heart of stone. But as though she had done -nothing he did not stir in the least. She got out of the long chair and -went towards the companion. Her father followed carrying a few small -objects, a handbag, her handkerchief, a book. They went down together. - -It was only then that Captain Anthony turned, looked at the place they -had vacated and resumed his tramping, but not his desultory conversation -with his second officer. His nervous exasperation had grown so much that -now very often he used to lose control of his voice. If he did not watch -himself it would suddenly die in his throat. He had to make sure before -he ventured on the simplest saying, an order, a remark on the wind, a -simple good-morning. That's why his utterance was abrupt, his answers to -people startlingly brusque and often not forthcoming at all. - -It happens to the most resolute of men to find himself at grips not only -with unknown forces, but with a well-known force the real might of which -he had not understood. Anthony had discovered that he was not the proud -master but the chafing captive of his generosity. It rose in front of -him like a wall which his respect for himself forbade him to scale. He -said to himself: "Yes, I was a fool--but she has trusted me!" Trusted! A -terrible word to any man somewhat exceptional in a world in which success -has never been found in renunciation and good faith. And it must also be -said, in order not to make Anthony more stupidly sublime than he was, -that the behaviour of Flora kept him at a distance. The girl was afraid -to add to the exasperation of her father. It was her unhappy lot to be -made more wretched by the only affection which she could not suspect. She -could not be angry with it, however, and out of deference for that -exaggerated sentiment she hardly dared to look otherwise than by stealth -at the man whose masterful compassion had carried her off. And quite -unable to understand the extent of Anthony's delicacy, she said to -herself that "he didn't care." He probably was beginning at bottom to -detest her--like the governess, like the maiden lady, like the German -woman, like Mrs. Fyne, like Mr. Fyne--only he was extraordinary, he was -generous. At the same time she had moments of irritation. He was -violent, headstrong--perhaps stupid. Well, he had had his way. - -A man who has had his way is seldom happy, for generally he finds that -the way does not lead very far on this earth of desires which can never -be fully satisfied. Anthony had entered with extreme precipitation the -enchanted gardens of Armida saying to himself "At last!" As to Armida, -herself, he was not going to offer her any violence. But now he had -discovered that all the enchantment was in Armida herself, in Armida's -smiles. This Armida did not smile. She existed, unapproachable, behind -the blank wall of his renunciation. His force, fit for action, -experienced the impatience, the indignation, almost the despair of his -vitality arrested, bound, stilled, progressively worn down, frittered -away by Time; by that force blind and insensible, which seems inert and -yet uses one's life up by its imperceptible action, dropping minute after -minute on one's living heart like drops of water wearing down a stone. - -He upbraided himself. What else could he have expected? He had rushed -in like a ruffian; he had dragged the poor defenceless thing by the hair -of her head, as it were, on board that ship. It was really atrocious. -Nothing assured him that his person could be attractive to this or any -other woman. And his proceedings were enough in themselves to make -anyone odious. He must have been bereft of his senses. She must fatally -detest and fear him. Nothing could make up for such brutality. And yet -somehow he resented this very attitude which seemed to him completely -justifiable. Surely he was not too monstrous (morally) to be looked at -frankly sometimes. But no! She wouldn't. Well, perhaps, some day . . . -Only he was not going ever to attempt to beg for forgiveness. With the -repulsion she felt for his person she would certainly misunderstand the -most guarded words, the most careful advances. Never! Never! - -It would occur to Anthony at the end of such meditations that death was -not an unfriendly visitor after all. No wonder then that even young -Powell, his faculties having been put on the alert, began to think that -there was something unusual about the man who had given him his chance in -life. Yes, decidedly, his captain was "strange." There was something -wrong somewhere, he said to himself, never guessing that his young and -candid eyes were in the presence of a passion profound, tyrannical and -mortal, discovering its own existence, astounded at feeling itself -helpless and dismayed at finding itself incurable. - -Powell had never before felt this mysterious uneasiness so strongly as on -that evening when it had been his good fortune to make Mrs. Anthony laugh -a little by his artless prattle. Standing out of the way, he had watched -his captain walk the weather-side of the poop, he took full cognizance of -his liking for that inexplicably strange man and saw him swerve towards -the companion and go down below with sympathetic if utterly -uncomprehending eyes. - -Shortly afterwards, Mr. Smith came up alone and manifested a desire for a -little conversation. He, too, if not so mysterious as the captain, was -not very comprehensible to Mr. Powell's uninformed candour. He often -favoured thus the second officer. His talk alluded somewhat -enigmatically and often without visible connection to Mr. Powell's -friendliness towards himself and his daughter. "For I am well aware that -we have no friends on board this ship, my dear young man," he would add, -"except yourself. Flora feels that too." - -And Mr. Powell, flattered and embarrassed, could but emit a vague murmur -of protest. For the statement was true in a sense, though the fact was -in itself insignificant. The feelings of the ship's company could not -possibly matter to the captain's wife and to Mr. Smith--her father. Why -the latter should so often allude to it was what surprised our Mr. -Powell. This was by no means the first occasion. More like the -twentieth rather. And in his weak voice, with his monotonous intonation, -leaning over the rail and looking at the water the other continued this -conversation, or rather his remarks, remarks of such a monstrous nature -that Mr. Powell had no option but to accept them for gruesome jesting. - -"For instance," said Mr. Smith, "that mate, Franklin, I believe he would -just as soon see us both overboard as not." - -"It's not so bad as that," laughed Mr. Powell, feeling uncomfortable, -because his mind did not accommodate itself easily to exaggeration of -statement. "He isn't a bad chap really," he added, very conscious of Mr. -Franklin's offensive manner of which instances were not far to seek. -"He's such a fool as to be jealous. He has been with the captain for -years. It's not for me to say, perhaps, but I think the captain has -spoiled all that gang of old servants. They are like a lot of pet old -dogs. Wouldn't let anybody come near him if they could help it. I've -never seen anything like it. And the second mate, I believe, was like -that too." - -"Well, he isn't here, luckily. There would have been one more enemy," -said Mr. Smith. "There's enough of them without him. And you being here -instead of him makes it much more pleasant for my daughter and myself. -One feels there may be a friend in need. For really, for a woman all -alone on board ship amongst a lot of unfriendly men . . . " - -"But Mrs Anthony is not alone," exclaimed Powell. "There's you, and -there's the . . . " - -Mr. Smith interrupted him. - -"Nobody's immortal. And there are times when one feels ashamed to live. -Such an evening as this for instance." - -It was a lovely evening; the colours of a splendid sunset had died out -and the breath of a warm breeze seemed to have smoothed out the sea. Away -to the south the sheet lightning was like the flashing of an enormous -lantern hidden under the horizon. In order to change the conversation -Mr. Powell said: - -"Anyway no one can charge you with being a Jonah, Mr. Smith. We have had -a magnificent quick passage so far. The captain ought to be pleased. And -I suppose you are not sorry either." - -This diversion was not successful. Mr. Smith emitted a sort of bitter -chuckle and said: "Jonah! That's the fellow that was thrown overboard by -some sailors. It seems to me it's very easy at sea to get rid of a -person one does not like. The sea does not give up its dead as the earth -does." - -"You forget the whale, sir," said young Powell. - -Mr. Smith gave a start. "Eh? What whale? Oh! Jonah. I wasn't -thinking of Jonah. I was thinking of this passage which seems so quick -to you. But only think what it is to me? It isn't a life, going about -the sea like this. And, for instance, if one were to fall ill, there -isn't a doctor to find out what's the matter with one. It's worrying. It -makes me anxious at times." - -"Is Mrs. Anthony not feeling well?" asked Powell. But Mr. Smith's remark -was not meant for Mrs. Anthony. She was well. He himself was well. It -was the captain's health that did not seem quite satisfactory. Had Mr. -Powell noticed his appearance? - -Mr. Powell didn't know enough of the captain to judge. He couldn't tell. -But he observed thoughtfully that Mr. Franklin had been saying the same -thing. And Franklin had known the captain for years. The mate was quite -worried about it. - -This intelligence startled Mr. Smith considerably. "Does he think he is -in danger of dying?" he exclaimed with an animation quite extraordinary -for him, which horrified Mr. Powell. - -"Heavens! Die! No! Don't you alarm yourself, sir. I've never heard a -word about danger from Mr. Franklin." - -"Well, well," sighed Mr. Smith and left the poop for the saloon rather -abruptly. - -As a matter of fact Mr. Franklin had been on deck for some considerable -time. He had come to relieve young Powell; but seeing him engaged in -talk with the "enemy"--with one of the "enemies" at least--had kept at a -distance, which, the poop of the _Ferndale_ being aver seventy feet long, -he had no difficulty in doing. Mr. Powell saw him at the head of the -ladder leaning on his elbow, melancholy and silent. "Oh! Here you are, -sir." - -"Here I am. Here I've been ever since six o'clock. Didn't want to -interrupt the pleasant conversation. If you like to put in half of your -watch below jawing with a dear friend, that's not my affair. Funny taste -though." - -"He isn't a bad chap," said the impartial Powell. - -The mate snorted angrily, tapping the deck with his foot; then: "Isn't -he? Well, give him my love when you come together again for another nice -long yarn." - -"I say, Mr. Franklin, I wonder the captain don't take offence at your -manners." - -"The captain. I wish to goodness he would start a row with me. Then I -should know at least I am somebody on board. I'd welcome it, Mr. Powell. -I'd rejoice. And dam' me I would talk back too till I roused him. He's -a shadow of himself. He walks about his ship like a ghost. He's fading -away right before our eyes. But of course you don't see. You don't care -a hang. Why should you?" - -Mr. Powell did not wait for more. He went down on the main deck. Without -taking the mate's jeremiads seriously he put them beside the words of Mr. -Smith. He had grown already attached to Captain Anthony. There was -something not only attractive but compelling in the man. Only it is very -difficult for youth to believe in the menace of death. Not in the fact -itself, but in its proximity to a breathing, moving, talking, superior -human being, showing no sign of disease. And Mr. Powell thought that -this talk was all nonsense. But his curiosity was awakened. There was -something, and at any time some circumstance might occur . . . No, he -would never find out . . . There was nothing to find out, most likely. -Mr. Powell went to his room where he tried to read a book he had already -read a good many times. Presently a bell rang for the officers' supper. - - - -CHAPTER SIX--. . . A MOONLESS NIGHT, THICK WITH STARS ABOVE, VERY DARK ON -THE WATER - - -In the mess-room Powell found Mr. Franklin hacking at a piece of cold -salt beef with a table knife. The mate, fiery in the face and rolling -his eyes over that task, explained that the carver belonging to the mess- -room could not be found. The steward, present also, complained savagely -of the cook. The fellow got things into his galley and then lost them. -Mr. Franklin tried to pacify him with mournful firmness. - -"There, there! That will do. We who have been all these years together -in the ship have other things to think about than quarrelling among -ourselves." - -Mr. Powell thought with exasperation: "Here he goes again," for this -utterance had nothing cryptic for him. The steward having withdrawn -morosely, he was not surprised to hear the mate strike the usual note. -That morning the mizzen topsail tie had carried away (probably a -defective link) and something like forty feet of chain and wire-rope, -mixed up with a few heavy iron blocks, had crashed down from aloft on the -poop with a terrifying racket. - -"Did you notice the captain then, Mr. Powell. Did you notice?" - -Powell confessed frankly that he was too scared himself when all that lot -of gear came down on deck to notice anything. - -"The gin-block missed his head by an inch," went on the mate -impressively. "I wasn't three feet from him. And what did he do? Did -he shout, or jump, or even look aloft to see if the yard wasn't coming -down too about our ears in a dozen pieces? It's a marvel it didn't. No, -he just stopped short--no wonder; he must have felt the wind of that iron -gin-block on his face--looked down at it, there, lying close to his -foot--and went on again. I believe he didn't even blink. It isn't -natural. The man is stupefied." - -He sighed ridiculously and Mr. Powell had suppressed a grin, when the -mate added as if he couldn't contain himself: - -"He will be taking to drink next. Mark my words. That's the next -thing." - -Mr. Powell was disgusted. - -"You are so fond of the captain and yet you don't seem to care what you -say about him. I haven't been with him for seven years, but I know he -isn't the sort of man that takes to drink. And then--why the devil -should he?" - -"Why the devil, you ask. Devil--eh? Well, no man is safe from the -devil--and that's answer enough for you," wheezed Mr. Franklin not -unkindly. "There was a time, a long time ago, when I nearly took to -drink myself. What do you say to that?" - -Mr. Powell expressed a polite incredulity. The thick, congested mate -seemed on the point of bursting with despondency. "That was bad example -though. I was young and fell into dangerous company, made a fool of -myself--yes, as true as you see me sitting here. Drank to forget. -Thought it a great dodge." - -Powell looked at the grotesque Franklin with awakened interest and with -that half-amused sympathy with which we receive unprovoked confidences -from men with whom we have no sort of affinity. And at the same time he -began to look upon him more seriously. Experience has its prestige. And -the mate continued: - -"If it hadn't been for the old lady, I would have gone to the devil. I -remembered her in time. Nothing like having an old lady to look after to -steady a chap and make him face things. But as bad luck would have it, -Captain Anthony has no mother living, not a blessed soul belonging to him -as far as I know. Oh, aye, I fancy he said once something to me of a -sister. But she's married. She don't need him. Yes. In the old days -he used to talk to me as if we had been brothers," exaggerated the mate -sentimentally. "'Franklin,'--he would say--'this ship is my nearest -relation and she isn't likely to turn against me. And I suppose you are -the man I've known the longest in the world.' That's how he used to -speak to me. Can I turn my back on him? He has turned his back on his -ship; that's what it has come to. He has no one now but his old -Franklin. But what's a fellow to do to put things back as they were and -should be. Should be--I say!" - -His starting eyes had a terrible fixity. Mr. Powell's irresistible -thought, "he resembles a boiled lobster in distress," was followed by -annoyance. "Good Lord," he said, "you don't mean to hint that Captain -Anthony has fallen into bad company. What is it you want to save him -from?" - -"I do mean it," affirmed the mate, and the very absurdity of the -statement made it impressive--because it seemed so absolutely audacious. -"Well, you have a cheek," said young Powell, feeling mentally helpless. -"I have a notion the captain would half kill you if he were to know how -you carry on." - -"And welcome," uttered the fervently devoted Franklin. "I am willing, if -he would only clear the ship afterwards of that . . . You are but a -youngster and you may go and tell him what you like. Let him knock the -stuffing out of his old Franklin first and think it over afterwards. -Anything to pull him together. But of course you wouldn't. You are all -right. Only you don't know that things are sometimes different from what -they look. There are friendships that are no friendships, and marriages -that are no marriages. Phoo! Likely to be right--wasn't it? Never a -hint to me. I go off on leave and when I come back, there it is--all -over, settled! Not a word beforehand. No warning. If only: 'What do -you think of it, Franklin?'--or anything of the sort. And that's a man -who hardly ever did anything without asking my advice. Why! He couldn't -take over a new coat from the tailor without . . . first thing, directly -the fellow came on board with some new clothes, whether in London or in -China, it would be: 'Pass the word along there for Mr. Franklin. Mr. -Franklin wanted in the cabin.' In I would go. 'Just look at my back, -Franklin. Fits all right, doesn't it?' And I would say: 'First rate, -sir,' or whatever was the truth of it. That or anything else. Always -the truth of it. Always. And well he knew it; and that's why he dared -not speak right out. Talking about workmen, alterations, cabins . . . -Phoo! . . . instead of a straightforward--'Wish me joy, Mr. Franklin!' -Yes, that was the way to let me know. God only knows what they -are--perhaps she isn't his daughter any more than she is . . . She -doesn't resemble that old fellow. Not a bit. Not a bit. It's very -awful. You may well open your mouth, young man. But for goodness' sake, -you who are mixed up with that lot, keep your eyes and ears open too in -case--in case of . . . I don't know what. Anything. One wonders what -can happen here at sea! Nothing. Yet when a man is called a jailer -behind his back." - -Mr. Franklin hid his face in his hands for a moment and Powell shut his -mouth, which indeed had been open. He slipped out of the mess-room -noiselessly. "The mate's crazy," he thought. It was his firm -conviction. Nevertheless, that evening, he felt his inner tranquillity -disturbed at last by the force and obstinacy of this craze. He couldn't -dismiss it with the contempt it deserved. Had the word "jailer" really -been pronounced? A strange word for the mate to even _imagine_ he had -heard. A senseless, unlikely word. But this word being the only clear -and definite statement in these grotesque and dismal ravings was -comparatively restful to his mind. Powell's mind rested on it still when -he came up at eight o'clock to take charge of the deck. It was a -moonless night, thick with stars above, very dark on the water. A steady -air from the west kept the sails asleep. Franklin mustered both watches -in low tones as if for a funeral, then approaching Powell: - -"The course is east-south-east," said the chief mate distinctly. - -"East-south-east, sir." - -"Everything's set, Mr. Powell." - -"All right, sir." - -The other lingered, his sentimental eyes gleamed silvery in the shadowy -face. "A quiet night before us. I don't know that there are any special -orders. A settled, quiet night. I dare say you won't see the captain. -Once upon a time this was the watch he used to come up and start a chat -with either of us then on deck. But now he sits in that infernal stern- -cabin and mopes. Jailer--eh?" - -Mr. Powell walked away from the mate and when at some distance said, -"Damn!" quite heartily. It was a confounded nuisance. It had ceased to -be funny; that hostile word "jailer" had given the situation an air of -reality. - -* * * * * - -Franklin's grotesque mortal envelope had disappeared from the poop to -seek its needful repose, if only the worried soul would let it rest a -while. Mr. Powell, half sorry for the thick little man, wondered whether -it would let him. For himself, he recognized that the charm of a quiet -watch on deck when one may let one's thoughts roam in space and time had -been spoiled without remedy. What shocked him most was the implied -aspersion of complicity on Mrs. Anthony. It angered him. In his own -words to me, he felt very "enthusiastic" about Mrs. Anthony. -"Enthusiastic" is good; especially as he couldn't exactly explain to me -what he meant by it. But he felt enthusiastic, he says. That silly -Franklin must have been dreaming. That was it. He had dreamed it all. -Ass. Yet the injurious word stuck in Powell's mind with its associated -ideas of prisoner, of escape. He became very uncomfortable. And just -then (it might have been half an hour or more since he had relieved -Franklin) just then Mr. Smith came up on the poop alone, like a gliding -shadow and leaned over the rail by his side. Young Powell was affected -disagreeably by his presence. He made a movement to go away but the -other began to talk--and Powell remained where he was as if retained by a -mysterious compulsion. The conversation started by Mr. Smith had nothing -peculiar. He began to talk of mail-boats in general and in the end -seemed anxious to discover what were the services from Port Elizabeth to -London. Mr. Powell did not know for certain but imagined that there must -be communication with England at least twice a month. "Are you thinking -of leaving us, sir; of going home by steam? Perhaps with Mrs. Anthony," -he asked anxiously. - -"No! No! How can I?" Mr. Smith got quite agitated, for him, which did -not amount to much. He was just asking for the sake of something to talk -about. No idea at all of going home. One could not always do what one -wanted and that's why there were moments when one felt ashamed to live. -This did not mean that one did not want to live. Oh no! - -He spoke with careless slowness, pausing frequently and in such a low -voice that Powell had to strain his hearing to catch the phrases dropped -overboard as it were. And indeed they seemed not worth the effort. It -was like the aimless talk of a man pursuing a secret train of thought far -removed from the idle words we so often utter only to keep in touch with -our fellow beings. An hour passed. It seemed as though Mr. Smith could -not make up his mind to go below. He repeated himself. Again he spoke -of lives which one was ashamed of. It was necessary to put up with such -lives as long as there was no way out, no possible issue. He even -alluded once more to mail-boat services on the East coast of Africa and -young Powell had to tell him once more that he knew nothing about them. - -"Every fortnight, I thought you said," insisted Mr. Smith. He stirred, -seemed to detach himself from the rail with difficulty. His long, -slender figure straightened into stiffness, as if hostile to the -enveloping soft peace of air and sea and sky, emitted into the night a -weak murmur which Mr. Powell fancied was the word, "Abominable" repeated -three times, but which passed into the faintly louder declaration: "The -moment has come--to go to bed," followed by a just audible sigh. - -"I sleep very well," added Mr. Smith in his restrained tone. "But it is -the moment one opens one's eyes that is horrible at sea. These days! Oh, -these days! I wonder how anybody can . . . " - -"I like the life," observed Mr. Powell. - -"Oh, you. You have only yourself to think of. You have made your bed. -Well, it's very pleasant to feel that you are friendly to us. My -daughter has taken quite a liking to you, Mr. Powell." - -He murmured, "Good-night" and glided away rigidly. Young Powell asked -himself with some distaste what was the meaning of these utterances. His -mind had been worried at last into that questioning attitude by no other -person than the grotesque Franklin. Suspicion was not natural to him. -And he took good care to carefully separate in his thoughts Mrs. Anthony -from this man of enigmatic words--her father. Presently he observed that -the sheen of the two deck dead-lights of Mr. Smith's room had gone out. -The old gentleman had been surprisingly quick in getting into bed. -Shortly afterwards the lamp in the foremost skylight of the saloon was -turned out; and this was the sign that the steward had taken in the tray -and had retired for the night. - -Young Powell had settled down to the regular officer-of-the-watch tramp -in the dense shadow of the world decorated with stars high above his -head, and on earth only a few gleams of light about the ship. The lamp -in the after skylight was kept burning through the night. There were -also the dead-lights of the stern-cabins glimmering dully in the deck far -aft, catching his eye when he turned to walk that way. The brasses of -the wheel glittered too, with the dimly lit figure of the man detached, -as if phosphorescent, against the black and spangled background of the -horizon. - -Young Powell, in the silence of the ship, reinforced by the great silent -stillness of the world, said to himself that there was something -mysterious in such beings as the absurd Franklin, and even in such beings -as himself. It was a strange and almost improper thought to occur to the -officer of the watch of a ship on the high seas on no matter how quiet a -night. Why on earth was he bothering his head? Why couldn't he dismiss -all these people from his mind? It was as if the mate had infected him -with his own diseased devotion. He would not have believed it possible -that he should be so foolish. But he was--clearly. He was foolish in a -way totally unforeseen by himself. Pushing this self-analysis further, -he reflected that the springs of his conduct were just as obscure. - -"I may be catching myself any time doing things of which I have no -conception," he thought. And as he was passing near the mizzen-mast he -perceived a coil of rope left lying on the deck by the oversight of the -sweepers. By an impulse which had nothing mysterious in it, he stooped -as he went by with the intention of picking it up and hanging it up on -its proper pin. This movement brought his head down to the level of the -glazed end of the after skylight--the lighted skylight of the most -private part of the saloon, consecrated to the exclusiveness of Captain -Anthony's married life; the part, let me remind you, cut off from the -rest of that forbidden space by a pair of heavy curtains. I mention -these curtains because at this point Mr. Powell himself recalled the -existence of that unusual arrangement to my mind. - -He recalled them with simple-minded compunction at that distance of time. -He said: "You understand that directly I stooped to pick up that coil of -running gear--the spanker foot-outhaul, it was--I perceived that I could -see right into that part of the saloon the curtains were meant to make -particularly private. Do you understand me?" he insisted. - -I told him that I understood; and he proceeded to call my attention to -the wonderful linking up of small facts, with something of awe left yet, -after all these years, at the precise workmanship of chance, fate, -providence, call it what you will! "For, observe, Marlow," he said, -making at me very round eyes which contrasted funnily with the austere -touch of grey on his temples, "observe, my dear fellow, that everything -depended on the men who cleared up the poop in the evening leaving that -coil of rope on the deck, and on the topsail-tie carrying away in a most -incomprehensible and surprising manner earlier in the day, and the end of -the chain whipping round the coaming and shivering to bits the coloured -glass-pane at the end of the skylight. It had the arms of the city of -Liverpool on it; I don't know why unless because the _Ferndale_ was -registered in Liverpool. It was very thick plate glass. Anyhow, the -upper part got smashed, and directly we had attended to things aloft Mr. -Franklin had set the carpenter to patch up the damage with some pieces of -plain glass. I don't know where they got them; I think the people who -fitted up new bookcases in the captain's room had left some spare panes. -Chips was there the whole afternoon on his knees, messing with putty and -red-lead. It wasn't a neat job when it was done, not by any means, but -it would serve to keep the weather out and let the light in. Clear -glass. And of course I was not thinking of it. I just stooped to pick -up that rope and found my head within three inches of that clear glass, -and--dash it all! I found myself out. Not half an hour before I was -saying to myself that it was impossible to tell what was in people's -heads or at the back of their talk, or what they were likely to be up to. -And here I found myself up to as low a trick as you can well think of. -For, after I had stooped, there I remained prying, spying, anyway -looking, where I had no business to look. Not consciously at first, may -be. He who has eyes, you know, nothing can stop him from seeing things -as long as there are things to see in front of him. What I saw at first -was the end of the table and the tray clamped on to it, a patent tray for -sea use, fitted with holders for a couple of decanters, water-jug and -glasses. The glitter of these things caught my eye first; but what I saw -next was the captain down there, alone as far as I could see; and I could -see pretty well the whole of that part up to the cottage piano, dark -against the satin-wood panelling of the bulkhead. And I remained -looking. I did. And I don't know that I was ashamed of myself either, -then. It was the fault of that Franklin, always talking of the man, -making free with him to that extent that really he seemed to have become -our property, his and mine, in a way. It's funny, but one had that -feeling about Captain Anthony. To watch him was not so much worse than -listening to Franklin talking him over. Well, it's no use making excuses -for what's inexcusable. I watched; but I dare say you know that there -could have been nothing inimical in this low behaviour of mine. On the -contrary. I'll tell you now what he was doing. He was helping himself -out of a decanter. I saw every movement, and I said to myself mockingly -as though jeering at Franklin in my thoughts, 'Hallo! Here's the captain -taking to drink at last.' He poured a little brandy or whatever it was -into a long glass, filled it with water, drank about a fourth of it and -stood the glass back into the holder. Every sign of a bad drinking bout, -I was saying to myself, feeling quite amused at the notions of that -Franklin. He seemed to me an enormous ass, with his jealousy and his -fears. At that rate a month would not have been enough for anybody to -get drunk. The captain sat down in one of the swivel arm-chairs fixed -around the table; I had him right under me and as he turned the chair -slightly, I was looking, I may say, down his back. He took another -little sip and then reached for a book which was lying on the table. I -had not noticed it before. Altogether the proceedings of a desperate -drunkard--weren't they? He opened the book and held it before his face. -If this was the way he took to drink, then I needn't worry. He was in no -danger from that, and as to any other, I assure you no human being could -have looked safer than he did down there. I felt the greatest contempt -for Franklin just then, while I looked at Captain Anthony sitting there -with a glass of weak brandy-and-water at his elbow and reading in the -cabin of his ship, on a quiet night--the quietest, perhaps the finest, of -a prosperous passage. And if you wonder why I didn't leave off my ugly -spying I will tell you how it was. Captain Anthony was a great reader -just about that time; and I, too, I have a great liking for books. To -this day I can't come near a book but I must know what it is about. It -was a thickish volume he had there, small close print, double columns--I -can see it now. What I wanted to make out was the title at the top of -the page. I have very good eyes but he wasn't holding it conveniently--I -mean for me up there. Well, it was a history of some kind, that much I -read and then suddenly he bangs the book face down on the table, jumps up -as if something had bitten him and walks away aft. - -"Funny thing shame is. I had been behaving badly and aware of it in a -way, but I didn't feel really ashamed till the fright of being found out -in my honourable occupation drove me from it. I slunk away to the -forward end of the poop and lounged about there, my face and ears burning -and glad it was a dark night, expecting every moment to hear the -captain's footsteps behind me. For I made sure he was coming on deck. -Presently I thought I had rather meet him face to face and I walked -slowly aft prepared to see him emerge from the companion before I got -that far. I even thought of his having detected me by some means. But -it was impossible, unless he had eyes in the top of his head. I had -never had a view of his face down there. It was impossible; I was safe; -and I felt very mean, yet, explain it as you may, I seemed not to care. -And the captain not appearing on deck, I had the impulse to go on being -mean. I wanted another peep. I really don't know what was the beastly -influence except that Mr. Franklin's talk was enough to demoralize any -man by raising a sort of unhealthy curiosity which did away in my case -with all the restraints of common decency. - -"I did not mean to run the risk of being caught squatting in a suspicious -attitude by the captain. There was also the helmsman to consider. So -what I did--I am surprised at my low cunning--was to sit down naturally -on the skylight-seat and then by bending forward I found that, as I -expected, I could look down through the upper part of the end-pane. The -worst that could happen to me then, if I remained too long in that -position, was to be suspected by the seaman aft at the wheel of having -gone to sleep there. For the rest my ears would give me sufficient -warning of any movements in the companion. - -"But in that way my angle of view was changed. The field too was -smaller. The end of the table, the tray and the swivel-chair I had right -under my eyes. The captain had not come back yet. The piano I could not -see now; but on the other hand I had a very oblique downward view of the -curtains drawn across the cabin and cutting off the forward part of it -just about the level of the skylight-end and only an inch or so from the -end of the table. They were heavy stuff, travelling on a thick brass rod -with some contrivance to keep the rings from sliding to and fro when the -ship rolled. But just then the ship was as still almost as a model shut -up in a glass case while the curtains, joined closely, and, perhaps on -purpose, made a little too long moved no more than a solid wall." - -* * * * * - -Marlow got up to get another cigar. The night was getting on to what I -may call its deepest hour, the hour most favourable to evil purposes of -men's hate, despair or greed--to whatever can whisper into their ears the -unlawful counsels of protest against things that are; the hour of ill- -omened silence and chill and stagnation, the hour when the criminal plies -his trade and the victim of sleeplessness reaches the lowest depth of -dreadful discouragement; the hour before the first sight of dawn. I know -it, because while Marlow was crossing the room I looked at the clock on -the mantelpiece. He however never looked that way though it is possible -that he, too, was aware of the passage of time. He sat down heavily. - -"Our friend Powell," he began again, "was very anxious that I should -understand the topography of that cabin. I was interested more by its -moral atmosphere, that tension of falsehood, of desperate acting, which -tainted the pure sea-atmosphere into which the magnanimous Anthony had -carried off his conquest and--well--his self-conquest too, trying to act -at the same time like a beast of prey, a pure spirit and the "most -generous of men." Too big an order clearly because he was nothing of a -monster but just a common mortal, a little more self-willed and -self-confident than most, may be, both in his roughness and in his -delicacy. - -As to the delicacy of Mr. Powell's proceedings I'll say nothing. He -found a sort of depraved excitement in watching an unconscious man--and -such an attractive and mysterious man as Captain Anthony at that. He -wanted another peep at him. He surmised that the captain must come back -soon because of the glass two-thirds full and also of the book put down -so brusquely. God knows what sudden pang had made Anthony jump up so. I -am convinced he used reading as an opiate against the pain of his -magnanimity which like all abnormal growths was gnawing at his healthy -substance with cruel persistence. Perhaps he had rushed into his cabin -simply to groan freely in absolute and delicate secrecy. At any rate he -tarried there. And young Powell would have grown weary and compunctious -at last if it had not become manifest to him that he had not been alone -in the highly incorrect occupation of watching the movements of Captain -Anthony. - -Powell explained to me that no sound did or perhaps could reach him from -the saloon. The first sign--and we must remember that he was using his -eyes for all they were worth--was an unaccountable movement of the -curtain. It was wavy and very slight; just perceptible in fact to the -sharpened faculties of a secret watcher; for it can't be denied that our -wits are much more alert when engaged in wrong-doing (in which one -mustn't be found out) than in a righteous occupation. - -He became suspicious, with no one and nothing definite in his mind. He -was suspicious of the curtain itself and observed it. It looked very -innocent. Then just as he was ready to put it down to a trick of -imagination he saw trembling movements where the two curtains joined. -Yes! Somebody else besides himself had been watching Captain Anthony. He -owns artlessly that this roused his indignation. It was really too much -of a good thing. In this state of intense antagonism he was startled to -observe tips of fingers fumbling with the dark stuff. Then they grasped -the edge of the further curtain and hung on there, just fingers and -knuckles and nothing else. It made an abominable sight. He was looking -at it with unaccountable repulsion when a hand came into view; a short, -puffy, old, freckled hand projecting into the lamplight, followed by a -white wrist, an arm in a grey coat-sleeve, up to the elbow, beyond the -elbow, extended tremblingly towards the tray. Its appearance was weird -and nauseous, fantastic and silly. But instead of grabbing the bottle as -Powell expected, this hand, tremulous with senile eagerness, swerved to -the glass, rested on its edge for a moment (or so it looked from above) -and went back with a jerk. The gripping fingers of the other hand -vanished at the same time, and young Powell staring at the motionless -curtains could indulge for a moment the notion that he had been dreaming. - -But that notion did not last long. Powell, after repressing his first -impulse to spring for the companion and hammer at the captain's door, -took steps to have himself relieved by the boatswain. He was in a state -of distraction as to his feelings and yet lucid as to his mind. He -remained on the skylight so as to keep his eye on the tray. - -Still the captain did not appear in the saloon. "If he had," said Mr. -Powell, "I knew what to do. I would have put my elbow through the pane -instantly--crash." - -I asked him why? - -"It was the quickest dodge for getting him away from that tray," he -explained. "My throat was so dry that I didn't know if I could shout -loud enough. And this was not a case for shouting, either." - -The boatswain, sleepy and disgusted, arriving on the poop, found the -second officer doubled up over the end of the skylight in a pose which -might have been that of severe pain. And his voice was so changed that -the man, though naturally vexed at being turned out, made no comment on -the plea of sudden indisposition which young Powell put forward. - -The rapidity with which the sick man got off the poop must have -astonished the boatswain. But Powell, at the moment he opened the door -leading into the saloon from the quarter-deck, had managed to control his -agitation. He entered swiftly but without noise and found himself in the -dark part of the saloon, the strong sheen of the lamp on the other side -of the curtains visible only above the rod on which they ran. The door -of Mr. Smith's cabin was in that dark part. He passed by it assuring -himself by a quick side glance that it was imperfectly closed. "Yes," he -said to me. "The old man must have been watching through the crack. Of -that I am certain; but it was not for me that he was watching and -listening. Horrible! Surely he must have been startled to hear and see -somebody he did not expect. He could not possibly guess why I was coming -in, but I suppose he must have been concerned." Concerned indeed! He -must have been thunderstruck, appalled. - -Powell's only distinct aim was to remove the suspected tumbler. He had -no other plan, no other intention, no other thought. Do away with it in -some manner. Snatch it up and run out with it. - -You know that complete mastery of one fixed idea, not a reasonable but an -emotional mastery, a sort of concentrated exaltation. Under its empire -men rush blindly through fire and water and opposing violence, and -nothing can stop them--unless, sometimes, a grain of sand. For his blind -purpose (and clearly the thought of Mrs. Anthony was at the bottom of it) -Mr. Powell had plenty of time. What checked him at the crucial moment -was the familiar, harmless aspect of common things, the steady light, the -open book on the table, the solitude, the peace, the home-like effect of -the place. He held the glass in his hand; all he had to do was to vanish -back beyond the curtains, flee with it noiselessly into the night on -deck, fling it unseen overboard. A minute or less. And then all that -would have happened would have been the wonder at the utter disappearance -of a glass tumbler, a ridiculous riddle in pantry-affairs beyond the wit -of anyone on board to solve. The grain of sand against which Powell -stumbled in his headlong career was a moment of incredulity as to the -truth of his own conviction because it had failed to affect the safe -aspect of familiar things. He doubted his eyes too. He must have dreamt -it all! "I am dreaming now," he said to himself. And very likely for a -few seconds he must have looked like a man in a trance or profoundly -asleep on his feet, and with a glass of brandy-and-water in his hand. - -What woke him up and, at the same time, fixed his feet immovably to the -spot, was a voice asking him what he was doing there in tones of thunder. -Or so it sounded to his ears. Anthony, opening the door of his stern- -cabin had naturally exclaimed. What else could you expect? And the -exclamation must have been fairly loud if you consider the nature of the -sight which met his eye. There, before him, stood his second officer, a -seemingly decent, well-bred young man, who, being on duty, had left the -deck and had sneaked into the saloon, apparently for the inexpressibly -mean purpose of drinking up what was left of his captain's brandy-and- -water. There he was, caught absolutely with the glass in his hand. - -But the very monstrosity of appearances silenced Anthony after the first -exclamation; and young Powell felt himself pierced through and through by -the overshadowed glance of his captain. Anthony advanced quietly. The -first impulse of Mr. Powell, when discovered, had been to dash the glass -on the deck. He was in a sort of panic. But deep down within him his -wits were working, and the idea that if he did that he could prove -nothing and that the story he had to tell was completely incredible, -restrained him. The captain came forward slowly. With his eyes now -close to his, Powell, spell-bound, numb all over, managed to lift one -finger to the deck above mumbling the explanatory words, "Boatswain on -the poop." - -The captain moved his head slightly as much as to say, "That's all -right"--and this was all. Powell had no voice, no strength. The air was -unbreathable, thick, sticky, odious, like hot jelly in which all -movements became difficult. He raised the glass a little with immense -difficulty and moved his trammelled lips sufficiently to form the words: - -"Doctored." - -Anthony glanced at it for an instant, only for an instant, and again -fastened his eyes on the face of his second mate. Powell added a fervent -"I believe" and put the glass down on the tray. The captain's glance -followed the movement and returned sternly to his face. The young man -pointed a finger once more upwards and squeezed out of his iron-bound -throat six consecutive words of further explanation. "Through the -skylight. The white pane." - -The captain raised his eyebrows very much at this, while young Powell, -ashamed but desperate, nodded insistently several times. He meant to say -that: Yes. Yes. He had done that thing. He had been spying . . . The -captain's gaze became thoughtful. And, now the confession was over, the -iron-bound feeling of Powell's throat passed away giving place to a -general anxiety which from his breast seemed to extend to all the limbs -and organs of his body. His legs trembled a little, his vision was -confused, his mind became blankly expectant. But he was alert enough. At -a movement of Anthony he screamed in a strangled whisper. - -"Don't, sir! Don't touch it." - -The captain pushed aside Powell's extended arm, took up the glass and -raised it slowly against the lamplight. The liquid, of very pale amber -colour, was clear, and by a glance the captain seemed to call Powell's -attention to the fact. Powell tried to pronounce the word, "dissolved" -but he only thought of it with great energy which however failed to move -his lips. Only when Anthony had put down the glass and turned to him he -recovered such a complete command of his voice that he could keep it down -to a hurried, forcible whisper--a whisper that shook him. - -"Doctored! I swear it! I have seen. Doctored! I have seen." - -Not a feature of the captain's face moved. His was a calm to take one's -breath away. It did so to young Powell. Then for the first time Anthony -made himself heard to the point. - -"You did! . . . Who was it?" - -And Powell gasped freely at last. "A hand," he whispered fearfully, "a -hand and the arm--only the arm--like that." - -He advanced his own, slow, stealthy, tremulous in faithful reproduction, -the tips of two fingers and the thumb pressed together and hovering above -the glass for an instant--then the swift jerk back, after the deed. - -"Like that," he repeated growing excited. "From behind this." He -grasped the curtain and glaring at the silent Anthony flung it back -disclosing the forepart of the saloon. There was on one to be seen. - -Powell had not expected to see anybody. "But," he said to me, "I knew -very well there was an ear listening and an eye glued to the crack of a -cabin door. Awful thought. And that door was in that part of the saloon -remaining in the shadow of the other half of the curtain. I pointed at -it and I suppose that old man inside saw me pointing. The captain had a -wonderful self-command. You couldn't have guessed anything from his -face. Well, it was perhaps more thoughtful than usual. And indeed this -was something to think about. But I couldn't think steadily. My brain -would give a sort of jerk and then go dead again. I had lost all notion -of time, and I might have been looking at the captain for days and months -for all I knew before I heard him whisper to me fiercely: "Not a word!" -This jerked me out of that trance I was in and I said "No! No! I didn't -mean even you." - -"I wanted to explain my conduct, my intentions, but I read in his eyes -that he understood me and I was only too glad to leave off. And there we -were looking at each other, dumb, brought up short by the question "What -next?" - -"I thought Captain Anthony was a man of iron till I saw him suddenly -fling his head to the right and to the left fiercely, like a wild animal -at bay not knowing which way to break out . . . " - -* * * * * - -"Truly," commented Marlow, "brought to bay was not a bad comparison; a -better one than Mr. Powell was aware of. At that moment the appearance -of Flora could not but bring the tension to the breaking point. She came -out in all innocence but not without vague dread. Anthony's exclamation -on first seeing Powell had reached her in her cabin, where, it seems, she -was brushing her hair. She had heard the very words. "What are you -doing here?" And the unwonted loudness of the voice--his voice--breaking -the habitual stillness of that hour would have startled a person having -much less reason to be constantly apprehensive, than the captive of -Anthony's masterful generosity. She had no means to guess to whom the -question was addressed and it echoed in her heart, as Anthony's voice -always did. Followed complete silence. She waited, anxious, expectant, -till she could stand the strain no longer, and with the weary mental -appeal of the overburdened. "My God! What is it now?" she opened the -door of her room and looked into the saloon. Her first glance fell on -Powell. For a moment, seeing only the second officer with Anthony, she -felt relieved and made as if to draw back; but her sharpened perception -detected something suspicious in their attitudes, and she came forward -slowly. - -"I was the first to see Mrs. Anthony," related Powell, "because I was -facing aft. The captain, noticing my eyes, looked quickly over his -shoulder and at once put his finger to his lips to caution me. As if I -were likely to let out anything before her! Mrs. Anthony had on a -dressing-gown of some grey stuff with red facings and a thick red cord -round her waist. Her hair was down. She looked a child; a pale-faced -child with big blue eyes and a red mouth a little open showing a glimmer -of white teeth. The light fell strongly on her as she came up to the end -of the table. A strange child though; she hardly affected one like a -child, I remember. Do you know," exclaimed Mr. Powell, who clearly must -have been, like many seamen, an industrious reader, "do you know what she -looked like to me with those big eyes and something appealing in her -whole expression. She looked like a forsaken elf. Captain Anthony had -moved towards her to keep her away from my end of the table, where the -tray was. I had never seen them so near to each other before, and it -made a great contrast. It was wonderful, for, with his beard cut to a -point, his swarthy, sunburnt complexion, thin nose and his lean head -there was something African, something Moorish in Captain Anthony. His -neck was bare; he had taken off his coat and collar and had drawn on his -sleeping jacket in the time that he had been absent from the saloon. I -seem to see him now. Mrs. Anthony too. She looked from him to me--I -suppose I looked guilty or frightened--and from me to him, trying to -guess what there was between us two. Then she burst out with a "What has -happened?" which seemed addressed to me. I mumbled "Nothing! Nothing, -ma'am," which she very likely did not hear. - -"You must not think that all this had lasted a long time. She had taken -fright at our behaviour and turned to the captain pitifully. "What is it -you are concealing from me?" A straight question--eh? I don't know what -answer the captain would have made. Before he could even raise his eyes -to her she cried out "Ah! Here's papa" in a sharp tone of relief, but -directly afterwards she looked to me as if she were holding her breath -with apprehension. I was so interested in her that, how shall I say it, -her exclamation made no connection in my brain at first. I also noticed -that she had sidled up a little nearer to Captain Anthony, before it -occurred to me to turn my head. I can tell you my neck stiffened in the -twisted position from the shock of actually seeing that old man! He had -dared! I suppose you think I ought to have looked upon him as mad. But -I couldn't. It would have been certainly easier. But I could _not_. You -should have seen him. First of all he was completely dressed with his -very cap still on his head just as when he left me on deck two hours -before, saying in his soft voice: "The moment has come to go to -bed"--while he meant to go and do that thing and hide in his dark cabin, -and watch the stuff do its work. A cold shudder ran down my back. He -had his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his arms were pressed close -to his thin, upright body, and he shuffled across the cabin with his -short steps. There was a red patch on each of his old soft cheeks as if -somebody had been pinching them. He drooped his head a little, and -looked with a sort of underhand expectation at the captain and Mrs. -Anthony standing close together at the other end of the saloon. The -calculating horrible impudence of it! His daughter was there; and I am -certain he had seen the captain putting his finger on his lips to warn -me. And then he had coolly come out! He passed my imagination, I assure -you. After that one shiver his presence killed every faculty in -me--wonder, horror, indignation. I felt nothing in particular just as if -he were still the old gentleman who used to talk to me familiarly every -day on deck. Would you believe it?" - -"Mr. Powell challenged my powers of wonder at this internal phenomenon," -went on Marlow after a slight pause. "But even if they had not been -fully engaged, together with all my powers of attention in following the -facts of the case, I would not have been astonished by his statements -about himself. Taking into consideration his youth they were by no means -incredible; or, at any rate, they were the least incredible part of the -whole. They were also the least interesting part. The interest was -elsewhere, and there of course all he could do was to look at the -surface. The inwardness of what was passing before his eyes was hidden -from him, who had looked on, more impenetrably than from me who at a -distance of years was listening to his words. What presently happened at -this crisis in Flora de Barral's fate was beyond his power of comment, -seemed in a sense natural. And his own presence on the scene was so -strangely motived that it was left for me to marvel alone at this young -man, a completely chance-comer, having brought it about on that night. - -Each situation created either by folly or wisdom has its psychological -moment. The behaviour of young Powell with its mixture of boyish -impulses combined with instinctive prudence, had not created it--I can't -say that--but had discovered it to the very people involved. What would -have happened if he had made a noise about his discovery? But he didn't. -His head was full of Mrs. Anthony and he behaved with a discretion beyond -his years. Some nice children often do; and surely it is not from -reflection. They have their own inspirations. Young Powell's -inspiration consisted in being "enthusiastic" about Mrs. Anthony. -'Enthusiastic' is really good. And he was amongst them like a child, -sensitive, impressionable, plastic--but unable to find for himself any -sort of comment. - -I don't know how much mine may be worth; but I believe that just then the -tension of the false situation was at its highest. Of all the forms -offered to us by life it is the one demanding a couple to realize it -fully, which is the most imperative. Pairing off is the fate of mankind. -And if two beings thrown together, mutually attracted, resist the -necessity, fail in understanding and voluntarily stop short of the--the -embrace, in the noblest meaning of the word, then they are committing a -sin against life, the call of which is simple. Perhaps sacred. And the -punishment of it is an invasion of complexity, a tormenting, forcibly -tortuous involution of feelings, the deepest form of suffering from which -indeed something significant may come at last, which may be criminal or -heroic, may be madness or wisdom--or even a straight if despairing -decision. - -Powell on taking his eyes off the old gentleman noticed Captain Anthony, -swarthy as an African, by the side of Flora whiter than the lilies, take -his handkerchief out and wipe off his forehead the sweat of anguish--like -a man who is overcome. "And no wonder," commented Mr. Powell here. Then -the captain said, "Hadn't you better go back to your room." This was to -Mrs. Anthony. He tried to smile at her. "Why do you look startled? This -night is like any other night." - -"Which," Powell again commented to me earnestly, "was a lie . . . No -wonder he sweated." You see from this the value of Powell's comments. -Mrs. Anthony then said: "Why are you sending me away?" - -"Why! That you should go to sleep. That you should rest." And Captain -Anthony frowned. Then sharply, "You stay here, Mr. Powell. I shall want -you presently." - -As a matter of fact Powell had not moved. Flora did not mind his -presence. He himself had the feeling of being of no account to those -three people. He was looking at Mrs. Anthony as unabashed as the -proverbial cat looking at a king. Mrs. Anthony glanced at him. She did -not move, gripped by an inexplicable premonition. She had arrived at the -very limit of her endurance as the object of Anthony's magnanimity; she -was the prey of an intuitive dread of she did not know what mysterious -influence; she felt herself being pushed back into that solitude, that -moral loneliness, which had made all her life intolerable. And then, in -that close communion established again with Anthony, she felt--as on that -night in the garden--the force of his personal fascination. The passive -quietness with which she looked at him gave her the appearance of a -person bewitched--or, say, mesmerically put to sleep--beyond any notion -of her surroundings. - -After telling Mr. Powell not to go away the captain remained silent. -Suddenly Mrs. Anthony pushed back her loose hair with a decisive gesture -of her arms and moved still nearer to him. "Here's papa up yet," she -said, but she did not look towards Mr. Smith. "Why is it? And you? I -can't go on like this, Roderick--between you two. Don't." - -Anthony interrupted her as if something had untied his tongue. - -"Oh yes. Here's your father. And . . . Why not. Perhaps it is just as -well you came out. Between us two? Is that it? I won't pretend I don't -understand. I am not blind. But I can't fight any longer for what I -haven't got. I don't know what you imagine has happened. Something has -though. Only you needn't be afraid. No shadow can touch you--because I -give up. I can't say we had much talk about it, your father and I, but, -the long and the short of it is, that I must learn to live without -you--which I have told you was impossible. I was speaking the truth. But -I have done fighting, or waiting, or hoping. Yes. You shall go." - -At this point Mr. Powell who (he confessed to me) was listening with -uncomprehending awe, heard behind his back a triumphant chuckling sound. -It gave him the shudders, he said, to mention it now; but at the time, -except for another chill down the spine, it had not the power to destroy -his absorption in the scene before his eyes, and before his ears too, -because just then Captain Anthony raised his voice grimly. Perhaps he -too had heard the chuckle of the old man. - -"Your father has found an argument which makes me pause, if it does not -convince me. No! I can't answer it. I--I don't want to answer it. I -simply surrender. He shall have his way with you--and with me. Only," -he added in a gloomy lowered tone which struck Mr. Powell as if a pedal -had been put down, "only it shall take a little time. I have never lied -to you. Never. I renounce not only my chance but my life. In a few -days, directly we get into port, the very moment we do, I, who have said -I could never let you go, I shall let you go." - -To the innocent beholder Anthony seemed at this point to become -physically exhausted. My view is that the utter falseness of his, I may -say, aspirations, the vanity of grasping the empty air, had come to him -with an overwhelming force, leaving him disarmed before the other's mad -and sinister sincerity. As he had said himself he could not fight for -what he did not possess; he could not face such a thing as this for the -sake of his mere magnanimity. The normal alone can overcome the -abnormal. He could not even reproach that man over there. "I own myself -beaten," he said in a firmer tone. "You are free. I let you off since I -must." - -Powell, the onlooker, affirms that at these incomprehensible words Mrs. -Anthony stiffened into the very image of astonishment, with a frightened -stare and frozen lips. But next minute a cry came out from her heart, -not very loud but of a quality which made not only Captain Anthony (he -was not looking at her), not only him but also the more distant (and -equally unprepared) young man, catch their breath: "But I don't want to -be let off," she cried. - -She was so still that one asked oneself whether the cry had come from -her. The restless shuffle behind Powell's back stopped short, the -intermittent shadowy chuckling ceased too. Young Powell, glancing round, -saw Mr. Smith raise his head with his faded eyes very still, puckered at -the corners, like a man perceiving something coming at him from a great -distance. And Mrs. Anthony's voice reached Powell's ears, entreating and -indignant. - -"You can't cast me off like this, Roderick. I won't go away from you. I -won't--" - -Powell turned about and discovered then that what Mr. Smith was puckering -his eyes at, was the sight of his daughter clinging round Captain -Anthony's neck--a sight not in itself improper, but which had the power -to move young Powell with a bashfully profound emotion. It was different -from his emotion while spying at the revelations of the skylight, but in -this case too he felt the discomfort, if not the guilt, of an unseen -beholder. Experience was being piled up on his young shoulders. Mrs. -Anthony's hair hung back in a dark mass like the hair of a drowned woman. -She looked as if she would let go and sink to the floor if the captain -were to withhold his sustaining arm. But the captain obviously had no -such intention. Standing firm and still he gazed with sombre eyes at Mr. -Smith. For a time the low convulsive sobbing of Mr. Smith's daughter was -the only sound to trouble the silence. The strength of Anthony's clasp -pressing Flora to his breast could not be doubted even at that distance, -and suddenly, awakening to his opportunity, he began to partly support -her, partly carry her in the direction of her cabin. His head was bent -over her solicitously, then recollecting himself, with a glance full of -unwonted fire, his voice ringing in a note unknown to Mr. Powell, he -cried to him, "Don't you go on deck yet. I want you to stay down here -till I come back. There are some instructions I want to give you." - -And before the young man could answer, Anthony had disappeared in the -stern-cabin, burdened and exulting. - -"Instructions," commented Mr. Powell. "That was all right. Very likely; -but they would be such instructions as, I thought to myself, no ship's -officer perhaps had ever been given before. It made me feel a little -sick to think what they would be dealing with, probably. But there! -Everything that happens on board ship on the high seas has got to be -dealt with somehow. There are no special people to fly to for -assistance. And there I was with that old man left in my charge. When -he noticed me looking at him he started to shuffle again athwart the -saloon. He kept his hands rammed in his pockets, he was as stiff-backed -as ever, only his head hung down. After a bit he says in his gentle soft -tone: "Did you see it?" - -There were in Powell's head no special words to fit the horror of his -feelings. So he said--he had to say something, "Good God! What were you -thinking of, Mr. Smith, to try to . . . " And then he left off. He -dared not utter the awful word poison. Mr. Smith stopped his prowl. - -"Think! What do you know of thinking. I don't think. There is -something in my head that thinks. The thoughts in men, it's like being -drunk with liquor or--You can't stop them. A man who thinks will think -anything. No! But have you seen it. Have you?" - -"I tell you I have! I am certain!" said Powell forcibly. "I was looking -at you all the time. You've done something to the drink in that glass." - -Then Powell lost his breath somehow. Mr. Smith looked at him curiously, -with mistrust. - -"My good young man, I don't know what you are talking about. I ask -you--have you seen? Who would have believed it? with her arms round his -neck. When! Oh! Ha! Ha! You did see! Didn't you? It wasn't a -delusion--was it? Her arms round . . . But I have never wholly trusted -her." - -"Then I flew out at him, said Mr. Powell. I told him he was jolly lucky -to have fallen upon Captain Anthony. A man in a million. He started -again shuffling to and fro. "You too," he said mournfully, keeping his -eyes down. "Eh? Wonderful man? But have you a notion who I am? Listen! -I have been the Great Mr. de Barral. So they printed it in the papers -while they were getting up a conspiracy. And I have been doing time. And -now I am brought low." His voice died down to a mere breath. "Brought -low." - -He took his hands out of his pocket, dragged the cap down on his head and -stuck them back into his pockets, exactly as if preparing himself to go -out into a great wind. "But not so low as to put up with this disgrace, -to see her, fast in this fellow's clutches, without doing something. She -wouldn't listen to me. Frightened? Silly? I had to think of some way -to get her out of this. Did you think she cared for him? No! Would -anybody have thought so? No! She pretended it was for my sake. She -couldn't understand that if I hadn't been an old man I would have flown -at his throat months ago. As it was I was tempted every time he looked -at her. My girl. Ough! Any man but this. And all the time the wicked -little fool was lying to me. It was their plot, their conspiracy! These -conspiracies are the devil. She has been leading me on, till she has -fairly put my head under the heel of that jailer, of that scoundrel, of -her husband . . . Treachery! Bringing me low. Lower than herself. In -the dirt. That's what it means. Doesn't it? Under his heel!" - -He paused in his restless shuffle and again, seizing his cap with both -hands, dragged it furiously right down on his ears. Powell had lost -himself in listening to these broken ravings, in looking at that old -feverish face when, suddenly, quick as lightning, Mr. Smith spun round, -snatched up the captain's glass and with a stifled, hurried exclamation, -"Here's luck," tossed the liquor down his throat. - -"I know now the meaning of the word 'Consternation,'" went on Mr. Powell. -"That was exactly my state of mind. I thought to myself directly: -There's nothing in that drink. I have been dreaming, I have made the -awfulest mistake! . . ." - -Mr. Smith put the glass down. He stood before Powell unharmed, quieted -down, in a listening attitude, his head inclined on one side, chewing his -thin lips. Suddenly he blinked queerly, grabbed Powell's shoulder and -collapsed, subsiding all at once as though he had gone soft all over, as -a piece of silk stuff collapses. Powell seized his arm instinctively and -checked his fall; but as soon as Mr. Smith was fairly on the floor he -jerked himself free and backed away. Almost as quick he rushed forward -again and tried to lift up the body. But directly he raised his -shoulders he knew that the man was dead! Dead! - -He lowered him down gently. He stood over him without fear or any other -feeling, almost indifferent, far away, as it were. And then he made -another start and, if he had not kept Mrs. Anthony always in his mind, he -would have let out a yell for help. He staggered to her cabin-door, and, -as it was, his call for "Captain Anthony" burst out of him much too loud; -but he made a great effort of self-control. "I am waiting for my orders, -sir," he said outside that door distinctly, in a steady tone. - -It was very still in there; still as death. Then he heard a shuffle of -feet and the captain's voice "All right. Coming." He leaned his back -against the bulkhead as you see a drunken man sometimes propped up -against a wall, half doubled up. In that attitude the captain found him, -when he came out, pulling the door to after him quickly. At once Anthony -let his eyes run all over the cabin. Powell, without a word, clutched -his forearm, led him round the end of the table and began to justify -himself. "I couldn't stop him," he whispered shakily. "He was too quick -for me. He drank it up and fell down." But the captain was not -listening. He was looking down at Mr. Smith, thinking perhaps that it -was a mere chance his own body was not lying there. They did not want to -speak. They made signs to each other with their eyes. The captain -grasped Powell's shoulder as if in a vice and glanced at Mrs. Anthony's -cabin door, and it was enough. He knew that the young man understood -him. Rather! Silence! Silence for ever about this. Their very glances -became stealthy. Powell looked from the body to the door of the dead -man's state-room. The captain nodded and let him go; and then Powell -crept over, hooked the door open and crept back with fearful glances -towards Mrs. Anthony's cabin. They stooped over the corpse. Captain -Anthony lifted up the shoulders. - -Mr. Powell shuddered. "I'll never forget that interminable journey -across the saloon, step by step, holding our breath. For part of the way -the drawn half of the curtain concealed us from view had Mrs. Anthony -opened her door; but I didn't draw a free breath till after we laid the -body down on the swinging cot. The reflection of the saloon light left -most of the cabin in the shadow. Mr. Smith's rigid, extended body looked -shadowy too, shadowy and alive. You know he always carried himself as -stiff as a poker. We stood by the cot as though waiting for him to make -us a sign that he wanted to be left alone. The captain threw his arm -over my shoulder and said in my very ear: "The steward'll find him in the -morning." - -"I made no answer. It was for him to say. It was perhaps the best way. -It's no use talking about my thoughts. They were not concerned with -myself, nor yet with that old man who terrified me more now than when he -was alive. Him whom I pitied was the captain. He whispered. "I am -certain of you, Mr. Powell. You had better go on deck now. As to me -. . . " and I saw him raise his hands to his head as if distracted. But his -last words before we stole out that cabin stick to my mind with the very -tone of his mutter--to himself, not to me: - -"No! No! I am not going to stumble now over that corpse." - -* * * - -"This is what our Mr. Powell had to tell me," said Marlow, changing his -tone. I was glad to learn that Flora de Barral had been saved from -_that_ sinister shadow at least falling upon her path. - -We sat silent then, my mind running on the end of de Barral, on the -irresistible pressure of imaginary griefs, crushing conscience, scruples, -prudence, under their ever-expanding volume; on the sombre and venomous -irony in the obsession which had mastered that old man. - -"Well," I said. - -"The steward found him," Mr. Powell roused himself. "He went in there -with a cup of tea at five and of course dropped it. I was on watch -again. He reeled up to me on deck pale as death. I had been expecting -it; and yet I could hardly speak. "Go and tell the captain quietly," I -managed to say. He ran off muttering "My God! My God!" and I'm hanged -if he didn't get hysterical while trying to tell the captain, and start -screaming in the saloon, "Fully dressed! Dead! Fully dressed!" Mrs. -Anthony ran out of course but she didn't get hysterical. Franklin, who -was there too, told me that she hid her face on the captain's breast and -then he went out and left them there. It was days before Mrs. Anthony -was seen on deck. The first time I spoke to her she gave me her hand and -said, "My poor father was quite fond of you, Mr. Powell." She started -wiping her eyes and I fled to the other side of the deck. One would like -to forget all this had ever come near her." - -But clearly he could not, because after lighting his pipe he began musing -aloud: "Very strong stuff it must have been. I wonder where he got it. -It could hardly be at a common chemist. Well, he had it from somewhere--a -mere pinch it must have been, no more." - -"I have my theory," observed Marlow, "which to a certain extent does away -with the added horror of a coldly premeditated crime. Chance had stepped -in there too. It was not Mr. Smith who obtained the poison. It was the -Great de Barral. And it was not meant for the obscure, magnanimous -conqueror of Flora de Barral; it was meant for the notorious financier -whose enterprises had nothing to do with magnanimity. He had his -physician in his days of greatness. I even seem to remember that the man -was called at the trial on some small point or other. I can imagine that -de Barral went to him when he saw, as he could hardly help seeing, the -possibility of a "triumph of envious rivals"--a heavy sentence. - -I doubt if for love or even for money, but I think possibly, from pity -that man provided him with what Mr. Powell called "strong stuff." From -what Powell saw of the very act I am fairly certain it must have been -contained in a capsule and that he had it about him on the last day of -his trial, perhaps secured by a stitch in his waistcoat pocket. He -didn't use it. Why? Did he think of his child at the last moment? Was -it want of courage? We can't tell. But he found it in his clothes when -he came out of jail. It had escaped investigation if there was any. -Chance had armed him. And chance alone, the chance of Mr. Powell's life, -forced him to turn the abominable weapon against himself. - -I imparted my theory to Mr. Powell who accepted it at once as, in a -sense, favourable to the father of Mrs. Anthony. Then he waved his hand. -"Don't let us think of it." - -I acquiesced and very soon he observed dreamily: - -"I was with Captain and Mrs. Anthony sailing all over the world for near -on six years. Almost as long as Franklin." - -"Oh yes! What about Franklin?" I asked. - -Powell smiled. "He left the _Ferndale_ a year or so afterwards, and I -took his place. Captain Anthony recommended him for a command. You -don't think Captain Anthony would chuck a man aside like an old glove. -But of course Mrs. Anthony did not like him very much. I don't think she -ever let out a whisper against him but Captain Anthony could read her -thoughts. - -And again Powell seemed to lose himself in the past. I asked, for -suddenly the vision of the Fynes passed through my mind. - -"Any children?" - -Powell gave a start. "No! No! Never had any children," and again -subsided, puffing at his short briar pipe. - -"Where are they now?" I inquired next as if anxious to ascertain that all -Fyne's fears had been misplaced and vain as our fears often are; that -there were no undesirable cousins for his dear girls, no danger of -intrusion on their spotless home. Powell looked round at me slowly, his -pipe smouldering in his hand. - -"Don't you know?" he uttered in a deep voice. - -"Know what?" - -"That the _Ferndale_ was lost this four years or more. Sunk. Collision. -And Captain Anthony went down with her." - -"You don't say so!" I cried quite affected as if I had known Captain -Anthony personally. "Was--was Mrs. Anthony lost too?" - -"You might as well ask if I was lost," Mr. Powell rejoined so testily as -to surprise me. "You see me here,--don't you." - -He was quite huffy, but noticing my wondering stare he smoothed his -ruffled plumes. And in a musing tone. - -"Yes. Good men go out as if there was no use for them in the world. It -seems as if there were things that, as the Turks say, are written. Or -else fate has a try and sometimes misses its mark. You remember that -close shave we had of being run down at night, I told you of, my first -voyage with them. This go it was just at dawn. A flat calm and a fog -thick enough to slice with a knife. Only there were no explosives on -board. I was on deck and I remember the cursed, murderous thing looming -up alongside and Captain Anthony (we were both on deck) calling out, -"Good God! What's this! Shout for all hands, Powell, to save -themselves. There's no dynamite on board now. I am going to get the -wife! . . " I yelled, all the watch on deck yelled. Crash!" - -Mr. Powell gasped at the recollection. "It was a Belgian Green Star -liner, the _Westland_," he went on, "commanded by one of those stop-for- -nothing skippers. Flaherty was his name and I hope he will die without -absolution. She cut half through the old _Ferndale_ and after the blow -there was a silence like death. Next I heard the captain back on deck -shouting, "Set your engines slow ahead," and a howl of "Yes, yes," -answering him from her forecastle; and then a whole crowd of people up -there began making a row in the fog. They were throwing ropes down to us -in dozens, I must say. I and the captain fastened one of them under Mrs. -Anthony's arms: I remember she had a sort of dim smile on her face." - -"Haul up carefully," I shouted to the people on the steamer's deck. -"You've got a woman on that line." - -The captain saw her landed up there safe. And then we made a rush round -our decks to see no one was left behind. As we got back the captain -says: "Here she's gone at last, Powell; the dear old thing! Run down at -sea." - -"Indeed she is gone," I said. "But it might have been worse. Shin up -this rope, sir, for God's sake. I will steady it for you." - -"What are you thinking about," he says angrily. "It isn't my turn. Up -with you." - -These were the last words he ever spoke on earth I suppose. I knew he -meant to be the last to leave his ship, so I swarmed up as quick as I -could, and those damned lunatics up there grab at me from above, lug me -in, drag me along aft through the row and the riot of the silliest -excitement I ever did see. Somebody hails from the bridge, "Have you got -them all on board?" and a dozen silly asses start yelling all together, -"All saved! All saved," and then that accursed Irishman on the bridge, -with me roaring No! No! till I thought my head would burst, rings his -engines astern. He rings the engines astern--I fighting like mad to make -myself heard! And of course . . . " - -I saw tears, a shower of them fall down Mr. Powell's face. His voice -broke. - -"The _Ferndale_ went down like a stone and Captain Anthony went down with -her, the finest man's soul that ever left a sailor's body. I raved like -a maniac, like a devil, with a lot of fools crowding round me and asking, -"Aren't you the captain?" - -"I wasn't fit to tie the shoe-strings of the man you have drowned," I -screamed at them . . . Well! Well! I could see for myself that it was -no good lowering a boat. You couldn't have seen her alongside. No use. -And only think, Marlow, it was I who had to go and tell Mrs. Anthony. -They had taken her down below somewhere, first-class saloon. I had to go -and tell her! That Flaherty, God forgive him, comes to me as white as a -sheet, "I think you are the proper person." God forgive him. I wished -to die a hundred times. A lot of kind ladies, passengers, were -chattering excitedly around Mrs. Anthony--a real parrot house. The -ship's doctor went before me. He whispers right and left and then there -falls a sudden hush. Yes, I wished myself dead. But Mrs. Anthony was a -brick. - -Here Mr. Powell fairly burst into tears. "No one could help loving -Captain Anthony. I leave you to imagine what he was to her. Yet before -the week was out it was she who was helping me to pull myself together." - -"Is Mrs. Anthony in England now?" I asked after a while. - -He wiped his eyes without any false shame. "Oh yes." He began to look -for matches, and while diving for the box under the table added: "And not -very far from here either. That little village up there--you know." - -"No! Really! Oh I see!" - -Mr. Powell smoked austerely, very detached. But I could not let him off -like this. The sly beggar. So this was the secret of his passion for -sailing about the river, the reason of his fondness for that creek. - -"And I suppose," I said, "that you are still as 'enthusiastic' as ever. -Eh? If I were you I would just mention my enthusiasm to Mrs. Anthony. -Why not?" - -He caught his falling pipe neatly. But if what the French call -_effarement_ was ever expressed on a human countenance it was on this -occasion, testifying to his modesty, his sensibility and his innocence. -He looked afraid of somebody overhearing my audacious--almost -sacrilegious hint--as if there had not been a mile and a half of lonely -marshland and dykes between us and the nearest human habitation. And -then perhaps he remembered the soothing fact for he allowed a gleam to -light up his eyes, like the reflection of some inward fire tended in the -sanctuary of his heart by a devotion as pure as that of any vestal. - -It flashed and went out. He smiled a bashful smile, sighed: - -"Pah! Foolishness. You ought to know better," he said, more sad than -annoyed. "But I forgot that you never knew Captain Anthony," he added -indulgently. - -I reminded him that I knew Mrs. Anthony; even before he--an old friend -now--had ever set eyes on her. And as he told me that Mrs. Anthony had -heard of our meetings I wondered whether she would care to see me. Mr. -Powell volunteered no opinion then; but next time we lay in the creek he -said, "She will be very pleased. You had better go to-day." - -The afternoon was well advanced before I approached the cottage. The -amenity of a fine day in its decline surrounded me with a beneficent, a -calming influence; I felt it in the silence of the shady lane, in the -pure air, in the blue sky. It is difficult to retain the memory of the -conflicts, miseries, temptations and crimes of men's self-seeking -existence when one is alone with the charming serenity of the unconscious -nature. Breathing the dreamless peace around the picturesque cottage I -was approaching, it seemed to me that it must reign everywhere, over all -the globe of water and land and in the hearts of all the dwellers on this -earth. - -Flora came down to the garden gate to meet me, no longer the perversely -tempting, sorrowful, wisp of white mist drifting in the complicated bad -dream of existence. Neither did she look like a forsaken elf. I -stammered out stupidly, "Again in the country, Miss . . . Mrs . . . " She -was very good, returned the pressure of my hand, but we were slightly -embarrassed. Then we laughed a little. Then we became grave. - -I am no lover of day-breaks. You know how thin, equivocal, is the light -of the dawn. But she was now her true self, she was like a fine tranquil -afternoon--and not so very far advanced either. A woman not much over -thirty, with a dazzling complexion and a little colour, a lot of hair, a -smooth brow, a fine chin, and only the eyes of the Flora of the old days, -absolutely unchanged. - -In the room into which she led me we found a Miss Somebody--I didn't -catch the name,--an unobtrusive, even an indistinct, middle-aged person -in black. A companion. All very proper. She came and went and even sat -down at times in the room, but a little apart, with some sewing. By the -time she had brought in a lighted lamp I had heard all the details which -really matter in this story. Between me and her who was once Flora de -Barral the conversation was not likely to keep strictly to the weather. - -The lamp had a rosy shade; and its glow wreathed her in perpetual -blushes, made her appear wonderfully young as she sat before me in a -deep, high-backed arm-chair. I asked: - -"Tell me what is it you said in that famous letter which so upset Mrs. -Fyne, and caused little Fyne to interfere in this offensive manner?" - -"It was simply crude," she said earnestly. "I was feeling reckless and I -wrote recklessly. I knew she would disapprove and I wrote foolishly. It -was the echo of her own stupid talk. I said that I did not love her -brother but that I had no scruples whatever in marrying him." - -She paused, hesitating, then with a shy half-laugh: - -"I really believed I was selling myself, Mr. Marlow. And I was proud of -it. What I suffered afterwards I couldn't tell you; because I only -discovered my love for my poor Roderick through agonies of rage and -humiliation. I came to suspect him of despising me; but I could not put -it to the test because of my father. Oh! I would not have been too -proud. But I had to spare poor papa's feelings. Roderick was perfect, -but I felt as though I were on the rack and not allowed even to cry out. -Papa's prejudice against Roderick was my greatest grief. It was -distracting. It frightened me. Oh! I have been miserable! That night -when my poor father died suddenly I am certain they had some sort of -discussion, about me. But I did not want to hold out any longer against -my own heart! I could not." - -She stopped short, then impulsively: - -"Truth will out, Mr. Marlow." - -"Yes," I said. - -She went on musingly. - -"Sorrow and happiness were mingled at first like darkness and light. For -months I lived in a dusk of feelings. But it was quiet. It was warm -. . . " - -Again she paused, then going back in her thoughts. "No! There was no -harm in that letter. It was simply foolish. What did I know of life -then? Nothing. But Mrs. Fyne ought to have known better. She wrote a -letter to her brother, a little later. Years afterwards Roderick allowed -me to glance at it. I found in it this sentence: 'For years I tried to -make a friend of that girl; but I warn you once more that she has the -nature of a heartless adventuress . . . ' Adventuress!" repeated Flora -slowly. "So be it. I have had a fine adventure." - -"It was fine, then," I said interested. - -"The finest in the world! Only think! I loved and I was loved, -untroubled, at peace, without remorse, without fear. All the world, all -life were transformed for me. And how much I have seen! How good people -were to me! Roderick was so much liked everywhere. Yes, I have known -kindness and safety. The most familiar things appeared lighted up with a -new light, clothed with a loveliness I had never suspected. The sea -itself! . . . You are a sailor. You have lived your life on it. But do -you know how beautiful it is, how strong, how charming, how friendly, how -mighty . . . " - -I listened amazed and touched. She was silent only a little while. - -"It was too good to last. But nothing can rob me of it now . . . Don't -think that I repine. I am not even sad now. Yes, I have been happy. But -I remember also the time when I was unhappy beyond endurance, beyond -desperation. Yes. You remember that. And later on, too. There was a -time on board the _Ferndale_ when the only moments of relief I knew were -when I made Mr. Powell talk to me a little on the poop. You like -him?--Don't you?" - -"Excellent fellow," I said warmly. "You see him often?" - -"Of course. I hardly know another soul in the world. I am alone. And -he has plenty of time on his hands. His aunt died a few years ago. He's -doing nothing, I believe." - -"He is fond of the sea," I remarked. "He loves it." - -"He seems to have given it up," she murmured. - -"I wonder why?" - -She remained silent. "Perhaps it is because he loves something else -better," I went on. "Come, Mrs. Anthony, don't let me carry away from -here the idea that you are a selfish person, hugging the memory of your -past happiness, like a rich man his treasure, forgetting the poor at the -gate." - -I rose to go, for it was getting late. She got up in some agitation and -went out with me into the fragrant darkness of the garden. She detained -my hand for a moment and then in the very voice of the Flora of old days, -with the exact intonation, showing the old mistrust, the old doubt of -herself, the old scar of the blow received in childhood, pathetic and -funny, she murmured, "Do you think it possible that he should care for -me?" - -"Just ask him yourself. You are brave." - -"Oh, I am brave enough," she said with a sigh. - -"Then do. For if you don't you will be wronging that patient man -cruelly." - -I departed leaving her dumb. Next day, seeing Powell making preparations -to go ashore, I asked him to give my regards to Mrs. Anthony. He -promised he would. - -"Listen, Powell," I said. "We got to know each other by chance?" - -"Oh, quite!" he admitted, adjusting his hat. - -"And the science of life consists in seizing every chance that presents -itself," I pursued. "Do you believe that?" - -"Gospel truth," he declared innocently. - -"Well, don't forget it." - -"Oh, I! I don't expect now anything to present itself," he said, jumping -ashore. - -He didn't turn up at high water. I set my sail and just as I had cast -off from the bank, round the black barn, in the dusk, two figures -appeared and stood silent, indistinct. - -"Is that you, Powell?" I hailed. - -"And Mrs. Anthony," his voice came impressively through the silence of -the great marsh. "I am not sailing to-night. I have to see Mrs. Anthony -home." - -"Then I must even go alone," I cried. - -Flora's voice wished me "_bon voyage_" in a most friendly but tremulous -tone. - -"You shall hear from me before long," shouted Powell, suddenly, just as -my boat had cleared the mouth of the creek. - -"This was yesterday," added Marlow, lolling in the arm-chair lazily. "I -haven't heard yet; but I expect to hear any moment . . . What on earth -are you grinning at in this sarcastic manner? I am not afraid of going -to church with a friend. Hang it all, for all my belief in Chance I am -not exactly a pagan . . . 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* - - - - - -This etext was prepared from the 1914 Methuen & Co. edition -by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk - - - - - -CHANCE--A TALE IN TWO PARTS - -by Joseph Conrad - - - - -PART I--THE DAMSEL - - - - -CHAPTER ONE--YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE - - - -I believe he had seen us out of the window coming off to dine in the -dinghy of a fourteen-ton yawl belonging to Marlow my host and -skipper. We helped the boy we had with us to haul the boat up on -the landing-stage before we went up to the riverside inn, where we -found our new acquaintance eating his dinner in dignified loneliness -at the head of a long table, white and inhospitable like a snow -bank. - -The red tint of his clear-cut face with trim short black whiskers -under a cap of curly iron-grey hair was the only warm spot in the -dinginess of that room cooled by the cheerless tablecloth. We knew -him already by sight as the owner of a little five-ton cutter, which -he sailed alone apparently, a fellow yachtsman in the unpretending -band of fanatics who cruise at the mouth of the Thames. But the -first time he addressed the waiter sharply as 'steward' we knew him -at once for a sailor as well as a yachtsman. - -Presently he had occasion to reprove that same waiter for the -slovenly manner in which the dinner was served. He did it with -considerable energy and then turned to us. - -"If we at sea," he declared, "went about our work as people ashore -high and low go about theirs we should never make a living. No one -would employ us. And moreover no ship navigated and sailed in the -happy-go-lucky manner people conduct their business on shore would -ever arrive into port." - -Since he had retired from the sea he had been astonished to discover -that the educated people were not much better than the others. No -one seemed to take any proper pride in his work: from plumbers who -were simply thieves to, say, newspaper men (he seemed to think them -a specially intellectual class) who never by any chance gave a -correct version of the simplest affair. This universal inefficiency -of what he called "the shore gang" he ascribed in general to the -want of responsibility and to a sense of security. - -"They see," he went on, "that no matter what they do this tight -little island won't turn turtle with them or spring a leak and go to -the bottom with their wives and children." - -From this point the conversation took a special turn relating -exclusively to sea-life. On that subject he got quickly in touch -with Marlow who in his time had followed the sea. They kept up a -lively exchange of reminiscences while I listened. They agreed that -the happiest time in their lives was as youngsters in good ships, -with no care in the world but not to lose a watch below when at sea -and not a moment's time in going ashore after work hours when in -harbour. They agreed also as to the proudest moment they had known -in that calling which is never embraced on rational and practical -grounds, because of the glamour of its romantic associations. It -was the moment when they had passed successfully their first -examination and left the seamanship Examiner with the little -precious slip of blue paper in their hands. - -"That day I wouldn't have called the Queen my cousin," declared our -new acquaintance enthusiastically. - -At that time the Marine Board examinations took place at the St. -Katherine's Dock House on Tower Hill, and he informed us that he had -a special affection for the view of that historic locality, with the -Gardens to the left, the front of the Mint to the right, the -miserable tumble-down little houses farther away, a cabstand, boot- -blacks squatting on the edge of the pavement and a pair of big -policemen gazing with an air of superiority at the doors of the -Black Horse public-house across the road. This was the part of the -world, he said, his eyes first took notice of, on the finest day of -his life. He had emerged from the main entrance of St. Katherine's -Dock House a full-fledged second mate after the hottest time of his -life with Captain R-, the most dreaded of the three seamanship -Examiners who at the time were responsible for the merchant service -officers qualifying in the Port of London. - -"We all who were preparing to pass," he said, "used to shake in our -shoes at the idea of going before him. He kept me for an hour and a -half in the torture chamber and behaved as though he hated me. He -kept his eyes shaded with one of his hands. Suddenly he let it drop -saying, "You will do!" Before I realised what he meant he was -pushing the blue slip across the table. I jumped up as if my chair -had caught fire. - -"Thank you, sir," says I, grabbing the paper. - -"Good morning, good luck to you," he growls at me. - -"The old doorkeeper fussed out of the cloak-room with my hat. They -always do. But he looked very hard at me before he ventured to ask -in a sort of timid whisper: "Got through all right, sir?" For all -answer I dropped a half-crown into his soft broad palm. "Well," -says he with a sudden grin from ear to ear, "I never knew him keep -any of you gentlemen so long. He failed two second mates this -morning before your turn came. Less than twenty minutes each: -that's about his usual time." - -"I found myself downstairs without being aware of the steps as if I -had floated down the staircase. The finest day in my life. The day -you get your first command is nothing to it. For one thing a man is -not so young then and for another with us, you know, there is -nothing much more to expect. Yes, the finest day of one's life, no -doubt, but then it is just a day and no more. What comes after is -about the most unpleasant time for a youngster, the trying to get an -officer's berth with nothing much to show but a brand-new -certificate. It is surprising how useless you find that piece of -ass's skin that you have been putting yourself in such a state -about. It didn't strike me at the time that a Board of Trade -certificate does not make an officer, not by a long long way. But -the slippers of the ships I was haunting with demands for a job knew -that very well. I don't wonder at them now, and I don't blame them -either. But this 'trying to get a ship' is pretty hard on a -youngster all the same . . . " - -He went on then to tell us how tired he was and how discouraged by -this lesson of disillusion following swiftly upon the finest day of -his life. He told us how he went the round of all the ship-owners' -offices in the City where some junior clerk would furnish him with -printed forms of application which he took home to fill up in the -evening. He used to run out just before midnight to post them in -the nearest pillar-box. And that was all that ever came of it. In -his own words: he might just as well have dropped them all properly -addressed and stamped into the sewer grating. - -Then one day, as he was wending his weary way to the docks, he met a -friend and former shipmate a little older than himself outside the -Fenchurch Street Railway Station. - -He craved for sympathy but his friend had just "got a ship" that -very morning and was hurrying home in a state of outward joy and -inward uneasiness usual to a sailor who after many days of waiting -suddenly gets a berth. This friend had the time to condole with him -but briefly. He must be moving. Then as he was running off, over -his shoulder as it were, he suggested: "Why don't you go and speak -to Mr. Powell in the Shipping Office." Our friend objected that he -did not know Mr. Powell from Adam. And the other already pretty -near round the corner shouted back advice: "Go to the private door -of the Shipping Office and walk right up to him. His desk is by the -window. Go up boldly and say I sent you." - -Our new acquaintance looking from one to the other of us declared: -"Upon my word, I had grown so desperate that I'd have gone boldly up -to the devil himself on the mere hint that he had a second mate's -job to give away." - -It was at this point that interrupting his flow of talk to light his -pipe but holding us with his eye he inquired whether we had known -Powell. Marlow with a slight reminiscent smile murmured that he -"remembered him very well." - -Then there was a pause. Our new acquaintance had become involved in -a vexatious difficulty with his pipe which had suddenly betrayed his -trust and disappointed his anticipation of self-indulgence. To keep -the ball rolling I asked Marlow if this Powell was remarkable in any -way. - -"He was not exactly remarkable," Marlow answered with his usual -nonchalance. "In a general way it's very difficult for one to -become remarkable. People won't take sufficient notice of one, -don't you know. I remember Powell so well simply because as one of -the Shipping Masters in the Port of London he dispatched me to sea -on several long stages of my sailor's pilgrimage. He resembled -Socrates. I mean he resembled him genuinely: that is in the face. -A philosophical mind is but an accident. He reproduced exactly the -familiar bust of the immortal sage, if you will imagine the bust -with a high top hat riding far on the back of the head, and a black -coat over the shoulders. As I never saw him except from the other -side of the long official counter bearing the five writing desks of -the five Shipping Masters, Mr. Powell has remained a bust to me." - -Our new acquaintance advanced now from the mantelpiece with his pipe -in good working order. - -"What was the most remarkable about Powell," he enunciated -dogmatically with his head in a cloud of smoke, "is that he should -have had just that name. You see, my name happens to be Powell -too." - -It was clear that this intelligence was not imparted to us for -social purposes. It required no acknowledgment. We continued to -gaze at him with expectant eyes. - -He gave himself up to the vigorous enjoyment of his pipe for a -silent minute or two. Then picking up the thread of his story he -told us how he had started hot foot for Tower Hill. He had not been -that way since the day of his examination--the finest day of his -life--the day of his overweening pride. It was very different now. -He would not have called the Queen his cousin, still, but this time -it was from a sense of profound abasement. He didn't think himself -good enough for anybody's kinship. He envied the purple-nosed old -cab-drivers on the stand, the boot-black boys at the edge of the -pavement, the two large bobbies pacing slowly along the Tower -Gardens railings in the consciousness of their infallible might, and -the bright scarlet sentries walking smartly to and fro before the -Mint. He envied them their places in the scheme of world's labour. -And he envied also the miserable sallow, thin-faced loafers blinking -their obscene eyes and rubbing their greasy shoulders against the -door-jambs of the Black Horse pub, because they were too far gone to -feel their degradation. - -I must render the man the justice that he conveyed very well to us -the sense of his youthful hopelessness surprised at not finding its -place in the sun and no recognition of its right to live. - -He went up the outer steps of St. Katherine's Dock House, the very -steps from which he had some six weeks before surveyed the cabstand, -the buildings, the policemen, the boot-blacks, the paint, gilt, and -plateglass of the Black Horse, with the eye of a Conqueror. At the -time he had been at the bottom of his heart surprised that all this -had not greeted him with songs and incense, but now (he made no -secret of it) he made his entry in a slinking fashion past the -doorkeeper's glass box. "I hadn't any half-crowns to spare for -tips," he remarked grimly. The man, however, ran out after him -asking: "What do you require?" but with a grateful glance up at the -first floor in remembrance of Captain R-'s examination room (how -easy and delightful all that had been) he bolted down a flight -leading to the basement and found himself in a place of dusk and -mystery and many doors. He had been afraid of being stopped by some -rule of no-admittance. However he was not pursued. - -The basement of St. Katherine's Dock House is vast in extent and -confusing in its plan. Pale shafts of light slant from above into -the gloom of its chilly passages. Powell wandered up and down there -like an early Christian refugee in the catacombs; but what little -faith he had in the success of his enterprise was oozing out at his -finger-tips. At a dark turn under a gas bracket whose flame was -half turned down his self-confidence abandoned him altogether. - -"I stood there to think a little," he said. "A foolish thing to do -because of course I got scared. What could you expect? It takes -some nerve to tackle a stranger with a request for a favour. I -wished my namesake Powell had been the devil himself. I felt -somehow it would have been an easier job. You see, I never believed -in the devil enough to be scared of him; but a man can make himself -very unpleasant. I looked at a lot of doors, all shut tight, with a -growing conviction that I would never have the pluck to open one of -them. Thinking's no good for one's nerve. I concluded I would give -up the whole business. But I didn't give up in the end, and I'll -tell you what stopped me. It was the recollection of that -confounded doorkeeper who had called after me. I felt sure the -fellow would be on the look-out at the head of the stairs. If he -asked me what I had been after, as he had the right to do, I -wouldn't know what to answer that wouldn't make me look silly if no -worse. I got very hot. There was no chance of slinking out of this -business. - -"I had lost my bearings somehow down there. Of the many doors of -various sizes, right and left, a good few had glazed lights above; -some however must have led merely into lumber rooms or such like, -because when I brought myself to try one or two I was disconcerted -to find that they were locked. I stood there irresolute and uneasy -like a baffled thief. The confounded basement was as still as a -grave and I became aware of my heart beats. Very uncomfortable -sensation. Never happened to me before or since. A bigger door to -the left of me, with a large brass handle looked as if it might lead -into the Shipping Office. I tried it, setting my teeth. "Here -goes!" - -"It came open quite easily. And lo! the place it opened into was -hardly any bigger than a cupboard. Anyhow it wasn't more than ten -feet by twelve; and as I in a way expected to see the big shadowy -cellar-like extent of the Shipping Office where I had been once or -twice before, I was extremely startled. A gas bracket hung from the -middle of the ceiling over a dark, shabby writing-desk covered with -a litter of yellowish dusty documents. Under the flame of the -single burner which made the place ablaze with light, a plump, -little man was writing hard, his nose very near the desk. His head -was perfectly bald and about the same drab tint as the papers. He -appeared pretty dusty too. - -"I didn't notice whether there were any cobwebs on him, but I -shouldn't wonder if there were because he looked as though he had -been imprisoned for years in that little hole. The way he dropped -his pen and sat blinking my way upset me very much. And his dungeon -was hot and musty; it smelt of gas and mushrooms, and seemed to be -somewhere 120 feet below the ground. Solid, heavy stacks of paper -filled all the corners half-way up to the ceiling. And when the -thought flashed upon me that these were the premises of the Marine -Board and that this fellow must be connected in some way with ships -and sailors and the sea, my astonishment took my breath away. One -couldn't imagine why the Marine Board should keep that bald, fat -creature slaving down there. For some reason or other I felt sorry -and ashamed to have found him out in his wretched captivity. I -asked gently and sorrowfully: "The Shipping Office, please." - -He piped up in a contemptuous squeaky voice which made me start: -"Not here. Try the passage on the other side. Street side. This -is the Dock side. You've lost your way . . . " - -He spoke in such a spiteful tone that I thought he was going to -round off with the words: "You fool" . . . and perhaps he meant to. -But what he finished sharply with was: "Shut the door quietly after -you." - -And I did shut it quietly--you bet. Quick and quiet. The -indomitable spirit of that chap impressed me. I wonder sometimes -whether he has succeeded in writing himself into liberty and a -pension at last, or had to go out of his gas-lighted grave straight -into that other dark one where nobody would want to intrude. My -humanity was pleased to discover he had so much kick left in him, -but I was not comforted in the least. It occurred to me that if Mr. -Powell had the same sort of temper . . . However, I didn't give -myself time to think and scuttled across the space at the foot of -the stairs into the passage where I'd been told to try. And I tried -the first door I came to, right away, without any hanging back, -because coming loudly from the hall above an amazed and scandalized -voice wanted to know what sort of game I was up to down there. -"Don't you know there's no admittance that way?" it roared. But if -there was anything more I shut it out of my hearing by means of a -door marked PRIVATE on the outside. It let me into a six-feet wide -strip between a long counter and the wall, taken off a spacious, -vaulted room with a grated window and a glazed door giving daylight -to the further end. The first thing I saw right in front of me were -three middle-aged men having a sort of romp together round about -another fellow with a thin, long neck and sloping shoulders who -stood up at a desk writing on a large sheet of paper and taking no -notice except that he grinned quietly to himself. They turned very -sour at once when they saw me. I heard one of them mutter 'Hullo! -What have we here?' - -"'I want to see Mr. Powell, please,' I said, very civil but firm; I -would let nothing scare me away now. This was the Shipping Office -right enough. It was after 3 o'clock and the business seemed over -for the day with them. The long-necked fellow went on with his -writing steadily. I observed that he was no longer grinning. The -three others tossed their heads all together towards the far end of -the room where a fifth man had been looking on at their antics from -a high stool. I walked up to him as boldly as if he had been the -devil himself. With one foot raised up and resting on the cross-bar -of his seat he never stopped swinging the other which was well clear -of the stone floor. He had unbuttoned the top of his waistcoat and -he wore his tall hat very far at the back of his head. He had a -full unwrinkled face and such clear-shining eyes that his grey beard -looked quite false on him, stuck on for a disguise. You said just -now he resembled Socrates--didn't you? I don't know about that. -This Socrates was a wise man, I believe?" - -"He was," assented Marlow. "And a true friend of youth. He -lectured them in a peculiarly exasperating manner. It was a way he -had." - -"Then give me Powell every time," declared our new acquaintance -sturdily. "He didn't lecture me in any way. Not he. He said: -'How do you do?' quite kindly to my mumble. Then says he looking -very hard at me: 'I don't think I know you--do I?' - -"No, sir," I said and down went my heart sliding into my boots, just -as the time had come to summon up all my cheek. There's nothing -meaner in the world than a piece of impudence that isn't carried off -well. For fear of appearing shamefaced I started about it so free -and easy as almost to frighten myself. He listened for a while -looking at my face with surprise and curiosity and then held up his -hand. I was glad enough to shut up, I can tell you. - -"Well, you are a cool hand," says he. "And that friend of yours -too. He pestered me coming here every day for a fortnight till a -captain I'm acquainted with was good enough to give him a berth. -And no sooner he's provided for than he turns you on. You -youngsters don't seem to mind whom you get into trouble." - -"It was my turn now to stare with surprise and curiosity. He hadn't -been talking loud but he lowered his voice still more. - -"Don't you know it's illegal?" - -"I wondered what he was driving at till I remembered that procuring -a berth for a sailor is a penal offence under the Act. That clause -was directed of course against the swindling practices of the -boarding-house crimps. It had never struck me it would apply to -everybody alike no matter what the motive, because I believed then -that people on shore did their work with care and foresight. - -"I was confounded at the idea, but Mr. Powell made me soon see that -an Act of Parliament hasn't any sense of its own. It has only the -sense that's put into it; and that's precious little sometimes. He -didn't mind helping a young man to a ship now and then, he said, but -if we kept on coming constantly it would soon get about that he was -doing it for money. - -"A pretty thing that would be: the Senior Shipping-Master of the -Port of London hauled up in a police court and fined fifty pounds," -says he. "I've another four years to serve to get my pension. It -could be made to look very black against me and don't you make any -mistake about it," he says. - -"And all the time with one knee well up he went on swinging his -other leg like a boy on a gate and looking at me very straight with -his shining eyes. I was confounded I tell you. It made me sick to -hear him imply that somebody would make a report against him. - -"Oh!" I asked shocked, "who would think of such a scurvy trick, -sir?" I was half disgusted with him for having the mere notion of -it. - -"Who?" says he, speaking very low. "Anybody. One of the office -messengers maybe. I've risen to be the Senior of this office and we -are all very good friends here, but don't you think that my -colleague that sits next to me wouldn't like to go up to this desk -by the window four years in advance of the regulation time? Or even -one year for that matter. It's human nature." - -"I could not help turning my head. The three fellows who had been -skylarking when I came in were now talking together very soberly, -and the long-necked chap was going on with his writing still. He -seemed to me the most dangerous of the lot. I saw him sideface and -his lips were set very tight. I had never looked at mankind in that -light before. When one's young human nature shocks one. But what -startled me most was to see the door I had come through open slowly -and give passage to a head in a uniform cap with a Board of Trade -badge. It was that blamed old doorkeeper from the hall. He had run -me to earth and meant to dig me out too. He walked up the office -smirking craftily, cap in hand. - -"What is it, Symons?" asked Mr. Powell. - -"I was only wondering where this 'ere gentleman 'ad gone to, sir. -He slipped past me upstairs, sir." - -I felt mighty uncomfortable. - -"That's all right, Symons. I know the gentleman," says Mr. Powell -as serious as a judge. - -"Very well, sir. Of course, sir. I saw the gentleman running races -all by 'isself down 'ere, so I . . ." - -"It's all right I tell you," Mr. Powell cut him short with a wave of -his hand; and, as the old fraud walked off at last, he raised his -eyes to me. I did not know what to do: stay there, or clear out, -or say that I was sorry. - -"Let's see," says he, "what did you tell me your name was?" - -"Now, observe, I hadn't given him my name at all and his question -embarrassed me a bit. Somehow or other it didn't seem proper for me -to fling his own name at him as it were. So I merely pulled out my -new certificate from my pocket and put it into his hand unfolded, so -that he could read CHARLES POWELL written very plain on the -parchment. - -"He dropped his eyes on to it and after a while laid it quietly on -the desk by his side. I didn't know whether he meant to make any -remark on this coincidence. Before he had time to say anything the -glass door came open with a bang and a tall, active man rushed in -with great strides. His face looked very red below his high silk -hat. You could see at once he was the skipper of a big ship. - -"Mr. Powell after telling me in an undertone to wait a little -addressed him in a friendly way. - -"I've been expecting you in every moment to fetch away your -Articles, Captain. Here they are all ready for you." And turning -to a pile of agreements lying at his elbow he took up the topmost of -them. From where I stood I could read the words: "Ship Ferndale" -written in a large round hand on the first page. - -"No, Mr. Powell, they aren't ready, worse luck," says that skipper. -"I've got to ask you to strike out my second officer." He seemed -excited and bothered. He explained that his second mate had been -working on board all the morning. At one o'clock he went out to get -a bit of dinner and didn't turn up at two as he ought to have done. -Instead there came a messenger from the hospital with a note signed -by a doctor. Collar bone and one arm broken. Let himself be -knocked down by a pair horse van while crossing the road outside the -dock gate, as if he had neither eyes nor ears. And the ship ready -to leave the dock at six o'clock to-morrow morning! - -"Mr. Powell dipped his pen and began to turn the leaves of the -agreement over. "We must then take his name off," he says in a kind -of unconcerned sing-song. - -"What am I to do?" burst out the skipper. "This office closes at -four o'clock. I can't find a man in half an hour." - -"This office closes at four," repeats Mr. Powell glancing up and -down the pages and touching up a letter here and there with perfect -indifference. - -"Even if I managed to lay hold some time to-day of a man ready to go -at such short notice I couldn't ship him regularly here--could I?" - -"Mr. Powell was busy drawing his pen through the entries relating to -that unlucky second mate and making a note in the margin. - -"You could sign him on yourself on board," says he without looking -up. "But I don't think you'll find easily an officer for such a -pier-head jump." - -"Upon this the fine-looking skipper gave signs of distress. The -ship mustn't miss the next morning's tide. He had to take on board -forty tons of dynamite and a hundred and twenty tons of gunpowder at -a place down the river before proceeding to sea. It was all -arranged for next day. There would be no end of fuss and -complications if the ship didn't turn up in time . . . I couldn't -help hearing all this, while wishing him to take himself off, -because I wanted to know why Mr. Powell had told me to wait. After -what he had been saying there didn't seem any object in my hanging -about. If I had had my certificate in my pocket I should have tried -to slip away quietly; but Mr. Powell had turned about into the same -position I found him in at first and was again swinging his leg. My -certificate open on the desk was under his left elbow and I couldn't -very well go up and jerk it away. - -"I don't know," says he carelessly, addressing the helpless captain -but looking fixedly at me with an expression as if I hadn't been -there. "I don't know whether I ought to tell you that I know of a -disengaged second mate at hand." - -"Do you mean you've got him here?" shouts the other looking all over -the empty public part of the office as if he were ready to fling -himself bodily upon anything resembling a second mate. He had been -so full of his difficulty that I verify believe he had never noticed -me. Or perhaps seeing me inside he may have thought I was some -understrapper belonging to the place. But when Mr. Powell nodded in -my direction he became very quiet and gave me a long stare. Then he -stooped to Mr. Powell's ear--I suppose he imagined he was -whispering, but I heard him well enough. - -"Looks very respectable." - -"Certainly," says the shipping-master quite calm and staring all the -time at me. "His name's Powell." - -"Oh, I see!" says the skipper as if struck all of a heap. "But is -he ready to join at once?" - -"I had a sort of vision of my lodgings--in the North of London, too, -beyond Dalston, away to the devil--and all my gear scattered about, -and my empty sea-chest somewhere in an outhouse the good people I -was staying with had at the end of their sooty strip of garden. I -heard the Shipping Master say in the coolest sort of way: - -"He'll sleep on board to-night." - -"He had better," says the Captain of the Ferndale very businesslike, -as if the whole thing were settled. I can't say I was dumb for joy -as you may suppose. It wasn't exactly that. I was more by way of -being out of breath with the quickness of it. It didn't seem -possible that this was happening to me. But the skipper, after he -had talked for a while with Mr. Powell, too low for me to hear -became visibly perplexed. - -"I suppose he had heard I was freshly passed and without experience -as an officer, because he turned about and looked me over as if I -had been exposed for sale. - -"He's young," he mutters. "Looks smart, though . . . You're smart -and willing (this to me very sudden and loud) and all that, aren't -you?" - -"I just managed to open and shut my mouth, no more, being taken -unawares. But it was enough for him. He made as if I had deafened -him with protestations of my smartness and willingness. - -"Of course, of course. All right." And then turning to the -Shipping Master who sat there swinging his leg, he said that he -certainly couldn't go to sea without a second officer. I stood by -as if all these things were happening to some other chap whom I was -seeing through with it. Mr. Powell stared at me with those shining -eyes of his. But that bothered skipper turns upon me again as -though he wanted to snap my head off. - -"You aren't too big to be told how to do things--are you? You've a -lot to learn yet though you mayn't think so." - -"I had half a mind to save my dignity by telling him that if it was -my seamanship he was alluding to I wanted him to understand that a -fellow who had survived being turned inside out for an hour and a -half by Captain R- was equal to any demand his old ship was likely -to make on his competence. However he didn't give me a chance to -make that sort of fool of myself because before I could open my -mouth he had gone round on another tack and was addressing himself -affably to Mr. Powell who swinging his leg never took his eyes off -me. - -"I'll take your young friend willingly, Mr. Powell. If you let him -sign on as second-mate at once I'll take the Articles away with me -now." - -"It suddenly dawned upon me that the innocent skipper of the -Ferndale had taken it for granted that I was a relative of the -Shipping Master! I was quite astonished at this discovery, though -indeed the mistake was natural enough under the circumstances. What -I ought to have admired was the reticence with which this -misunderstanding had been established and acted upon. But I was too -stupid then to admire anything. All my anxiety was that this should -be cleared up. I was ass enough to wonder exceedingly at Mr. Powell -failing to notice the misapprehension. I saw a slight twitch come -and go on his face; but instead of setting right that mistake the -Shipping Master swung round on his stool and addressed me as -'Charles.' He did. And I detected him taking a hasty squint at my -certificate just before, because clearly till he did so he was not -sure of my christian name. "Now then come round in front of the -desk, Charles," says he in a loud voice. - -"Charles! At first, I declare to you, it didn't seem possible that -he was addressing himself to me. I even looked round for that -Charles but there was nobody behind me except the thin-necked chap -still hard at his writing, and the other three Shipping Masters who -were changing their coats and reaching for their hats, making ready -to go home. It was the industrious thin-necked man who without -laying down his pen lifted with his left hand a flap near his desk -and said kindly: - -"Pass this way." - -I walked through in a trance, faced Mr. Powell, from whom I learned -that we were bound to Port Elizabeth first, and signed my name on -the Articles of the ship Ferndale as second mate--the voyage not to -exceed two years. - -"You won't fail to join--eh?" says the captain anxiously. "It would -cause no end of trouble and expense if you did. You've got a good -six hours to get your gear together, and then you'll have time to -snatch a sleep on board before the crew joins in the morning." - -"It was easy enough for him to talk of getting ready in six hours -for a voyage that was not to exceed two years. He hadn't to do that -trick himself, and with his sea-chest locked up in an outhouse the -key of which had been mislaid for a week as I remembered. But -neither was I much concerned. The idea that I was absolutely going -to sea at six o'clock next morning hadn't got quite into my head -yet. It had been too sudden. - -"Mr. Powell, slipping the Articles into a long envelope, spoke up -with a sort of cold half-laugh without looking at either of us. - -"Mind you don't disgrace the name, Charles." - -"And the skipper chimes in very kindly: - -"He'll do well enough I dare say. I'll look after him a bit." - -"Upon this he grabs the Articles, says something about trying to run -in for a minute to see that poor devil in the hospital, and off he -goes with his heavy swinging step after telling me sternly: "Don't -you go like that poor fellow and get yourself run over by a cart as -if you hadn't either eyes or ears." - -"Mr. Powell," says I timidly (there was by then only the thin-necked -man left in the office with us and he was already by the door, -standing on one leg to turn the bottom of his trousers up before -going away). "Mr. Powell," says I, "I believe the Captain of the -Ferndale was thinking all the time that I was a relation of yours." - -"I was rather concerned about the propriety of it, you know, but Mr. -Powell didn't seem to be in the least. - -"Did he?" says he. "That's funny, because it seems to me too that -I've been a sort of good uncle to several of you young fellows -lately. Don't you think so yourself? However, if you don't like it -you may put him right--when you get out to sea." At this I felt a -bit queer. Mr. Powell had rendered me a very good service:- because -it's a fact that with us merchant sailors the first voyage as -officer is the real start in life. He had given me no less than -that. I told him warmly that he had done for me more that day than -all my relations put together ever did. - -"Oh, no, no," says he. "I guess it's that shipment of explosives -waiting down the river which has done most for you. Forty tons of -dynamite have been your best friend to-day, young man." - -"That was true too, perhaps. Anyway I saw clearly enough that I had -nothing to thank myself for. But as I tried to thank him, he -checked my stammering. - -"Don't be in a hurry to thank me," says he. "The voyage isn't -finished yet." - -Our new acquaintance paused, then added meditatively: "Queer man. -As if it made any difference. Queer man." - -"It's certainly unwise to admit any sort of responsibility for our -actions, whose consequences we are never able to foresee," remarked -Marlow by way of assent. - -"The consequence of his action was that I got a ship," said the -other. "That could not do much harm," he added with a laugh which -argued a probably unconscious contempt of general ideas. - -But Marlow was not put off. He was patient and reflective. He had -been at sea many years and I verily believe he liked sea-life -because upon the whole it is favourable to reflection. I am -speaking of the now nearly vanished sea-life under sail. To those -who may be surprised at the statement I will point out that this -life secured for the mind of him who embraced it the inestimable -advantages of solitude and silence. Marlow had the habit of -pursuing general ideas in a peculiar manner, between jest and -earnest. - -"Oh, I wouldn't suggest," he said, "that your namesake Mr. Powell, -the Shipping Master, had done you much harm. Such was hardly his -intention. And even if it had been he would not have had the power. -He was but a man, and the incapacity to achieve anything distinctly -good or evil is inherent in our earthly condition. Mediocrity is -our mark. And perhaps it's just as well, since, for the most part, -we cannot be certain of the effect of our actions." - -"I don't know about the effect," the other stood up to Marlow -manfully. "What effect did you expect anyhow? I tell you he did -something uncommonly kind." - -"He did what he could," Marlow retorted gently, "and on his own -showing that was not a very great deal. I cannot help thinking that -there was some malice in the way he seized the opportunity to serve -you. He managed to make you uncomfortable. You wanted to go to -sea, but he jumped at the chance of accommodating your desire with a -vengeance. I am inclined to think your cheek alarmed him. And this -was an excellent occasion to suppress you altogether. For if you -accepted he was relieved of you with every appearance of humanity, -and if you made objections (after requesting his assistance, mind -you) it was open to him to drop you as a sort of impostor. You -might have had to decline that berth for some very valid reason. -From sheer necessity perhaps. The notice was too uncommonly short. -But under the circumstances you'd have covered yourself with -ignominy." - -Our new friend knocked the ashes out of his pipe. - -"Quite a mistake," he said. "I am not of the declining sort, though -I'll admit it was something like telling a man that you would like a -bath and in consequence being instantly knocked overboard to sink or -swim with your clothes on. However, I didn't feel as if I were in -deep water at first. I left the shipping office quietly and for a -time strolled along the street as easy as if I had a week before me -to fit myself out. But by and by I reflected that the notice was -even shorter than it looked. The afternoon was well advanced; I had -some things to get, a lot of small matters to attend to, one or two -persons to see. One of them was an aunt of mine, my only relation, -who quarrelled with poor father as long as he lived about some silly -matter that had neither right nor wrong to it. She left her money -to me when she died. I used always to go and see her for decency's -sake. I had so much to do before night that I didn't know where to -begin. I felt inclined to sit down on the kerb and hold my head in -my hands. It was as if an engine had been started going under my -skull. Finally I sat down in the first cab that came along and it -was a hard matter to keep on sitting there I can tell you, while we -rolled up and down the streets, pulling up here and there, the -parcels accumulating round me and the engine in my head gathering -more way every minute. The composure of the people on the pavements -was provoking to a degree, and as to the people in shops, they were -benumbed, more than half frozen--imbecile. Funny how it affects you -to be in a peculiar state of mind: everybody that does not act up -to your excitement seems so confoundedly unfriendly. And my state -of mind what with the hurry, the worry and a growing exultation was -peculiar enough. That engine in my head went round at its top speed -hour after hour till eleven at about at night it let up on me -suddenly at the entrance to the Dock before large iron gates in a -dead wall." - - -These gates were closed and locked. The cabby, after shooting his -things off the roof of his machine into young Powell's arms, drove -away leaving him alone with his sea-chest, a sail cloth bag and a -few parcels on the pavement about his feet. It was a dark, narrow -thoroughfare he told us. A mean row of houses on the other side -looked empty: there wasn't the smallest gleam of light in them. -The white-hot glare of a gin palace a good way off made the -intervening piece of the street pitch black. Some human shapes -appearing mysteriously, as if they had sprung up from the dark -ground, shunned the edge of the faint light thrown down by the -gateway lamps. These figures were wary in their movements and -perfectly silent of foot, like beasts of prey slinking about a camp -fire. Powell gathered up his belongings and hovered over them like -a hen over her brood. A gruffly insinuating voice said: - -"Let's carry your things in, Capt'in! I've got my pal 'ere." - -He was a tall, bony, grey-haired ruffian with a bulldog jaw, in a -torn cotton shirt and moleskin trousers. The shadow of his -hobnailed boots was enormous and coffinlike. His pal, who didn't -come up much higher than his elbow, stepping forward exhibited a -pale face with a long drooping nose and no chin to speak of. He -seemed to have just scrambled out of a dust-bin in a tam-o'shanter -cap and a tattered soldier's coat much too long for him. Being so -deadly white he looked like a horrible dirty invalid in a ragged -dressing gown. The coat flapped open in front and the rest of his -apparel consisted of one brace which crossed his naked, bony chest, -and a pair of trousers. He blinked rapidly as if dazed by the faint -light, while his patron, the old bandit, glowered at young Powell -from under his beetling brow. - -"Say the word, Capt'in. The bobby'll let us in all right. 'E knows -both of us." - -"I didn't answer him," continued Mr. Powell. "I was listening to -footsteps on the other side of the gate, echoing between the walls -of the warehouses as if in an uninhabited town of very high -buildings dark from basement to roof. You could never have guessed -that within a stone's throw there was an open sheet of water and big -ships lying afloat. The few gas lamps showing up a bit of brick -work here and there, appeared in the blackness like penny dips in a -range of cellars--and the solitary footsteps came on, tramp, tramp. -A dock policeman strode into the light on the other side of the -gate, very broad-chested and stern. - -"Hallo! What's up here?" - -"He was really surprised, but after some palaver he let me in -together with the two loafers carrying my luggage. He grumbled at -them however and slammed the gate violently with a loud clang. I -was startled to discover how many night prowlers had collected in -the darkness of the street in such a short time and without my being -aware of it. Directly we were through they came surging against the -bars, silent, like a mob of ugly spectres. But suddenly, up the -street somewhere, perhaps near that public-house, a row started as -if Bedlam had broken loose: shouts, yells, an awful shrill shriek-- -and at that noise all these heads vanished from behind the bars. - -"Look at this," marvelled the constable. "It's a wonder to me they -didn't make off with your things while you were waiting." - -"I would have taken good care of that," I said defiantly. But the -constable wasn't impressed. - -"Much you would have done. The bag going off round one dark corner; -the chest round another. Would you have run two ways at once? And -anyhow you'd have been tripped up and jumped upon before you had run -three yards. I tell you you've had a most extraordinary chance that -there wasn't one of them regular boys about to-night, in the High -Street, to twig your loaded cab go by. Ted here is honest . . . You -are on the honest lay, Ted, ain't you?" - -"Always was, orficer," said the big ruffian with feeling. The other -frail creature seemed dumb and only hopped about with the edge of -its soldier coat touching the ground. - -"Oh yes, I dare say," said the constable. "Now then, forward, march -. . . He's that because he ain't game for the other thing," he -confided to me. "He hasn't got the nerve for it. However, I ain't -going to lose sight of them two till they go out through the gate. -That little chap's a devil. He's got the nerve for anything, only -he hasn't got the muscle. Well! Well! You've had a chance to get -in with a whole skin and with all your things." - -"I was incredulous a little. It seemed impossible that after -getting ready with so much hurry and inconvenience I should have -lost my chance of a start in life from such a cause. I asked: - -"Does that sort of thing happen often so near the dock gates?" - -"Often! No! Of course not often. But it ain't often either that a -man comes along with a cabload of things to join a ship at this time -of night. I've been in the dock police thirteen years and haven't -seen it done once." - -"Meantime we followed my sea-chest which was being carried down a -sort of deep narrow lane, separating two high warehouses, between -honest Ted and his little devil of a pal who had to keep up a trot -to the other's stride. The skirt of his soldier's coat floating -behind him nearly swept the ground so that he seemed to be running -on castors. At the corner of the gloomy passage a rigged jib boom -with a dolphin-striker ending in an arrow-head stuck out of the -night close to a cast iron lamp-post. It was the quay side. They -set down their load in the light and honest Ted asked hoarsely: - -"Where's your ship, guv'nor?" - -"I didn't know. The constable was interested at my ignorance. - -"Don't know where your ship is?" he asked with curiosity. "And you -the second officer! Haven't you been working on board of her?" - -"I couldn't explain that the only work connected with my appointment -was the work of chance. I told him briefly that I didn't know her -at all. At this he remarked: - -"So I see. Here she is, right before you. That's her." - -"At once the head-gear in the gas light inspired me with interest -and respect; the spars were big, the chains and ropes stout and the -whole thing looked powerful and trustworthy. Barely touched by the -light her bows rose faintly alongside the narrow strip of the quay; -the rest of her was a black smudge in the darkness. Here I was face -to face with my start in life. We walked in a body a few steps on a -greasy pavement between her side and the towering wall of a -warehouse and I hit my shins cruelly against the end of the gangway. -The constable hailed her quietly in a bass undertone 'Ferndale -there!' A feeble and dismal sound, something in the nature of a -buzzing groan, answered from behind the bulwarks. - -"I distinguished vaguely an irregular round knob, of wood, perhaps, -resting on the rail. It did not move in the least; but as another -broken-down buzz like a still fainter echo of the first dismal sound -proceeded from it I concluded it must be the head of the shipkeeper. -The stalwart constable jeered in a mock-official manner. - -"Second officer coming to join. Move yourself a bit." - -"The truth of the statement touched me in the pit of the stomach -(you know that's the spot where emotion gets home on a man) for it -was borne upon me that really and truly I was nothing but a second -officer of a ship just like any other second officer, to that -constable. I was moved by this solid evidence of my new dignity. -Only his tone offended me. Nevertheless I gave him the tip he was -looking for. Thereupon he lost all interest in me, humorous or -otherwise, and walked away driving sternly before him the honest -Ted, who went off grumbling to himself like a hungry ogre, and his -horrible dumb little pal in the soldier's coat, who, from first to -last, never emitted the slightest sound. - -"It was very dark on the quarter deck of the Ferndale between the -deep bulwarks overshadowed by the break of the poop and frowned upon -by the front of the warehouse. I plumped down on to my chest near -the after hatch as if my legs had been jerked from under me. I felt -suddenly very tired and languid. The shipkeeper, whom I could -hardly make out hung over the capstan in a fit of weak pitiful -coughing. He gasped out very low 'Oh! dear! Oh! dear!' and -struggled for breath so long that I got up alarmed and irresolute. - -"I've been took like this since last Christmas twelvemonth. It -ain't nothing." - -"He seemed a hundred years old at least. I never saw him properly -because he was gone ashore and out of sight when I came on deck in -the morning; but he gave me the notion of the feeblest creature that -ever breathed. His voice was thin like the buzzing of a mosquito. -As it would have been cruel to demand assistance from such a shadowy -wreck I went to work myself, dragging my chest along a pitch-black -passage under the poop deck, while he sighed and moaned around me as -if my exertions were more than his weakness could stand. At last as -I banged pretty heavily against the bulkheads he warned me in his -faint breathless wheeze to be more careful. - -"What's the matter?" I asked rather roughly, not relishing to be -admonished by this forlorn broken-down ghost. - -"Nothing! Nothing, sir," he protested so hastily that he lost his -poor breath again and I felt sorry for him. "Only the captain and -his missus are sleeping on board. She's a lady that mustn't be -disturbed. They came about half-past eight, and we had a permit to -have lights in the cabin till ten to-night." - -"This struck me as a considerable piece of news. I had never been -in a ship where the captain had his wife with him. I'd heard -fellows say that captains' wives could work a lot of mischief on -board ship if they happened to take a dislike to anyone; especially -the new wives if young and pretty. The old and experienced wives on -the other hand fancied they knew more about the ship than the -skipper himself and had an eye like a hawk's for what went on. They -were like an extra chief mate of a particularly sharp and unfeeling -sort who made his report in the evening. The best of them were a -nuisance. In the general opinion a skipper with his wife on board -was more difficult to please; but whether to show off his authority -before an admiring female or from loving anxiety for her safety or -simply from irritation at her presence--nobody I ever heard on the -subject could tell for certain. - -"After I had bundled in my things somehow I struck a match and had a -dazzling glimpse of my berth; then I pitched the roll of my bedding -into the bunk but took no trouble to spread it out. I wasn't sleepy -now, neither was I tired. And the thought that I was done with the -earth for many many months to come made me feel very quiet and self- -contained as it were. Sailors will understand what I mean." - -Marlow nodded. "It is a strictly professional feeling," he -commented. "But other professions or trades know nothing of it. It -is only this calling whose primary appeal lies in the suggestion of -restless adventure which holds out that deep sensation to those who -embrace it. It is difficult to define, I admit." - -"I should call it the peace of the sea," said Mr. Charles Powell in -an earnest tone but looking at us as though he expected to be met by -a laugh of derision and were half prepared to salve his reputation -for common sense by joining in it. But neither of us laughed at Mr. -Charles Powell in whose start in life we had been called to take a -part. He was lucky in his audience. - -"A very good name," said Marlow looking at him approvingly. "A -sailor finds a deep feeling of security in the exercise of his -calling. The exacting life of the sea has this advantage over the -life of the earth that its claims are simple and cannot be evaded." - -"Gospel truth," assented Mr. Powell. "No! they cannot be evaded." - -That an excellent understanding should have established itself -between my old friend and our new acquaintance was remarkable -enough. For they were exactly dissimilar--one individuality -projecting itself in length and the other in breadth, which is -already a sufficient ground for irreconcilable difference. Marlow -who was lanky, loose, quietly composed in varied shades of brown -robbed of every vestige of gloss, had a narrow, veiled glance, the -neutral bearing and the secret irritability which go together with a -predisposition to congestion of the liver. The other, compact, -broad and sturdy of limb, seemed extremely full of sound organs -functioning vigorously all the time in order to keep up the -brilliance of his colouring, the light curl of his coal-black hair -and the lustre of his eyes, which asserted themselves roundly in an -open, manly face. Between two such organisms one would not have -expected to find the slightest temperamental accord. But I have -observed that profane men living in ships like the holy men gathered -together in monasteries develop traits of profound resemblance. -This must be because the service of the sea and the service of a -temple are both detached from the vanities and errors of a world -which follows no severe rule. The men of the sea understand each -other very well in their view of earthly things, for simplicity is a -good counsellor and isolation not a bad educator. A turn of mind -composed of innocence and scepticism is common to them all, with the -addition of an unexpected insight into motives, as of disinterested -lookers-on at a game. Mr. Powell took me aside to say, - -"I like the things he says." - -"You understand each other pretty well," I observed. - -"I know his sort," said Powell, going to the window to look at his -cutter still riding to the flood. "He's the sort that's always -chasing some notion or other round and round his head just for the -fun of the thing." - -"Keeps them in good condition," I said. - -"Lively enough I dare say," he admitted. - -"Would you like better a man who let his notions lie curled up?" - -"That I wouldn't," answered our new acquaintance. Clearly he was -not difficult to get on with. "I like him, very well," he -continued, "though it isn't easy to make him out. He seems to be up -to a thing or two. What's he doing?" - -I informed him that our friend Marlow had retired from the sea in a -sort of half-hearted fashion some years ago. - -Mr. Powell's comment was: "Fancied had enough of it?" - -"Fancied's the very word to use in this connection," I observed, -remembering the subtly provisional character of Marlow's long -sojourn amongst us. From year to year he dwelt on land as a bird -rests on the branch of a tree, so tense with the power of brusque -flight into its true element that it is incomprehensible why it -should sit still minute after minute. The sea is the sailor's true -element, and Marlow, lingering on shore, was to me an object of -incredulous commiseration like a bird, which, secretly, should have -lost its faith in the high virtue of flying. - - - -CHAPTER TWO--THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND - - - -We were on our feet in the room by then, and Marlow, brown and -deliberate, approached the window where Mr. Powell and I had -retired. "What was the name of your chance again?" he asked. Mr. -Powell stared for a moment. - -"Oh! The Ferndale. A Liverpool ship. Composite built." - -"Ferndale," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "Ferndale." - -"Know her?" - -"Our friend," I said, "knows something of every ship. He seems to -have gone about the seas prying into things considerably." - -Marlow smiled. - -"I've seen her, at least once." - -"The finest sea-boat ever launched," declared Mr. Powell sturdily. -"Without exception." - -"She looked a stout, comfortable ship," assented Marlow. -"Uncommonly comfortable. Not very fast tho'." - -"She was fast enough for any reasonable man--when I was in her," -growled Mr. Powell with his back to us. - -"Any ship is that--for a reasonable man," generalized Marlow in a -conciliatory tone. "A sailor isn't a globe-trotter." - -"No," muttered Mr. Powell. - -"Time's nothing to him," advanced Marlow. - -"I don't suppose it's much," said Mr. Powell. "All the same a quick -passage is a feather in a man's cap." - -"True. But that ornament is for the use of the master only. And by -the by what was his name?" - -"The master of the Ferndale? Anthony. Captain Anthony." - -"Just so. Quite right," approved Marlow thoughtfully. Our new -acquaintance looked over his shoulder. - -"What do you mean? Why is it more right than if it had been Brown?" - -"He has known him probably," I explained. "Marlow here appears to -know something of every soul that ever went afloat in a sailor's -body." - -Mr. Powell seemed wonderfully amenable to verbal suggestions for -looking again out of the window, he muttered: - -"He was a good soul." - -This clearly referred to Captain Anthony of the Ferndale. Marlow -addressed his protest to me. - -"I did not know him. I really didn't. He was a good soul. That's -nothing very much out of the way--is it? And I didn't even know -that much of him. All I knew of him was an accident called Fyne. - -At this Mr. Powell who evidently could be rebellious too turned his -back squarely on the window. - -"What on earth do you mean?" he asked. "An--accident--called Fyne," -he repeated separating the words with emphasis. - -Marlow was not disconcerted. - -"I don't mean accident in the sense of a mishap. Not in the least. -Fyne was a good little man in the Civil Service. By accident I mean -that which happens blindly and without intelligent design. That's -generally the way a brother-in-law happens into a man's life." - -Marlow's tone being apologetic and our new acquaintance having again -turned to the window I took it upon myself to say: - -"You are justified. There is very little intelligent design in the -majority of marriages; but they are none the worse for that. -Intelligence leads people astray as far as passion sometimes. I -know you are not a cynic." - -Marlow smiled his retrospective smile which was kind as though he -bore no grudge against people he used to know. - -"Little Fyne's marriage was quite successful. There was no design -at all in it. Fyne, you must know, was an enthusiastic pedestrian. -He spent his holidays tramping all over our native land. His tastes -were simple. He put infinite conviction and perseverance into his -holidays. At the proper season you would meet in the fields, Fyne, -a serious-faced, broad-chested, little man, with a shabby knap-sack -on his back, making for some church steeple. He had a horror of -roads. He wrote once a little book called the 'Tramp's Itinerary,' -and was recognised as an authority on the footpaths of England. So -one year, in his favourite over-the-fields, back-way fashion he -entered a pretty Surrey village where he met Miss Anthony. Pure -accident, you see. They came to an understanding, across some -stile, most likely. Little Fyne held very solemn views as to the -destiny of women on this earth, the nature of our sublunary love, -the obligations of this transient life and so on. He probably -disclosed them to his future wife. Miss Anthony's views of life -were very decided too but in a different way. I don't know the -story of their wooing. I imagine it was carried on clandestinely -and, I am certain, with portentous gravity, at the back of copses, -behind hedges . . . - -"Why was it carried on clandestinely?" I inquired. - -"Because of the lady's father. He was a savage sentimentalist who -had his own decided views of his paternal prerogatives. He was a -terror; but the only evidence of imaginative faculty about Fyne was -his pride in his wife's parentage. It stimulated his ingenuity too. -Difficult--is it not?--to introduce one's wife's maiden name into -general conversation. But my simple Fyne made use of Captain -Anthony for that purpose, or else I would never even have heard of -the man. "My wife's sailor-brother" was the phrase. He trotted out -the sailor-brother in a pretty wide range of subjects: Indian and -colonial affairs, matters of trade, talk of travels, of seaside -holidays and so on. Once I remember "My wife's sailor-brother -Captain Anthony" being produced in connection with nothing less -recondite than a sunset. And little Fyne never failed to add "The -son of Carleon Anthony, the poet--you know." He used to lower his -voice for that statement, and people were impressed or pretended to -be." - -The late Carleon Anthony, the poet, sang in his time of the domestic -and social amenities of our age with a most felicitous -versification, his object being, in his own words, "to glorify the -result of six thousand years' evolution towards the refinement of -thought, manners and feelings." Why he fixed the term at six -thousand years I don't know. His poems read like sentimental novels -told in verse of a really superior quality. You felt as if you were -being taken out for a delightful country drive by a charming lady in -a pony carriage. But in his domestic life that same Carleon Anthony -showed traces of the primitive cave-dweller's temperament. He was a -massive, implacable man with a handsome face, arbitrary and exacting -with his dependants, but marvellously suave in his manner to -admiring strangers. These contrasted displays must have been -particularly exasperating to his long-suffering family. After his -second wife's death his boy, whom he persisted by a mere whim in -educating at home, ran away in conventional style and, as if -disgusted with the amenities of civilization, threw himself, -figuratively speaking, into the sea. The daughter (the elder of the -two children) either from compassion or because women are naturally -more enduring, remained in bondage to the poet for several years, -till she too seized a chance of escape by throwing herself into the -arms, the muscular arms, of the pedestrian Fyne. This was either -great luck or great sagacity. A civil servant is, I should imagine, -the last human being in the world to preserve those traits of the -cave-dweller from which she was fleeing. Her father would never -consent to see her after the marriage. Such unforgiving selfishness -is difficult to understand unless as a perverse sort of refinement. -There were also doubts as to Carleon Anthony's complete sanity for -some considerable time before he died. - -Most of the above I elicited from Marlow, for all I knew of Carleon -Anthony was his unexciting but fascinating verse. Marlow assured me -that the Fyne marriage was perfectly successful and even happy, in -an earnest, unplayful fashion, being blessed besides by three -healthy, active, self-reliant children, all girls. They were all -pedestrians too. Even the youngest would wander away for miles if -not restrained. Mrs. Fyne had a ruddy out-of-doors complexion and -wore blouses with a starched front like a man's shirt, a stand-up -collar and a long necktie. Marlow had made their acquaintance one -summer in the country, where they were accustomed to take a cottage -for the holidays . . . - -At this point we were interrupted by Mr. Powell who declared that he -must leave us. The tide was on the turn, he announced coming away -from the window abruptly. He wanted to be on board his cutter -before she swung and of course he would sleep on board. Never slept -away from the cutter while on a cruise. He was gone in a moment, -unceremoniously, but giving us no offence and leaving behind an -impression as though we had known him for a long time. The -ingenuous way he had told us of his start in life had something to -do with putting him on that footing with us. I gave no thought to -seeing him again. - -Marlow expressed a confident hope of coming across him before long. - -"He cruises about the mouth of the river all the summer. He will be -easy to find any week-end," he remarked ringing the bell so that we -might settle up with the waiter. - - -Later on I asked Marlow why he wished to cultivate this chance -acquaintance. He confessed apologetically that it was the commonest -sort of curiosity. I flatter myself that I understand all sorts of -curiosity. Curiosity about daily facts, about daily things, about -daily men. It is the most respectable faculty of the human mind--in -fact I cannot conceive the uses of an incurious mind. It would be -like a chamber perpetually locked up. But in this particular case -Mr. Powell seemed to have given us already a complete insight into -his personality such as it was; a personality capable of perception -and with a feeling for the vagaries of fate, but essentially simple -in itself. - -Marlow agreed with me so far. He explained however that his -curiosity was not excited by Mr. Powell exclusively. It originated -a good way further back in the fact of his accidental acquaintance -with the Fynes, in the country. This chance meeting with a man who -had sailed with Captain Anthony had revived it. It had revived it -to some purpose, to such purpose that to me too was given the -knowledge of its origin and of its nature. It was given to me in -several stages, at intervals which are not indicated here. On this -first occasion I remarked to Marlow with some surprise: - -"But, if I remember rightly you said you didn't know Captain -Anthony." - -"No. I never saw the man. It's years ago now, but I seem to hear -solemn little Fyne's deep voice announcing the approaching visit of -his wife's brother "the son of the poet, you know." He had just -arrived in London from a long voyage, and, directly his occupations -permitted, was coming down to stay with his relatives for a few -weeks. No doubt we two should find many things to talk about by -ourselves in reference to our common calling, added little Fyne -portentously in his grave undertones, as if the Mercantile Marine -were a secret society. - -You must understand that I cultivated the Fynes only in the country, -in their holiday time. This was the third year. Of their existence -in town I knew no more than may be inferred from analogy. I played -chess with Fyne in the late afternoon, and sometimes came over to -the cottage early enough to have tea with the whole family at a big -round table. They sat about it, an unsmiling, sunburnt company of -very few words indeed. Even the children were silent and as if -contemptuous of each other and of their elders. Fyne muttered -sometimes deep down in his chest some insignificant remark. Mrs. -Fyne smiled mechanically (she had splendid teeth) while distributing -tea and bread and butter. A something which was not coldness, nor -yet indifference, but a sort of peculiar self-possession gave her -the appearance of a very trustworthy, very capable and excellent -governess; as if Fyne were a widower and the children not her own -but only entrusted to her calm, efficient, unemotional care. One -expected her to address Fyne as Mr. When she called him John it -surprised one like a shocking familiarity. The atmosphere of that -holiday was--if I may put it so--brightly dull. Healthy faces, fair -complexions, clear eyes, and never a frank smile in the whole lot, -unless perhaps from a girl-friend. - -The girl-friend problem exercised me greatly. How and where the -Fynes got all these pretty creatures to come and stay with them I -can't imagine. I had at first the wild suspicion that they were -obtained to amuse Fyne. But I soon discovered that he could hardly -tell one from the other, though obviously their presence met with -his solemn approval. These girls in fact came for Mrs. Fyne. They -treated her with admiring deference. She answered to some need of -theirs. They sat at her feet. They were like disciples. It was -very curious. Of Fyne they took but scanty notice. As to myself I -was made to feel that I did not exist. - -After tea we would sit down to chess and then Fyne's everlasting -gravity became faintly tinged by an attenuated gleam of something -inward which resembled sly satisfaction. Of the divine frivolity of -laughter he was only capable over a chess-board. Certain positions -of the game struck him as humorous, which nothing else on earth -could do . . . - -"He used to beat you," I asserted with confidence. - -"Yes. He used to beat me," Marlow owned up hastily. - -So he and Fyne played two games after tea. The children romped -together outside, gravely, unplayfully, as one would expect from -Fyne's children, and Mrs. Fyne would be gone to the bottom of the -garden with the girl-friend of the week. She always walked off -directly after tea with her arm round the girl-friend's waist. -Marlow said that there was only one girl-friend with whom he had -conversed at all. It had happened quite unexpectedly, long after he -had given up all hope of getting into touch with these reserved -girl-friends. - -One day he saw a woman walking about on the edge of a high quarry, -which rose a sheer hundred feet, at least, from the road winding up -the hill out of which it had been excavated. He shouted warningly -to her from below where he happened to be passing. She was really -in considerable danger. At the sound of his voice she started back -and retreated out of his sight amongst some young Scotch firs -growing near the very brink of the precipice. - -"I sat down on a bank of grass," Marlow went on. "She had given me -a turn. The hem of her skirt seemed to float over that awful sheer -drop, she was so close to the edge. An absurd thing to do. A -perfectly mad trick--for no conceivable object! I was reflecting on -the foolhardiness of the average girl and remembering some other -instances of the kind, when she came into view walking down the -steep curve of the road. She had Mrs. Fyne's walking-stick and was -escorted by the Fyne dog. Her dead white face struck me with -astonishment, so that I forgot to raise my hat. I just sat and -stared. The dog, a vivacious and amiable animal which for some -inscrutable reason had bestowed his friendship on my unworthy self, -rushed up the bank demonstratively and insinuated himself under my -arm. - -The girl-friend (it was one of them) went past some way as though -she had not seen me, then stopped and called the dog to her several -times; but he only nestled closer to my side, and when I tried to -push him away developed that remarkable power of internal resistance -by which a dog makes himself practically immovable by anything short -of a kick. She looked over her shoulder and her arched eyebrows -frowned above her blanched face. It was almost a scowl. Then the -expression changed. She looked unhappy. "Come here!" she cried -once more in an angry and distressed tone. I took off my hat at -last, but the dog hanging out his tongue with that cheerfully -imbecile expression some dogs know so well how to put on when it -suits their purpose, pretended to be deaf. - -She cried from the distance desperately. - -"Perhaps you will take him to the cottage then. I can't wait." - -"I won't be responsible for that dog," I protested getting down the -bank and advancing towards her. She looked very hurt, apparently by -the desertion of the dog. "But if you let me walk with you he will -follow us all right," I suggested. - -She moved on without answering me. The dog launched himself -suddenly full speed down the road receding from us in a small cloud -of dust. It vanished in the distance, and presently we came up with -him lying on the grass. He panted in the shade of the hedge with -shining eyes but pretended not to see us. We had not exchanged a -word so far. The girl by my side gave him a scornful glance in -passing. - -"He offered to come with me," she remarked bitterly. - -"And then abandoned you!" I sympathized. "It looks very -unchivalrous. But that's merely his want of tact. I believe he -meant to protest against your reckless proceedings. What made you -come so near the edge of that quarry? The earth might have given -way. Haven't you noticed a smashed fir tree at the bottom? Tumbled -over only the other morning after a night's rain." - -"I don't see why I shouldn't be as reckless as I please." - -I was nettled by her brusque manner of asserting her folly, and I -told her that neither did I as far as that went, in a tone which -almost suggested that she was welcome to break her neck for all I -cared. This was considerably more than I meant, but I don't like -rude girls. I had been introduced to her only the day before--at -the round tea-table--and she had barely acknowledged the -introduction. I had not caught her name but I had noticed her fine, -arched eyebrows which, so the physiognomists say, are a sign of -courage. - -I examined her appearance quietly. Her hair was nearly black, her -eyes blue, deeply shaded by long dark eyelashes. She had a little -colour now. She looked straight before her; the corner of her lip -on my side drooped a little; her chin was fine, somewhat pointed. I -went on to say that some regard for others should stand in the way -of one's playing with danger. I urged playfully the distress of the -poor Fynes in case of accident, if nothing else. I told her that -she did not know the bucolic mind. Had she given occasion for a -coroner's inquest the verdict would have been suicide, with the -implication of unhappy love. They would never be able to understand -that she had taken the trouble to climb over two post-and-rail -fences only for the fun of being reckless. Indeed even as I talked -chaffingly I was greatly struck myself by the fact. - -She retorted that once one was dead what horrid people thought of -one did not matter. It was said with infinite contempt; but -something like a suppressed quaver in the voice made me look at her -again. I perceived then that her thick eyelashes were wet. This -surprising discovery silenced me as you may guess. She looked -unhappy. And--I don't know how to say it--well--it suited her. The -clouded brow, the pained mouth, the vague fixed glance! A victim. -And this characteristic aspect made her attractive; an individual -touch--you know. - -The dog had run on ahead and now gazed at us by the side of the -Fyne's garden-gate in a tense attitude and wagging his stumpy tail -very, very slowly, with an air of concentrated attention. The girl- -friend of the Fynes bolted violently through the aforesaid gate and -into the cottage leaving me on the road--astounded. - -A couple of hours afterwards I returned to the cottage for chess as -usual. I saw neither the girl nor Mrs. Fyne then. We had our two -games and on parting I warned Fyne that I was called to town on -business and might be away for some time. He regretted it very -much. His brother-in-law was expected next day but he didn't know -whether he was a chess-player. Captain Anthony ("the son of the -poet--you know") was of a retiring disposition, shy with strangers, -unused to society and very much devoted to his calling, Fyne -explained. All the time they had been married he could be induced -only once before to come and stay with them for a few days. He had -had a rather unhappy boyhood; and it made him a silent man. But no -doubt, concluded Fyne, as if dealing portentously with a mystery, we -two sailors should find much to say to one another. - -This point was never settled. I was detained in town from week to -week till it seemed hardly worth while to go back. But as I had -kept on my rooms in the farm-house I concluded to go down again for -a few days. - -It was late, deep dusk, when I got out at our little country -station. My eyes fell on the unmistakable broad back and the -muscular legs in cycling stockings of little Fyne. He passed along -the carriages rapidly towards the rear of the train, which presently -pulled out and left him solitary at the end of the rustic platform. -When he came back to where I waited I perceived that he was much -perturbed, so perturbed as to forget the convention of the usual -greetings. He only exclaimed Oh! on recognizing me, and stopped -irresolute. When I asked him if he had been expecting somebody by -that train he didn't seem to know. He stammered disconnectedly. I -looked hard at him. To all appearances he was perfectly sober; -moreover to suspect Fyne of a lapse from the proprieties high or -low, great or small, was absurd. He was also a too serious and -deliberate person to go mad suddenly. But as he seemed to have -forgotten that he had a tongue in his head I concluded I would leave -him to his mystery. To my surprise he followed me out of the -station and kept by my side, though I did not encourage him. I did -not however repulse his attempts at conversation. He was no longer -expecting me, he said. He had given me up. The weather had been -uniformly fine--and so on. I gathered also that the son of the poet -had curtailed his stay somewhat and gone back to his ship the day -before. - -That information touched me but little. Believing in heredity in -moderation I knew well how sea-life fashions a man outwardly and -stamps his soul with the mark of a certain prosaic fitness--because -a sailor is not an adventurer. I expressed no regret at missing -Captain Anthony and we proceeded in silence till, on approaching the -holiday cottage, Fyne suddenly and unexpectedly broke it by the -hurried declaration that he would go on with me a little farther. - -"Go with you to your door," he mumbled and started forward to the -little gate where the shadowy figure of Mrs. Fyne hovered, clearly -on the lookout for him. She was alone. The children must have been -already in bed and I saw no attending girl-friend shadow near her -vague but unmistakable form, half-lost in the obscurity of the -little garden. - -I heard Fyne exclaim "Nothing" and then Mrs. Fyne's well-trained, -responsible voice uttered the words, "It's what I have said," with -incisive equanimity. By that time I had passed on, raising my hat. -Almost at once Fyne caught me up and slowed down to my strolling -gait which must have been infinitely irksome to his high pedestrian -faculties. I am sure that all his muscular person must have -suffered from awful physical boredom; but he did not attempt to -charm it away by conversation. He preserved a portentous and dreary -silence. And I was bored too. Suddenly I perceived the menace of -even worse boredom. Yes! He was so silent because he had something -to tell me. - -I became extremely frightened. But man, reckless animal, is so made -that in him curiosity, the paltriest curiosity, will overcome all -terrors, every disgust, and even despair itself. To my laconic -invitation to come in for a drink he answered by a deep, gravely -accented: "Thanks, I will" as though it were a response in church. -His face as seen in the lamplight gave me no clue to the character -of the impending communication; as indeed from the nature of things -it couldn't do, its normal expression being already that of the -utmost possible seriousness. It was perfect and immovable; and for -a certainty if he had something excruciatingly funny to tell me it -would be all the same. - -He gazed at me earnestly and delivered himself of some weighty -remarks on Mrs. Fyne's desire to befriend, counsel, and guide young -girls of all sorts on the path of life. It was a voluntary mission. -He approved his wife's action and also her views and principles in -general. - -All this with a solemn countenance and in deep measured tones. Yet -somehow I got an irresistible conviction that he was exasperated by -something in particular. In the unworthy hope of being amused by -the misfortunes of a fellow-creature I asked him point-blank what -was wrong now. - -What was wrong was that a girl-friend was missing. She had been -missing precisely since six o'clock that morning. The woman who did -the work of the cottage saw her going out at that hour, for a walk. -The pedestrian Fyne's ideas of a walk were extensive, but the girl -did not turn up for lunch, nor yet for tea, nor yet for dinner. She -had not turned up by footpath, road or rail. He had been reluctant -to make inquiries. It would have set all the village talking. The -Fynes had expected her to reappear every moment, till the shades of -the night and the silence of slumber had stolen gradually over the -wide and peaceful rural landscape commanded by the cottage. - -After telling me that much Fyne sat helpless in unconclusive agony. -Going to bed was out of the question--neither could any steps be -taken just then. What to do with himself he did not know! - -I asked him if this was the same young lady I saw a day or two -before I went to town? He really could not remember. Was she a -girl with dark hair and blue eyes? I asked further. He really -couldn't tell what colour her eyes were. He was very unobservant -except as to the peculiarities of footpaths, on which he was an -authority. - -I thought with amazement and some admiration that Mrs. Fyne's young -disciples were to her husband's gravity no more than evanescent -shadows. However, with but little hesitation Fyne ventured to -affirm that--yes, her hair was of some dark shade. - -"We had a good deal to do with that girl first and last," he -explained solemnly; then getting up as if moved by a spring he -snatched his cap off the table. "She may be back in the cottage," -he cried in his bass voice. I followed him out on the road. - -It was one of those dewy, clear, starry nights, oppressing our -spirit, crushing our pride, by the brilliant evidence of the awful -loneliness, of the hopeless obscure insignificance of our globe lost -in the splendid revelation of a glittering, soulless universe. I -hate such skies. Daylight is friendly to man toiling under a sun -which warms his heart; and cloudy soft nights are more kindly to our -littleness. I nearly ran back again to my lighted parlour; Fyne -fussing in a knicker-bocker suit before the hosts of heaven, on a -shadowy earth, about a transient, phantom-like girl, seemed too -ridiculous to associate with. On the other hand there was something -fascinating in the very absurdity. He cut along in his best -pedestrian style and I found myself let in for a spell of severe -exercise at eleven o'clock at night. - -In the distance over the fields and trees smudging and blotching the -vast obscurity, one lighted window of the cottage with the blind up -was like a bright beacon kept alight to guide the lost wanderer. -Inside, at the table bearing the lamp, we saw Mrs. Fyne sitting with -folded arms and not a hair of her head out of place. She looked -exactly like a governess who had put the children to bed; and her -manner to me was just the neutral manner of a governess. To her -husband, too, for that matter. - -Fyne told her that I was fully informed. Not a muscle of her ruddy -smooth handsome face moved. She had schooled herself into that sort -of thing. Having seen two successive wives of the delicate poet -chivied and worried into their graves, she had adopted that cool, -detached manner to meet her gifted father's outbreaks of selfish -temper. It had now become a second nature. I suppose she was -always like that; even in the very hour of elopement with Fyne. -That transaction when one remembered it in her presence acquired a -quaintly marvellous aspect to one's imagination. But somehow her -self-possession matched very well little Fyne's invariable -solemnity. - -I was rather sorry for him. Wasn't he worried! The agony of -solemnity. At the same time I was amused. I didn't take a gloomy -view of that "vanishing girl" trick. Somehow I couldn't. But I -said nothing. None of us said anything. We sat about that big -round table as if assembled for a conference and looked at each -other in a sort of fatuous consternation. I would have ended by -laughing outright if I had not been saved from that impropriety by -poor Fyne becoming preposterous. - -He began with grave anguish to talk of going to the police in the -morning, of printing descriptive bills, of setting people to drag -the ponds for miles around. It was extremely gruesome. I murmured -something about communicating with the young lady's relatives. It -seemed to me a very natural suggestion; but Fyne and his wife -exchanged such a significant glance that I felt as though I had made -a tactless remark. - -But I really wanted to help poor Fyne; and as I could see that, -manlike, he suffered from the present inability to act, the passive -waiting, I said: "Nothing of this can be done till to-morrow. But -as you have given me an insight into the nature of your thoughts I -can tell you what may be done at once. We may go and look at the -bottom of the old quarry which is on the level of the road, about a -mile from here." - -The couple made big eyes at this, and then I told them of my meeting -with the girl. You may be surprised but I assure you I had not -perceived this aspect of it till that very moment. It was like a -startling revelation; the past throwing a sinister light on the -future. Fyne opened his mouth gravely and as gravely shut it. -Nothing more. Mrs. Fyne said, "You had better go," with an air as -if her self-possession had been pricked with a pin in some secret -place. - -And I--you know how stupid I can be at times--I perceived with -dismay for the first time that by pandering to Fyne's morbid fancies -I had let myself in for some more severe exercise. And wasn't I -sorry I spoke! You know how I hate walking--at least on solid, -rural earth; for I can walk a ship's deck a whole foggy night -through, if necessary, and think little of it. There is some -satisfaction too in playing the vagabond in the streets of a big -town till the sky pales above the ridges of the roofs. I have done -that repeatedly for pleasure--of a sort. But to tramp the -slumbering country-side in the dark is for me a wearisome nightmare -of exertion. - -With perfect detachment Mrs. Fyne watched me go out after her -husband. That woman was flint. - - -The fresh night had a smell of soil, of turned-up sods like a grave- --an association particularly odious to a sailor by its idea of -confinement and narrowness; yes, even when he has given up the hope -of being buried at sea; about the last hope a sailor gives up -consciously after he has been, as it does happen, decoyed by some -chance into the toils of the land. A strong grave-like sniff. The -ditch by the side of the road must have been freshly dug in front of -the cottage. - -Once clear of the garden Fyne gathered way like a racing cutter. -What was a mile to him--or twenty miles? You think he might have -gone shrinkingly on such an errand. But not a bit of it. The force -of pedestrian genius I suppose. I raced by his side in a mood of -profound self-derision, and infinitely vexed with that minx. -Because dead or alive I thought of her as a minx . . ." - -I smiled incredulously at Marlow's ferocity; but Marlow pausing with -a whimsically retrospective air, never flinched. - -"Yes, yes. Even dead. And now you are shocked. You see, you are -such a chivalrous masculine beggar. But there is enough of the -woman in my nature to free my judgment of women from glamorous -reticency. And then, why should I upset myself? A woman is not -necessarily either a doll or an angel to me. She is a human being, -very much like myself. And I have come across too many dead souls -lying so to speak at the foot of high unscaleable places for a -merely possible dead body at the bottom of a quarry to strike my -sincerity dumb. - -The cliff-like face of the quarry looked forbiddingly impressive. I -will admit that Fyne and I hung back for a moment before we made a -plunge off the road into the bushes growing in a broad space at the -foot of the towering limestone wall. These bushes were heavy with -dew. There were also concealed mudholes in there. We crept and -tumbled and felt about with our hands along the ground. We got wet, -scratched, and plastered with mire all over our nether garments. -Fyne fell suddenly into a strange cavity--probably a disused lime- -kiln. His voice uplifted in grave distress sounded more than -usually rich, solemn and profound. This was the comic relief of an -absurdly dramatic situation. While hauling him out I permitted -myself to laugh aloud at last. Fyne, of course, didn't. - -I need not tell you that we found nothing after a most conscientious -search. Fyne even pushed his way into a decaying shed half-buried -in dew-soaked vegetation. He struck matches, several of them too, -as if to make absolutely sure that the vanished girl-friend of his -wife was not hiding there. The short flares illuminated his grave, -immovable countenance while I let myself go completely and laughed -in peals. - -I asked him if he really and truly supposed that any sane girl would -go and hide in that shed; and if so why? - -Disdainful of my mirth he merely muttered his basso-profundo -thankfulness that we had not found her anywhere about there. Having -grown extremely sensitive (an effect of irritation) to the -tonalities, I may say, of this affair, I felt that it was only an -imperfect, reserved, thankfulness, with one eye still on the -possibilities of the several ponds in the neighbourhood. And I -remember I snorted, I positively snorted, at that poor Fyne. - -What really jarred upon me was the rate of his walking. Differences -in politics, in ethics and even in aesthetics need not arouse angry -antagonism. One's opinion may change; one's tastes may alter--in -fact they do. One's very conception of virtue is at the mercy of -some felicitous temptation which may be sprung on one any day. All -these things are perpetually on the swing. But a temperamental -difference, temperament being immutable, is the parent of hate. -That's why religious quarrels are the fiercest of all. My -temperament, in matters pertaining to solid land, is the temperament -of leisurely movement, of deliberate gait. And there was that -little Fyne pounding along the road in a most offensive manner; a -man wedded to thick-soled, laced boots; whereas my temperament -demands thin shoes of the lightest kind. Of course there could -never have been question of friendship between us; but under the -provocation of having to keep up with his pace I began to dislike -him actively. I begged sarcastically to know whether he could tell -me if we were engaged in a farce or in a tragedy. I wanted to -regulate my feelings which, I told him, were in an unbecoming state -of confusion. - -But Fyne was as impervious to sarcasm as a turtle. He tramped on, -and all he did was to ejaculate twice out of his deep chest, -vaguely, doubtfully. - -"I am afraid . . . I am afraid! . . . " - -This was tragic. The thump of his boots was the only sound in a -shadowy world. I kept by his side with a comparatively ghostly, -silent tread. By a strange illusion the road appeared to run up -against a lot of low stars at no very great distance, but as we -advanced new stretches of whitey-brown ribbon seemed to come up from -under the black ground. I observed, as we went by, the lamp in my -parlour in the farmhouse still burning. But I did not leave Fyne to -run in and put it out. The impetus of his pedestrian excellence -carried me past in his wake before I could make up my mind. - -"Tell me, Fyne," I cried, "you don't think the girl was mad--do -you?" - -He answered nothing. Soon the lighted beacon-like window of the -cottage came into view. Then Fyne uttered a solemn: "Certainly -not," with profound assurance. But immediately after he added a -"Very highly strung young person indeed," which unsettled me again. -Was it a tragedy? - -"Nobody ever got up at six o'clock in the morning to commit -suicide," I declared crustily. "It's unheard of! This is a farce." - -As a matter of fact it was neither farce nor tragedy. - -Coming up to the cottage we had a view of Mrs. Fyne inside still -sitting in the strong light at the round table with folded arms. It -looked as though she had not moved her very head by as much as an -inch since we went away. She was amazing in a sort of unsubtle way; -crudely amazing--I thought. Why crudely? I don't know. Perhaps -because I saw her then in a crude light. I mean this materially--in -the light of an unshaded lamp. Our mental conclusions depend so -much on momentary physical sensations--don't they? If the lamp had -been shaded I should perhaps have gone home after expressing -politely my concern at the Fynes' unpleasant predicament. - -Losing a girl-friend in that manner is unpleasant. It is also -mysterious. So mysterious that a certain mystery attaches to the -people to whom such a thing does happen. Moreover I had never -really understood the Fynes; he with his solemnity which extended to -the very eating of bread and butter; she with that air of detachment -and resolution in breasting the common-place current of their -unexciting life, in which the cutting of bread and butter appeared -to me, by a long way, the most dangerous episode. Sometimes I -amused myself by supposing that to their minds this world of ours -must be wearing a perfectly overwhelming aspect, and that their -heads contained respectively awfully serious and extremely desperate -thoughts--and trying to imagine what an exciting time they must be -having of it in the inscrutable depths of their being. This last -was difficult to a volatile person (I am sure that to the Fynes I -was a volatile person) and the amusement in itself was not very -great; but still--in the country--away from all mental stimulants! . -. . My efforts had invested them with a sort of amusing profundity. - -But when Fyne and I got back into the room, then in the searching, -domestic, glare of the lamp, inimical to the play of fancy, I saw -these two stripped of every vesture it had amused me to put on them -for fun. Queer enough they were. Is there a human being that isn't -that--more or less secretly? But whatever their secret, it was -manifest to me that it was neither subtle nor profound. They were a -good, stupid, earnest couple and very much bothered. They were -that--with the usual unshaded crudity of average people. There was -nothing in them that the lamplight might not touch without the -slightest risk of indiscretion. - -Directly we had entered the room Fyne announced the result by saying -"Nothing" in the same tone as at the gate on his return from the -railway station. And as then Mrs. Fyne uttered an incisive "It's -what I've said," which might have been the veriest echo of her words -in the garden. We three looked at each other as if on the brink of -a disclosure. I don't know whether she was vexed at my presence. -It could hardly be called intrusion--could it? Little Fyne began -it. It had to go on. We stood before her, plastered with the same -mud (Fyne was a sight!), scratched by the same brambles, conscious -of the same experience. Yes. Before her. And she looked at us -with folded arms, with an extraordinary fulness of assumed -responsibility. I addressed her. - -"You don't believe in an accident, Mrs. Fyne, do you?" - -She shook her head in curt negation while, caked in mud and -inexpressibly serious-faced, Fyne seemed to be backing her up with -all the weight of his solemn presence. Nothing more absurd could be -conceived. It was delicious. And I went on in deferential accents: -"Am I to understand then that you entertain the theory of suicide?" - -I don't know that I am liable to fits of delirium but by a sudden -and alarming aberration while waiting for her answer I became -mentally aware of three trained dogs dancing on their hind legs. I -don't know why. Perhaps because of the pervading solemnity. -There's nothing more solemn on earth than a dance of trained dogs. - -"She has chosen to disappear. That's all." - -In these words Mrs. Fyne answered me. The aggressive tone was too -much for my endurance. In an instant I found myself out of the -dance and down on all-fours so to speak, with liberty to bark and -bite. - -"The devil she has," I cried. "Has chosen to . . . Like this, all -at once, anyhow, regardless . . . I've had the privilege of meeting -that reckless and brusque young lady and I must say that with her -air of an angry victim . . . " - -"Precisely," Mrs. Fyne said very unexpectedly like a steel trap -going off. I stared at her. How provoking she was! So I went on -to finish my tirade. "She struck me at first sight as the most -inconsiderate wrong-headed girl that I ever . . . " - -"Why should a girl be more considerate than anyone else? More than -any man, for instance?" inquired Mrs. Fyne with a still greater -assertion of responsibility in her bearing. - -Of course I exclaimed at this, not very loudly it is true, but -forcibly. Were then the feelings of friends, relations and even of -strangers to be disregarded? I asked Mrs. Fyne if she did not think -it was a sort of duty to show elementary consideration not only for -the natural feelings but even for the prejudices of one's fellow- -creatures. - -Her answer knocked me over. - -"Not for a woman." - -Just like that. I confess that I went down flat. And while in that -collapsed state I learned the true nature of Mrs. Fyne's feminist -doctrine. It was not political, it was not social. It was a knock- -me-down doctrine--a practical individualistic doctrine. You would -not thank me for expounding it to you at large. Indeed I think that -she herself did not enlighten me fully. There must have been things -not fit for a man to hear. But shortly, and as far as my -bewilderment allowed me to grasp its naive atrociousness, it was -something like this: that no consideration, no delicacy, no -tenderness, no scruples should stand in the way of a woman (who by -the mere fact of her sex was the predestined victim of conditions -created by men's selfish passions, their vices and their abominable -tyranny) from taking the shortest cut towards securing for herself -the easiest possible existence. She had even the right to go out of -existence without considering anyone's feelings or convenience since -some women's existences were made impossible by the shortsighted -baseness of men. - -I looked at her, sitting before the lamp at one o'clock in the -morning, with her mature, smooth-cheeked face of masculine shape -robbed of its freshness by fatigue; at her eyes dimmed by this -senseless vigil. I looked also at Fyne; the mud was drying on him; -he was obviously tired. The weariness of solemnity. But he -preserved an unflinching, endorsing, gravity of expression. -Endorsing it all as became a good, convinced husband. - -"Oh! I see," I said. "No consideration . . . Well I hope you like -it." - -They amused me beyond the wildest imaginings of which I was capable. -After the first shock, you understand, I recovered very quickly. -The order of the world was safe enough. He was a civil servant and -she his good and faithful wife. But when it comes to dealing with -human beings anything, anything may be expected. So even my -astonishment did not last very long. How far she developed and -illustrated that conscienceless and austere doctrine to the girl- -friends, who were mere transient shadows to her husband, I could not -tell. Any length I supposed. And he looked on, acquiesced, -approved, just for that very reason--because these pretty girls were -but shadows to him. O! Most virtuous Fyne! He cast his eyes down. -He didn't like it. But I eyed him with hidden animosity for he had -got me to run after him under somewhat false pretences. - -Mrs. Fyne had only smiled at me very expressively, very self- -confidently. "Oh I quite understand that you accept the fullest -responsibility," I said. "I am the only ridiculous person in this-- -this--I don't know how to call it--performance. However, I've -nothing more to do here, so I'll say good-night--or good morning, -for it must be past one." - -But before departing, in common decency, I offered to take any wires -they might write. My lodgings were nearer the post-office than the -cottage and I would send them off the first thing in the morning. I -supposed they would wish to communicate, if only as to the disposal -of the luggage, with the young lady's relatives . . . - -Fyne, he looked rather downcast by then, thanked me and declined. - -"There is really no one," he said, very grave. - -"No one," I exclaimed. - -"Practically," said curt Mrs. Fyne. - -And my curiosity was aroused again. - -"Ah! I see. An orphan." - -Mrs. Fyne looked away weary and sombre, and Fyne said "Yes" -impulsively, and then qualified the affirmative by the quaint -statement: "To a certain extent." - -I became conscious of a languid, exhausted embarrassment, bowed to -Mrs. Fyne, and went out of the cottage to be confronted outside its -door by the bespangled, cruel revelation of the Immensity of the -Universe. The night was not sufficiently advanced for the stars to -have paled; and the earth seemed to me more profoundly asleep-- -perhaps because I was alone now. Not having Fyne with me to set the -pace I let myself drift, rather than walk, in the direction of the -farmhouse. To drift is the only reposeful sort of motion (ask any -ship if it isn't) and therefore consistent with thoughtfulness. And -I pondered: How is one an orphan "to a certain extent"? - -No amount of solemnity could make such a statement other than -bizarre. What a strange condition to be in. Very likely one of the -parents only was dead? But no; it couldn't be, since Fyne had said -just before that "there was really no one" to communicate with. No -one! And then remembering Mrs. Fyne's snappy "Practically" my -thoughts fastened upon that lady as a more tangible object of -speculation. - -I wondered--and wondering I doubted--whether she really understood -herself the theory she had propounded to me. Everything may be -said--indeed ought to be said--providing we know how to say it. She -probably did not. She was not intelligent enough for that. She had -no knowledge of the world. She had got hold of words as a child -might get hold of some poisonous pills and play with them for "dear, -tiny little marbles." No! The domestic-slave daughter of Carleon -Anthony and the little Fyne of the Civil Service (that flower of -civilization) were not intelligent people. They were commonplace, -earnest, without smiles and without guile. But he had his -solemnities and she had her reveries, her lurid, violent, crude -reveries. And I thought with some sadness that all these revolts -and indignations, all these protests, revulsions of feeling, pangs -of suffering and of rage, expressed but the uneasiness of sensual -beings trying for their share in the joys of form, colour, -sensations--the only riches of our world of senses. A poet may be a -simple being but he is bound to be various and full of wiles, -ingenious and irritable. I reflected on the variety of ways the -ingenuity of the late bard of civilization would be able to invent -for the tormenting of his dependants. Poets not being generally -foresighted in practical affairs, no vision of consequences would -restrain him. Yes. The Fynes were excellent people, but Mrs. Fyne -wasn't the daughter of a domestic tyrant for nothing. There were no -limits to her revolt. But they were excellent people. It was clear -that they must have been extremely good to that girl whose position -in the world seemed somewhat difficult, with her face of a victim, -her obvious lack of resignation and the bizarre status of orphan "to -a certain extent." - -Such were my thoughts, but in truth I soon ceased to trouble about -all these people. I found that my lamp had gone out leaving behind -an awful smell. I fled from it up the stairs and went to bed in the -dark. My slumbers--I suppose the one good in pedestrian exercise, -confound it, is that it helps our natural callousness--my slumbers -were deep, dreamless and refreshing. - -My appetite at breakfast was not affected by my ignorance of the -facts, motives, events and conclusions. I think that to understand -everything is not good for the intellect. A well-stocked -intelligence weakens the impulse to action; an overstocked one leads -gently to idiocy. But Mrs. Fyne's individualist woman-doctrine, -naively unscrupulous, flitted through my mind. The salad of -unprincipled notions she put into these girl-friends' heads! Good -innocent creature, worthy wife, excellent mother (of the strict -governess type), she was as guileless of consequences as any -determinist philosopher ever was. - -As to honour--you know--it's a very fine medieval inheritance which -women never got hold of. It wasn't theirs. Since it may be laid as -a general principle that women always get what they want we must -suppose they didn't want it. In addition they are devoid of -decency. I mean masculine decency. Cautiousness too is foreign to -them--the heavy reasonable cautiousness which is our glory. And if -they had it they would make of it a thing of passion, so that its -own mother--I mean the mother of cautiousness--wouldn't recognize -it. Prudence with them is a matter of thrill like the rest of -sublunary contrivances. "Sensation at any cost," is their secret -device. All the virtues are not enough for them; they want also all -the crimes for their own. And why? Because in such completeness -there is power--the kind of thrill they love most . . . " - -"Do you expect me to agree to all this?" I interrupted. - -"No, it isn't necessary," said Marlow, feeling the check to his -eloquence but with a great effort at amiability. "You need not even -understand it. I continue: with such disposition what prevents -women--to use the phrase an old boatswain of my acquaintance applied -descriptively to his captain--what prevents them from "coming on -deck and playing hell with the ship" generally, is that something in -them precise and mysterious, acting both as restraint and as -inspiration; their femininity in short which they think they can get -rid of by trying hard, but can't, and never will. Therefore we may -conclude that, for all their enterprises, the world is and remains -safe enough. Feeling, in my character of a lover of peace, soothed -by that conclusion I prepared myself to enjoy a fine day. - -And it was a fine day; a delicious day, with the horror of the -Infinite veiled by the splendid tent of blue; a day innocently -bright like a child with a washed face, fresh like an innocent young -girl, suave in welcoming one's respects like--like a Roman prelate. -I love such days. They are perfection for remaining indoors. And I -enjoyed it temperamentally in a chair, my feet up on the sill of the -open window, a book in my hands and the murmured harmonies of wind -and sun in my heart making an accompaniment to the rhythms of my -author. Then looking up from the page I saw outside a pair of grey -eyes thatched by ragged yellowy-white eyebrows gazing at me solemnly -over the toes of my slippers. There was a grave, furrowed brow -surmounting that portentous gaze, a brown tweed cap set far back on -the perspiring head. - -"Come inside," I cried as heartily as my sinking heart would permit. - -After a short but severe scuffle with his dog at the outer door, -Fyne entered. I treated him without ceremony and only waved my hand -towards a chair. Even before he sat down he gasped out: - -"We've heard--midday post." - -Gasped out! The grave, immovable Fyne of the Civil Service, gasped! -This was enough, you'll admit, to cause me to put my feet to the -ground swiftly. That fellow was always making me do things in -subtle discord with my meditative temperament. No wonder that I had -but a qualified liking for him. I said with just a suspicion of -jeering tone: - -"Of course. I told you last night on the road that it was a farce -we were engaged in." - -He made the little parlour resound to its foundations with a note of -anger positively sepulchral in its depth of tone. "Farce be hanged! -She has bolted with my wife's brother, Captain Anthony." This -outburst was followed by complete subsidence. He faltered miserably -as he added from force of habit: "The son of the poet, you know." - -A silence fell. Fyne's several expressions were so many examples of -varied consistency. This was the discomfiture of solemnity. My -interest of course was revived. - -"But hold on," I said. "They didn't go together. Is it a suspicion -or does she actually say that . . . " - -"She has gone after him," stated Fyne in comminatory tones. "By -previous arrangement. She confesses that much." - -He added that it was very shocking. I asked him whether he should -have preferred them going off together; and on what ground he based -that preference. This was sheer fun for me in regard of the fact -that Fyne's too was a runaway match, which even got into the papers -in its time, because the late indignant poet had no discretion and -sought to avenge this outrage publicly in some absurd way before a -bewigged judge. The dejected gesture of little Fyne's hand disarmed -my mocking mood. But I could not help expressing my surprise that -Mrs. Fyne had not detected at once what was brewing. Women were -supposed to have an unerring eye. - -He told me that his wife had been very much engaged in a certain -work. I had always wondered how she occupied her time. It was in -writing. Like her husband she too published a little book. Much -later on I came upon it. It had nothing to do with pedestrianism. -It was a sort of hand-book for women with grievances (and all women -had them), a sort of compendious theory and practice of feminine -free morality. It made you laugh at its transparent simplicity. -But that authorship was revealed to me much later. I didn't of -course ask Fyne what work his wife was engaged on; but I marvelled -to myself at her complete ignorance of the world, of her own sex and -of the other kind of sinners. Yet, where could she have got any -experience? Her father had kept her strictly cloistered. Marriage -with Fyne was certainly a change but only to another kind of -claustration. You may tell me that the ordinary powers of -observation ought to have been enough. Why, yes! But, then, as she -had set up for a guide and teacher, there was nothing surprising for -me in the discovery that she was blind. That's quite in order. She -was a profoundly innocent person; only it would not have been proper -to tell her husband so. - - - -CHAPTER THREE--THRIFT--AND THE CHILD - - - -But there was nothing improper in my observing to Fyne that, last -night, Mrs. Fyne seemed to have some idea where that enterprising -young lady had gone to. Fyne shook his head. No; his wife had been -by no means so certain as she had pretended to be. She merely had -her reasons to think, to hope, that the girl might have taken a room -somewhere in London, had buried herself in town--in readiness or -perhaps in horror of the approaching day - - -He ceased and sat solemnly dejected, in a brown study. "What day?" -I asked at last; but he did not hear me apparently. He diffused -such portentous gloom into the atmosphere that I lost patience with -him. - -"What on earth are you so dismal about?" I cried, being genuinely -surprised and puzzled. "One would think the girl was a state -prisoner under your care." - -And suddenly I became still more surprised at myself, at the way I -had somehow taken for granted things which did appear queer when one -thought them out. - -"But why this secrecy? Why did they elope--if it is an elopement? -Was the girl afraid of your wife? And your brother-in-law? What on -earth possesses him to make a clandestine match of it? Was he -afraid of your wife too?" - -Fyne made an effort to rouse himself. - -"Of course my brother-in-law, Captain Anthony, the son of . . . " -He checked himself as if trying to break a bad habit. "He would be -persuaded by her. We have been most friendly to the girl!" - -"She struck me as a foolish and inconsiderate little person. But -why should you and your wife take to heart so strongly mere folly-- -or even a want of consideration?" - -"It's the most unscrupulous action," declared Fyne weightily--and -sighed. - -"I suppose she is poor," I observed after a short silence. "But -after all . . . " - -"You don't know who she is." Fyne had regained his average -solemnity. - -I confessed that I had not caught her name when his wife had -introduced us to each other. "It was something beginning with an S- -wasn't it?" And then with the utmost coolness Fyne remarked that it -did not matter. The name was not her name. - -"Do you mean to say that you made a young lady known to me under a -false name?" I asked, with the amused feeling that the days of -wonders and portents had not passed away yet. That the eminently -serious Fynes should do such an exceptional thing was simply -staggering. With a more hasty enunciation than usual little Fyne -was sure that I would not demand an apology for this irregularity if -I knew what her real name was. A sort of warmth crept into his deep -tone. - -"We have tried to befriend that girl in every way. She is the -daughter and only child of de Barral." - -Evidently he expected to produce a sensation; he kept his eyes fixed -upon me prepared for some sign of it. But I merely returned his -intense, awaiting gaze. For a time we stared at each other. -Conscious of being reprehensibly dense I groped in the darkness of -my mind: De Barral, De Barral--and all at once noise and light -burst on me as if a window of my memory had been suddenly flung open -on a street in the City. De Barral! But could it be the same? -Surely not! - -"The financier?" I suggested half incredulous. - -"Yes," said Fyne; and in this instance his native solemnity of tone -seemed to be strangely appropriate. "The convict." - -Marlow looked at me, significantly, and remarked in an explanatory -tone: - -"One somehow never thought of de Barral as having any children, or -any other home than the offices of the "Orb"; or any other -existence, associations or interests than financial. I see you -remember the crash . . . " - -"I was away in the Indian Seas at the time," I said. "But of -course--" - -"Of course," Marlow struck in. "All the world . . . You may wonder -at my slowness in recognizing the name. But you know that my memory -is merely a mausoleum of proper names. There they lie inanimate, -awaiting the magic touch--and not very prompt in arising when -called, either. The name is the first thing I forget of a man. It -is but just to add that frequently it is also the last, and this -accounts for my possession of a good many anonymous memories. In de -Barral's case, he got put away in my mausoleum in company with so -many names of his own creation that really he had to throw off a -monstrous heap of grisly bones before he stood before me at the call -of the wizard Fyne. The fellow had a pretty fancy in names: the -"Orb" Deposit Bank, the "Sceptre" Mutual Aid Society, the "Thrift -and Independence" Association. Yes, a very pretty taste in names; -and nothing else besides--absolutely nothing--no other merit. Well -yes. He had another name, but that's pure luck--his own name of de -Barral which he did not invent. I don't think that a mere Jones or -Brown could have fished out from the depths of the Incredible such a -colossal manifestation of human folly as that man did. But it may -be that I am underestimating the alacrity of human folly in rising -to the bait. No doubt I am. The greed of that absurd monster is -incalculable, unfathomable, inconceivable. The career of de Barral -demonstrates that it will rise to a naked hook. He didn't lure it -with a fairy tale. He hadn't enough imagination for it . . . " - -"Was he a foreigner?" I asked. "It's clearly a French name. I -suppose it WAS his name?" - -"Oh, he didn't invent it. He was born to it, in Bethnal Green, as -it came out during the proceedings. He was in the habit of alluding -to his Scotch connections. But every great man has done that. The -mother, I believe, was Scotch, right enough. The father de Barral -whatever his origins retired from the Customs Service (tide-waiter I -think), and started lending money in a very, very small way in the -East End to people connected with the docks, stevedores, minor -barge-owners, ship-chandlers, tally clerks, all sorts of very small -fry. He made his living at it. He was a very decent man I believe. -He had enough influence to place his only son as junior clerk in the -account department of one of the Dock Companies. "Now, my boy," he -said to him, "I've given you a fine start." But de Barral didn't -start. He stuck. He gave perfect satisfaction. At the end of -three years he got a small rise of salary and went out courting in -the evenings. He went courting the daughter of an old sea-captain -who was a churchwarden of his parish and lived in an old badly -preserved Georgian house with a garden: one of these houses -standing in a reduced bit of "grounds" that you discover in a -labyrinth of the most sordid streets, exactly alike and composed of -six-roomed hutches. - -Some of them were the vicarages of slum parishes. The old sailor -had got hold of one cheap, and de Barral got hold of his daughter-- -which was a good bargain for him. The old sailor was very good to -the young couple and very fond of their little girl. Mrs. de Barral -was an equable, unassuming woman, at that time with a fund of simple -gaiety, and with no ambitions; but, woman-like, she longed for -change and for something interesting to happen now and then. It was -she who encouraged de Barral to accept the offer of a post in the -west-end branch of a great bank. It appears he shrank from such a -great adventure for a long time. At last his wife's arguments -prevailed. Later on she used to say: 'It's the only time he ever -listened to me; and I wonder now if it hadn't been better for me to -die before I ever made him go into that bank.' - -You may be surprised at my knowledge of these details. Well, I had -them ultimately from Mrs. Fyne. Mrs. Fyne while yet Miss Anthony, -in her days of bondage, knew Mrs. de Barral in her days of exile. -Mrs. de Barral was living then in a big stone mansion with mullioned -windows in a large damp park, called the Priory, adjoining the -village where the refined poet had built himself a house. - -These were the days of de Barral's success. He had bought the place -without ever seeing it and had packed off his wife and child at once -there to take possession. He did not know what to do with them in -London. He himself had a suite of rooms in an hotel. He gave there -dinner parties followed by cards in the evening. He had developed -the gambling passion--or else a mere card mania--but at any rate he -played heavily, for relaxation, with a lot of dubious hangers on. - -Meantime Mrs. de Barral, expecting him every day, lived at the -Priory, with a carriage and pair, a governess for the child and many -servants. The village people would see her through the railings -wandering under the trees with her little girl lost in her strange -surroundings. Nobody ever came near her. And there she died as -some faithful and delicate animals die--from neglect, absolutely -from neglect, rather unexpectedly and without any fuss. The village -was sorry for her because, though obviously worried about something, -she was good to the poor and was always ready for a chat with any of -the humble folks. Of course they knew that she wasn't a lady--not -what you would call a real lady. And even her acquaintance with -Miss Anthony was only a cottage-door, a village-street acquaintance. -Carleon Anthony was a tremendous aristocrat (his father had been a -"restoring" architect) and his daughter was not allowed to associate -with anyone but the county young ladies. Nevertheless in defiance -of the poet's wrathful concern for undefiled refinement there were -some quiet, melancholy strolls to and fro in the great avenue of -chestnuts leading to the park-gate, during which Mrs. de Barral came -to call Miss Anthony 'my dear'--and even 'my poor dear.' The lonely -soul had no one to talk to but that not very happy girl. The -governess despised her. The housekeeper was distant in her manner. -Moreover Mrs. de Barral was no foolish gossiping woman. But she -made some confidences to Miss Anthony. Such wealth was a terrific -thing to have thrust upon one she affirmed. Once she went so far as -to confess that she was dying with anxiety. Mr. de Barral (so she -referred to him) had been an excellent husband and an exemplary -father but "you see my dear I have had a great experience of him. I -am sure he won't know what to do with all that money people are -giving to him to take care of for them. He's as likely as not to do -something rash. When he comes here I must have a good long serious -talk with him, like the talks we often used to have together in the -good old times of our life." And then one day a cry of anguish was -wrung from her: 'My dear, he will never come here, he will never, -never come!' - -She was wrong. He came to the funeral, was extremely cut up, and -holding the child tightly by the hand wept bitterly at the side of -the grave. Miss Anthony, at the cost of a whole week of sneers and -abuse from the poet, saw it all with her own eyes. De Barral clung -to the child like a drowning man. He managed, though, to catch the -half-past five fast train, travelling to town alone in a reserved -compartment, with all the blinds down . . . " - -"Leaving the child?" I said interrogatively. - -"Yes. Leaving . . . He shirked the problem. He was born that way. -He had no idea what to do with her or for that matter with anything -or anybody including himself. He bolted back to his suite of rooms -in the hotel. He was the most helpless . . . She might have been -left in the Priory to the end of time had not the high-toned -governess threatened to send in her resignation. She didn't care -for the child a bit, and the lonely, gloomy Priory had got on her -nerves. She wasn't going to put up with such a life and, having -just come out of some ducal family, she bullied de Barral in a very -lofty fashion. To pacify her he took a splendidly furnished house -in the most expensive part of Brighton for them, and now and then -ran down for a week-end, with a trunk full of exquisite sweets and -with his hat full of money. The governess spent it for him in extra -ducal style. She was nearly forty and harboured a secret taste for -patronizing young men of sorts--of a certain sort. But of that Mrs. -Fyne of course had no personal knowledge then; she told me however -that even in the Priory days she had suspected her of being an -artificial, heartless, vulgar-minded woman with the lowest possible -ideals. But de Barral did not know it. He literally did not know -anything . . . " - -"But tell me, Marlow," I interrupted, "how do you account for this -opinion? He must have been a personality in a sense--in some one -sense surely. You don't work the greatest material havoc of a -decade at least, in a commercial community, without having something -in you." - -Marlow shook his head. - -"He was a mere sign, a portent. There was nothing in him. Just -about that time the word Thrift was to the fore. You know the power -of words. We pass through periods dominated by this or that word-- -it may be development, or it may be competition, or education, or -purity or efficiency or even sanctity. It is the word of the time. -Well just then it was the word Thrift which was out in the streets -walking arm in arm with righteousness, the inseparable companion and -backer up of all such national catch-words, looking everybody in the -eye as it were. The very drabs of the pavement, poor things, didn't -escape the fascination . . . However! . . . Well the greatest -portion of the press were screeching in all possible tones, like a -confounded company of parrots instructed by some devil with a taste -for practical jokes, that the financier de Barral was helping the -great moral evolution of our character towards the newly-discovered -virtue of Thrift. He was helping it by all these great -establishments of his, which made the moral merits of Thrift -manifest to the most callous hearts, simply by promising to pay ten -per cent. interest on all deposits. And you didn't want necessarily -to belong to the well-to-do classes in order to participate in the -advantages of virtue. If you had but a spare sixpence in the world -and went and gave it to de Barral it was Thrift! It's quite likely -that he himself believed it. He must have. It's inconceivable that -he alone should stand out against the infatuation of the whole -world. He hadn't enough intelligence for that. But to look at him -one couldn't tell . . . " - -"You did see him then?" I said with some curiosity. - -"I did. Strange, isn't it? It was only once, but as I sat with the -distressed Fyne who had suddenly resuscitated his name buried in my -memory with other dead labels of the past, I may say I saw him -again, I saw him with great vividness of recollection, as he -appeared in the days of his glory or splendour. No! Neither of -these words will fit his success. There was never any glory or -splendour about that figure. Well, let us say in the days when he -was, according to the majority of the daily press, a financial force -working for the improvement of the character of the people. I'll -tell you how it came about. - -At that time I used to know a podgy, wealthy, bald little man having -chambers in the Albany; a financier too, in his way, carrying out -transactions of an intimate nature and of no moral character; mostly -with young men of birth and expectations--though I dare say he -didn't withhold his ministrations from elderly plebeians either. He -was a true democrat; he would have done business (a sharp kind of -business) with the devil himself. Everything was fly that came into -his web. He received the applicants in an alert, jovial fashion -which was quite surprising. It gave relief without giving too much -confidence, which was just as well perhaps. His business was -transacted in an apartment furnished like a drawing-room, the walls -hung with several brown, heavily-framed, oil paintings. I don't -know if they were good, but they were big, and with their elaborate, -tarnished gilt-frames had a melancholy dignity. The man himself sat -at a shining, inlaid writing table which looked like a rare piece -from a museum of art; his chair had a high, oval, carved back, -upholstered in faded tapestry; and these objects made of the costly -black Havana cigar, which he rolled incessantly from the middle to -the left corner of his mouth and back again, an inexpressibly cheap -and nasty object. I had to see him several times in the interest of -a poor devil so unlucky that he didn't even have a more competent -friend than myself to speak for him at a very difficult time in his -life. - -I don't know at what hour my private financier began his day, but he -used to give one appointments at unheard of times: such as a -quarter to eight in the morning, for instance. On arriving one -found him busy at that marvellous writing table, looking very fresh -and alert, exhaling a faint fragrance of scented soap and with the -cigar already well alight. You may believe that I entered on my -mission with many unpleasant forebodings; but there was in that fat, -admirably washed, little man such a profound contempt for mankind -that it amounted to a species of good nature; which, unlike the milk -of genuine kindness, was never in danger of turning sour. Then, -once, during a pause in business, while we were waiting for the -production of a document for which he had sent (perhaps to the -cellar?) I happened to remark, glancing round the room, that I had -never seen so many fine things assembled together out of a -collection. Whether this was unconscious diplomacy on my part, or -not, I shouldn't like to say--but the remark was true enough, and it -pleased him extremely. "It IS a collection," he said emphatically. -"Only I live right in it, which most collectors don't. But I see -that you know what you are looking at. Not many people who come -here on business do. Stable fittings are more in their way." - -I don't know whether my appreciation helped to advance my friend's -business but at any rate it helped our intercourse. He treated me -with a shade of familiarity as one of the initiated. - -The last time I called on him to conclude the transaction we were -interrupted by a person, something like a cross between a bookmaker -and a private secretary, who, entering through a door which was not -the anteroom door, walked up and stooped to whisper into his ear. - -"Eh? What? Who, did you say?" - -The nondescript person stooped and whispered again, adding a little -louder: "Says he won't detain you a moment." - -My little man glanced at me, said "Ah! Well," irresolutely. I got -up from my chair and offered to come again later. He looked -whimsically alarmed. "No, no. It's bad enough to lose my money but -I don't want to waste any more of my time over your friend. We must -be done with this to-day. Just go and have a look at that garniture -de cheminee yonder. There's another, something like it, in the -castle of Laeken, but mine's much superior in design." - -I moved accordingly to the other side of that big room. The -garniture was very fine. But while pretending to examine it I -watched my man going forward to meet a tall visitor, who said, "I -thought you would be disengaged so early. It's only a word or two"- --and after a whispered confabulation of no more than a minute, -reconduct him to the door and shake hands ceremoniously. "Not at -all, not at all. Very pleased to be of use. You can depend -absolutely on my information"--"Oh thank you, thank you. I just -looked in." "Certainly, quite right. Any time . . . Good morning." - -I had a good look at the visitor while they were exchanging these -civilities. He was clad in black. I remember perfectly that he -wore a flat, broad, black satin tie in which was stuck a large cameo -pin; and a small turn down collar. His hair, discoloured and silky, -curled slightly over his ears. His cheeks were hairless and round, -and apparently soft. He held himself very upright, walked with -small steps and spoke gently in an inward voice. Perhaps from -contrast with the magnificent polish of the room and the neatness of -its owner, he struck me as dingy, indigent, and, if not exactly -humble, then much subdued by evil fortune. - -I wondered greatly at my fat little financier's civility to that -dubious personage when he asked me, as we resumed our respective -seats, whether I knew who it was that had just gone out. On my -shaking my head negatively he smiled queerly, said "De Barral," and -enjoyed my surprise. Then becoming grave: "That's a deep fellow, -if you like. We all know where he started from and where he got to; -but nobody knows what he means to do." He became thoughtful for a -moment and added as if speaking to himself, "I wonder what his game -is." - -And, you know, there was no game, no game of any sort, or shape or -kind. It came out plainly at the trial. As I've told you before, -he was a clerk in a bank, like thousands of others. He got that -berth as a second start in life and there he stuck again, giving -perfect satisfaction. Then one day as though a supernatural voice -had whispered into his ear or some invisible fly had stung him, he -put on his hat, went out into the street and began advertising. -That's absolutely all that there was to it. He caught in the street -the word of the time and harnessed it to his preposterous chariot. - -One remembers his first modest advertisements headed with the magic -word Thrift, Thrift, Thrift, thrice repeated; promising ten per -cent. on all deposits and giving the address of the Thrift and -Independence Aid Association in Vauxhall Bridge Road. Apparently -nothing more was necessary. He didn't even explain what he meant to -do with the money he asked the public to pour into his lap. Of -course he meant to lend it out at high rates of interest. He did -so--but he did it without system, plan, foresight or judgment. And -as he frittered away the sums that flowed in, he advertised for -more--and got it. During a period of general business prosperity he -set up The Orb Bank and The Sceptre Trust, simply, it seems for -advertising purposes. They were mere names. He was totally unable -to organize anything, to promote any sort of enterprise if it were -only for the purpose of juggling with the shares. At that time he -could have had for the asking any number of Dukes, retired Generals, -active M.P.'s, ex-ambassadors and so on as Directors to sit at the -wildest boards of his invention. But he never tried. He had no -real imagination. All he could do was to publish more -advertisements and open more branch offices of the Thrift and -Independence, of The Orb, of The Sceptre, for the receipt of -deposits; first in this town, then in that town, north and south-- -everywhere where he could find suitable premises at a moderate rent. -For this was the great characteristic of the management. Modesty, -moderation, simplicity. Neither The Orb nor The Sceptre nor yet -their parent the Thrift and Independence had built for themselves -the usual palaces. For this abstention they were praised in silly -public prints as illustrating in their management the principle of -Thrift for which they were founded. The fact is that de Barral -simply didn't think of it. Of course he had soon moved from -Vauxhall Bridge Road. He knew enough for that. What he got hold of -next was an old, enormous, rat-infested brick house in a small -street off the Strand. Strangers were taken in front of the meanest -possible, begrimed, yellowy, flat brick wall, with two rows of -unadorned window-holes one above the other, and were exhorted with -bated breath to behold and admire the simplicity of the head- -quarters of the great financial force of the day. The word THRIFT -perched right up on the roof in giant gilt letters, and two enormous -shield-like brass-plates curved round the corners on each side of -the doorway were the only shining spots in de Barral's business -outfit. Nobody knew what operations were carried on inside except -this--that if you walked in and tendered your money over the counter -it would be calmly taken from you by somebody who would give you a -printed receipt. That and no more. It appears that such knowledge -is irresistible. People went in and tendered; and once it was taken -from their hands their money was more irretrievably gone from them -than if they had thrown it into the sea. This then, and nothing -else was being carried on in there . . . " - -"Come, Marlow," I said, "you exaggerate surely--if only by your way -of putting things. It's too startling." - -"I exaggerate!" he defended himself. "My way of putting things! My -dear fellow I have merely stripped the rags of business verbiage and -financial jargon off my statements. And you are startled! I am -giving you the naked truth. It's true too that nothing lays itself -open to the charge of exaggeration more than the language of naked -truth. What comes with a shock is admitted with difficulty. But -what will you say to the end of his career? - -It was of course sensational and tolerably sudden. It began with -the Orb Deposit Bank. Under the name of that institution de Barral -with the frantic obstinacy of an unimaginative man had been -financing an Indian prince who was prosecuting a claim for immense -sums of money against the government. It was an enormous number of -scores of lakhs--a miserable remnant of his ancestors' treasures-- -that sort of thing. And it was all authentic enough. There was a -real prince; and the claim too was sufficiently real--only -unfortunately it was not a valid claim. So the prince lost his case -on the last appeal and the beginning of de Barral's end became -manifest to the public in the shape of a half-sheet of note paper -wafered by the four corners on the closed door of The Orb offices -notifying that payment was stopped at that establishment. - -Its consort The Sceptre collapsed within the week. I won't say in -American parlance that suddenly the bottom fell out of the whole of -de Barral concerns. There never had been any bottom to it. It was -like the cask of Danaides into which the public had been pleased to -pour its deposits. That they were gone was clear; and the -bankruptcy proceedings which followed were like a sinister farce, -bursts of laughter in a setting of mute anguish--that of the -depositors; hundreds of thousands of them. The laughter was -irresistible; the accompaniment of the bankrupt's public -examination. - -I don't know if it was from utter lack of all imagination or from -the possession in undue proportion of a particular kind of it, or -from both--and the three alternatives are possible--but it was -discovered that this man who had been raised to such a height by the -credulity of the public was himself more gullible than any of his -depositors. He had been the prey of all sorts of swindlers, -adventurers, visionaries and even lunatics. Wrapping himself up in -deep and imbecile secrecy he had gone in for the most fantastic -schemes: a harbour and docks on the coast of Patagonia, quarries in -Labrador--such like speculations. Fisheries to feed a canning -Factory on the banks of the Amazon was one of them. A principality -to be bought in Madagascar was another. As the grotesque details of -these incredible transactions came out one by one ripples of -laughter ran over the closely packed court--each one a little louder -than the other. The audience ended by fairly roaring under the -cumulative effect of absurdity. The Registrar laughed, the -barristers laughed, the reporters laughed, the serried ranks of the -miserable depositors watching anxiously every word, laughed like one -man. They laughed hysterically--the poor wretches--on the verge of -tears. - -There was only one person who remained unmoved. It was de Barral -himself. He preserved his serene, gentle expression, I am told (for -I have not witnessed those scenes myself), and looked around at the -people with an air of placid sufficiency which was the first hint to -the world of the man's overweening, unmeasurable conceit, hidden -hitherto under a diffident manner. It could be seen too in his -dogged assertion that if he had been given enough time and a lot -more money everything would have come right. And there were some -people (yes, amongst his very victims) who more than half believed -him, even after the criminal prosecution which soon followed. When -placed in the dock he lost his steadiness as if some sustaining -illusion had gone to pieces within him suddenly. He ceased to be -himself in manner completely, and even in disposition, in so far -that his faded neutral eyes matching his discoloured hair so well, -were discovered then to be capable of expressing a sort of underhand -hate. He was at first defiant, then insolent, then broke down and -burst into tears; but it might have been from rage. Then he calmed -down, returned to his soft manner of speech and to that unassuming -quiet bearing which had been usual with him even in his greatest -days. But it seemed as though in this moment of change he had at -last perceived what a power he had been; for he remarked to one of -the prosecuting counsel who had assumed a lofty moral tone in -questioning him, that--yes, he had gambled--he liked cards. But -that only a year ago a host of smart people would have been only too -pleased to take a hand at cards with him. Yes--he went on--some of -the very people who were there accommodated with seats on the bench; -and turning upon the counsel "You yourself as well," he cried. He -could have had half the town at his rooms to fawn upon him if he had -cared for that sort of thing. "Why, now I think of it, it took me -most of my time to keep people, just of your sort, off me," he ended -with a good humoured--quite unobtrusive, contempt, as though the -fact had dawned upon him for the first time. - -This was the moment, the only moment, when he had perhaps all the -audience in Court with him, in a hush of dreary silence. And then -the dreary proceedings were resumed. For all the outside excitement -it was the most dreary of all celebrated trials. The bankruptcy -proceedings had exhausted all the laughter there was in it. Only -the fact of wide-spread ruin remained, and the resentment of a mass -of people for having been fooled by means too simple to save their -self-respect from a deep wound which the cleverness of a consummate -scoundrel would not have inflicted. A shamefaced amazement attended -these proceedings in which de Barral was not being exposed alone. -For himself his only cry was: Time! Time! Time would have set -everything right. In time some of these speculations of his were -certain to have succeeded. He repeated this defence, this excuse, -this confession of faith, with wearisome iteration. Everything he -had done or left undone had been to gain time. He had hypnotized -himself with the word. Sometimes, I am told, his appearance was -ecstatic, his motionless pale eyes seemed to be gazing down the -vista of future ages. Time--and of course, more money. "Ah! If -only you had left me alone for a couple of years more," he cried -once in accents of passionate belief. "The money was coming in all -right." The deposits you understand--the savings of Thrift. Oh yes -they had been coming in to the very last moment. And he regretted -them. He had arrived to regard them as his own by a sort of -mystical persuasion. And yet it was a perfectly true cry, when he -turned once more on the counsel who was beginning a question with -the words "You have had all these immense sums . . . " with the -indignant retort "WHAT have I had out of them?" - -"It was perfectly true. He had had nothing out of them--nothing of -the prestigious or the desirable things of the earth, craved for by -predatory natures. He had gratified no tastes, had known no luxury; -he had built no gorgeous palaces, had formed no splendid galleries -out of these "immense sums." He had not even a home. He had gone -into these rooms in an hotel and had stuck there for years, giving -no doubt perfect satisfaction to the management. They had twice -raised his rent to show I suppose their high sense of his -distinguished patronage. He had bought for himself out of all the -wealth streaming through his fingers neither adulation nor love, -neither splendour nor comfort. There was something perfect in his -consistent mediocrity. His very vanity seemed to miss the -gratification of even the mere show of power. In the days when he -was most fully in the public eye the invincible obscurity of his -origins clung to him like a shadowy garment. He had handled -millions without ever enjoying anything of what is counted as -precious in the community of men, because he had neither the -brutality of temperament nor the fineness of mind to make him desire -them with the will power of a masterful adventurer . . . " - -"You seem to have studied the man," I observed., - -"Studied," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "No! Not studied. I had -no opportunities. You know that I saw him only on that one occasion -I told you of. But it may be that a glimpse and no more is the -proper way of seeing an individuality; and de Barral was that, in -virtue of his very deficiencies for they made of him something quite -unlike one's preconceived ideas. There were also very few materials -accessible to a man like me to form a judgment from. But in such a -case I verify believe that a little is as good as a feast--perhaps -better. If one has a taste for that kind of thing the merest -starting-point becomes a coign of vantage, and then by a series of -logically deducted verisimilitudes one arrives at truth--or very -near the truth--as near as any circumstantial evidence can do. I -have not studied de Barral but that is how I understand him so far -as he could be understood through the din of the crash; the wailing -and gnashing of teeth, the newspaper contents bills, "The Thrift -Frauds. Cross-examination of the accused. Extra special"--blazing -fiercely; the charitable appeals for the victims, the grave tones of -the dailies rumbling with compassion as if they were the national -bowels. All this lasted a whole week of industrious sittings. A -pressman whom I knew told me "He's an idiot." Which was possible. -Before that I overheard once somebody declaring that he had a -criminal type of face; which I knew was untrue. The sentence was -pronounced by artificial light in a stifling poisonous atmosphere. -Something edifying was said by the judge weightily, about the -retribution overtaking the perpetrator of "the most heartless frauds -on an unprecedented scale." I don't understand these things much, -but it appears that he had juggled with accounts, cooked balance -sheets, had gathered in deposits months after he ought to have known -himself to be hopelessly insolvent, and done enough of other things, -highly reprehensible in the eyes of the law, to earn for himself -seven years' penal servitude. The sentence making its way outside -met with a good reception. A small mob composed mainly of people -who themselves did not look particularly clever and scrupulous, -leavened by a slight sprinkling of genuine pickpockets amused itself -by cheering in the most penetrating, abominable cold drizzle that I -remember. I happened to be passing there on my way from the East -End where I had spent my day about the Docks with an old chum who -was looking after the fitting out of a new ship. I am always eager, -when allowed, to call on a new ship. They interest me like charming -young persons. - -I got mixed up in that crowd seething with an animosity as senseless -as things of the street always are, and it was while I was -laboriously making my way out of it that the pressman of whom I -spoke was jostled against me. He did me the justice to be -surprised. "What? You here! The last person in the world . . . If -I had known I could have got you inside. Plenty of room. Interest -been over for the last three days. Got seven years. Well, I am -glad." - -"Why are you glad? Because he's got seven years?" I asked, greatly -incommoded by the pressure of a hulking fellow who was remarking to -some of his equally oppressive friends that the "beggar ought to -have been poleaxed." I don't know whether he had ever confided his -savings to de Barral but if so, judging from his appearance, they -must have been the proceeds of some successful burglary. The -pressman by my side said 'No,' to my question. He was glad because -it was all over. He had suffered greatly from the heat and the bad -air of the court. The clammy, raw, chill of the streets seemed to -affect his liver instantly. He became contemptuous and irritable -and plied his elbows viciously making way for himself and me. - -A dull affair this. All such cases were dull. No really dramatic -moments. The book-keeping of The Orb and all the rest of them was -certainly a burlesque revelation but the public did not care for -revelations of that kind. Dull dog that de Barral--he grumbled. He -could not or would not take the trouble to characterize for me the -appearance of that man now officially a criminal (we had gone across -the road for a drink) but told me with a sourly, derisive snigger -that, after the sentence had been pronounced the fellow clung to the -dock long enough to make a sort of protest. 'You haven't given me -time. If I had been given time I would have ended by being made a -peer like some of them.' And he had permitted himself his very -first and last gesture in all these days, raising a hard-clenched -fist above his head. - -The pressman disapproved of that manifestation. It was not his -business to understand it. Is it ever the business of any pressman -to understand anything? I guess not. It would lead him too far -away from the actualities which are the daily bread of the public -mind. He probably thought the display worth very little from a -picturesque point of view; the weak voice; the colourless -personality as incapable of an attitude as a bed-post, the very -fatuity of the clenched hand so ineffectual at that time and place-- -no, it wasn't worth much. And then, for him, an accomplished -craftsman in his trade, thinking was distinctly "bad business." His -business was to write a readable account. But I who had nothing to -write, I permitted myself to use my mind as we sat before our still -untouched glasses. And the disclosure which so often rewards a -moment of detachment from mere visual impressions gave me a thrill -very much approaching a shudder. I seemed to understand that, with -the shock of the agonies and perplexities of his trial, the -imagination of that man, whose moods, notions and motives wore -frequently an air of grotesque mystery--that his imagination had -been at last roused into activity. And this was awful. Just try to -enter into the feelings of a man whose imagination wakes up at the -very moment he is about to enter the tomb . . . " - - -"You must not think," went on Marlow after a pause, "that on that -morning with Fyne I went consciously in my mind over all this, let -us call it information; no, better say, this fund of knowledge which -I had, or rather which existed, in me in regard to de Barral. -Information is something one goes out to seek and puts away when -found as you might do a piece of lead: ponderous, useful, -unvibrating, dull. Whereas knowledge comes to one, this sort of -knowledge, a chance acquisition preserving in its repose a fine -resonant quality . . . But as such distinctions touch upon the -transcendental I shall spare you the pain of listening to them. -There are limits to my cruelty. No! I didn't reckon up carefully -in my mind all this I have been telling you. How could I have done -so, with Fyne right there in the room? He sat perfectly still, -statuesque in homely fashion, after having delivered himself of his -effective assent: "Yes. The convict," and I, far from indulging in -a reminiscent excursion into the past, remained sufficiently in the -present to muse in a vague, absent-minded way on the respectable -proportions and on the (upon the whole) comely shape of his great -pedestrian's calves, for he had thrown one leg over his knee, -carelessly, to conceal the trouble of his mind by an air of ease. -But all the same the knowledge was in me, the awakened resonance of -which I spoke just now; I was aware of it on that beautiful day, so -fresh, so warm and friendly, so accomplished--an exquisite courtesy -of the much abused English climate when it makes up its -meteorological mind to behave like a perfect gentleman. Of course -the English climate is never a rough. It suffers from spleen -somewhat frequently--but that is gentlemanly too, and I don't mind -going to meet him in that mood. He has his days of grey, veiled, -polite melancholy, in which he is very fascinating. How seldom he -lapses into a blustering manner, after all! And then it is mostly -in a season when, appropriately enough, one may go out and kill -something. But his fine days are the best for stopping at home, to -read, to think, to muse--even to dream; in fact to live fully, -intensely and quietly, in the brightness of comprehension, in that -receptive glow of the mind, the gift of the clear, luminous and -serene weather. - -That day I had intended to live intensely and quietly, basking in -the weather's glory which would have lent enchantment to the most -unpromising of intellectual prospects. For a companion I had found -a book, not bemused with the cleverness of the day--a fine-weather -book, simple and sincere like the talk of an unselfish friend. But -looking at little Fyne seated in the room I understood that nothing -would come of my contemplative aspirations; that in one way or -another I should be let in for some form of severe exercise. -Walking, it would be, I feared, since, for me, that idea was -inseparably associated with the visual impression of Fyne. Where, -why, how, a rapid striding rush could be brought in helpful relation -to the good Fyne's present trouble and perplexity I could not -imagine; except on the principle that senseless pedestrianism was -Fyne's panacea for all the ills and evils bodily and spiritual of -the universe. It could be of no use for me to say or do anything. -It was bound to come. Contemplating his muscular limb encased in a -golf-stocking, and under the strong impression of the information he -had just imparted I said wondering, rather irrationally: - -"And so de Barral had a wife and child! That girl's his daughter. -And how . . . " - -Fyne interrupted me by stating again earnestly, as though it were -something not easy to believe, that his wife and himself had tried -to befriend the girl in every way--indeed they had! I did not doubt -him for a moment, of course, but my wonder at this was more -rational. At that hour of the morning, you mustn't forget, I knew -nothing as yet of Mrs. Fyne's contact (it was hardly more) with de -Barral's wife and child during their exile at the Priory, in the -culminating days of that man's fame. - -Fyne who had come over, it was clear, solely to talk to me on that -subject, gave me the first hint of this initial, merely out of -doors, connection. "The girl was quite a child then," he continued. -"Later on she was removed out of Mrs. Fyne's reach in charge of a -governess--a very unsatisfactory person," he explained. His wife -had then--h'm--met him; and on her marriage she lost sight of the -child completely. But after the birth of Polly (Polly was the third -Fyne girl) she did not get on very well, and went to Brighton for -some months to recover her strength--and there, one day in the -street, the child (she wore her hair down her back still) recognized -her outside a shop and rushed, actually rushed, into Mrs. Fyne's -arms. Rather touching this. And so, disregarding the cold -impertinence of that . . . h'm . . . governess, his wife naturally -responded. - -He was solemnly fragmentary. I broke in with the observation that -it must have been before the crash. - -Fyne nodded with deepened gravity, stating in his bass tone - - -"Just before," and indulged himself with a weighty period of solemn -silence. - -De Barral, he resumed suddenly, was not coming to Brighton for week- -ends regularly, then. Must have been conscious already of the -approaching disaster. Mrs. Fyne avoided being drawn into making his -acquaintance, and this suited the views of the governess person, -very jealous of any outside influence. But in any case it would not -have been an easy matter. Extraordinary, stiff-backed, thin figure -all in black, the observed of all, while walking hand-in-hand with -the girl; apparently shy, but--and here Fyne came very near showing -something like insight--probably nursing under a diffident manner a -considerable amount of secret arrogance. Mrs. Fyne pitied Flora de -Barral's fate long before the catastrophe. Most unfortunate -guidance. Very unsatisfactory surroundings. The girl was known in -the streets, was stared at in public places as if she had been a -sort of princess, but she was kept with a very ominous consistency, -from making any acquaintances--though of course there were many -people no doubt who would have been more than willing to--h'm--make -themselves agreeable to Miss de Barral. But this did not enter into -the plans of the governess, an intriguing person hatching a most -sinister plot under her severe air of distant, fashionable -exclusiveness. Good little Fyne's eyes bulged with solemn horror as -he revealed to me, in agitated speech, his wife's more than -suspicions, at the time, of that, Mrs., Mrs. What's her name's -perfidious conduct. She actually seemed to have--Mrs. Fyne -asserted--formed a plot already to marry eventually her charge to an -impecunious relation of her own--a young man with furtive eyes and -something impudent in his manner, whom that woman called her nephew, -and whom she was always having down to stay with her. - -"And perhaps not her nephew. No relation at all"--Fyne emitted with -a convulsive effort this, the most awful part of the suspicions Mrs. -Fyne used to impart to him piecemeal when he came down to spend his -week-ends gravely with her and the children. The Fynes, in their -good-natured concern for the unlucky child of the man busied in -stirring casually so many millions, spent the moments of their -weekly reunion in wondering earnestly what could be done to defeat -the most wicked of conspiracies, trying to invent some tactful line -of conduct in such extraordinary circumstances. I could see them, -simple, and scrupulous, worrying honestly about that unprotected big -girl while looking at their own little girls playing on the sea- -shore. Fyne assured me that his wife's rest was disturbed by the -great problem of interference. - -"It was very acute of Mrs. Fyne to spot such a deep game," I said, -wondering to myself where her acuteness had gone to now, to let her -be taken unawares by a game so much simpler and played to the end -under her very nose. But then, at that time, when her nightly rest -was disturbed by the dread of the fate preparing for de Barral's -unprotected child, she was not engaged in writing a compendious and -ruthless hand-book on the theory and practice of life, for the use -of women with a grievance. She could as yet, before the task of -evolving the philosophy of rebellious action had affected her -intuitive sharpness, perceive things which were, I suspect, -moderately plain. For I am inclined to believe that the woman whom -chance had put in command of Flora de Barral's destiny took no very -subtle pains to conceal her game. She was conscious of being a -complete master of the situation, having once for all established -her ascendancy over de Barral. She had taken all her measures -against outside observation of her conduct; and I could not help -smiling at the thought what a ghastly nuisance the serious, innocent -Fynes must have been to her. How exasperated she must have been by -that couple falling into Brighton as completely unforeseen as a bolt -from the blue--if not so prompt. How she must have hated them! - -But I conclude she would have carried out whatever plan she might -have formed. I can imagine de Barral accustomed for years to defer -to her wishes and, either through arrogance, or shyness, or simply -because of his unimaginative stupidity, remaining outside the social -pale, knowing no one but some card-playing cronies; I can picture -him to myself terrified at the prospect of having the care of a -marriageable girl thrust on his hands, forcing on him a complete -change of habits and the necessity of another kind of existence -which he would not even have known how to begin. It is evident to -me that Mrs. What's her name would have had her atrocious way with -very little trouble even if the excellent Fynes had been able to do -something. She would simply have bullied de Barral in a lofty -style. There's nothing more subservient than an arrogant man when -his arrogance has once been broken in some particular instance. - -However there was no time and no necessity for any one to do -anything. The situation itself vanished in the financial crash as a -building vanishes in an earthquake--here one moment and gone the -next with only an ill-omened, slight, preliminary rumble. Well, to -say 'in a moment' is an exaggeration perhaps; but that everything -was over in just twenty-four hours is an exact statement. Fyne was -able to tell me all about it; and the phrase that would depict the -nature of the change best is: an instant and complete destitution. -I don't understand these matters very well, but from Fyne's -narrative it seemed as if the creditors or the depositors, or the -competent authorities, had got hold in the twinkling of an eye of -everything de Barral possessed in the world, down to his watch and -chain, the money in his trousers' pocket, his spare suits of -clothes, and I suppose the cameo pin out of his black satin cravat. -Everything! I believe he gave up the very wedding ring of his late -wife. The gloomy Priory with its damp park and a couple of farms -had been made over to Mrs. de Barral; but when she died (without -making a will) it reverted to him, I imagine. They got that of -course; but it was a mere crumb in a Sahara of starvation, a drop in -the thirsty ocean. I dare say that not a single soul in the world -got the comfort of as much as a recovered threepenny bit out of the -estate. Then, less than crumbs, less than drops, there were to be -grabbed, the lease of the big Brighton house, the furniture therein, -the carriage and pair, the girl's riding horse, her costly trinkets; -down to the heavily gold-mounted collar of her pedigree St. Bernard. -The dog too went: the most noble-looking item in the beggarly -assets. - -What however went first of all or rather vanished was nothing in the -nature of an asset. It was that plotting governess with the trick -of a "perfect lady" manner (severely conventional) and the soul of a -remorseless brigand. When a woman takes to any sort of unlawful -man-trade, there's nothing to beat her in the way of thoroughness. -It's true that you will find people who'll tell you that this -terrific virulence in breaking through all established things, is -altogether the fault of men. Such people will ask you with a clever -air why the servile wars were always the most fierce, desperate and -atrocious of all wars. And you may make such answer as you can-- -even the eminently feminine one, if you choose, so typical of the -women's literal mind "I don't see what this has to do with it!" How -many arguments have been knocked over (I won't say knocked down) by -these few words! For if we men try to put the spaciousness of all -experiences into our reasoning and would fain put the Infinite -itself into our love, it isn't, as some writer has remarked, "It -isn't women's doing." Oh no. They don't care for these things. -That sort of aspiration is not much in their way; and it shall be a -funny world, the world of their arranging, where the Irrelevant -would fantastically step in to take the place of the sober humdrum -Imaginative . . . " - -I raised my hand to stop my friend Marlow. - -"Do you really believe what you have said?" I asked, meaning no -offence, because with Marlow one never could be sure. - -"Only on certain days of the year," said Marlow readily with a -malicious smile. "To-day I have been simply trying to be spacious -and I perceive I've managed to hurt your susceptibilities which are -consecrated to women. When you sit alone and silent you are -defending in your mind the poor women from attacks which cannot -possibly touch them. I wonder what can touch them? But to soothe -your uneasiness I will point out again that an Irrelevant world -would be very amusing, if the women take care to make it as charming -as they alone can, by preserving for us certain well-known, well- -established, I'll almost say hackneyed, illusions, without which the -average male creature cannot get on. And that condition is very -important. For there is nothing more provoking than the Irrelevant -when it has ceased to amuse and charm; and then the danger would be -of the subjugated masculinity in its exasperation, making some -brusque, unguarded movement and accidentally putting its elbow -through the fine tissue of the world of which I speak. And that -would be fatal to it. For nothing looks more irretrievably -deplorable than fine tissue which has been damaged. The women -themselves would be the first to become disgusted with their own -creation. - -There was something of women's highly practical sanity and also of -their irrelevancy in the conduct of Miss de Barral's amazing -governess. It appeared from Fyne's narrative that the day before -the first rumble of the cataclysm the questionable young man arrived -unexpectedly in Brighton to stay with his "Aunt." To all outward -appearance everything was going on normally; the fellow went out -riding with the girl in the afternoon as he often used to do--a -sight which never failed to fill Mrs. Fyne with indignation. Fyne -himself was down there with his family for a whole week and was -called to the window to behold the iniquity in its progress and to -share in his wife's feelings. There was not even a groom with them. -And Mrs. Fyne's distress was so strong at this glimpse of the -unlucky girl all unconscious of her danger riding smilingly by, that -Fyne began to consider seriously whether it wasn't their plain duty -to interfere at all risks--simply by writing a letter to de Barral. -He said to his wife with a solemnity I can easily imagine "You ought -to undertake that task, my dear. You have known his wife after all. -That's something at any rate." On the other hand the fear of -exposing Mrs. Fyne to some nasty rebuff worried him exceedingly. -Mrs. Fyne on her side gave way to despondency. Success seemed -impossible. Here was a woman for more than five years in charge of -the girl and apparently enjoying the complete confidence of the -father. What, that would be effective, could one say, without -proofs, without . . . This Mr. de Barral must be, Mrs. Fyne -pronounced, either a very stupid or a downright bad man, to neglect -his child so. - -You will notice that perhaps because of Fyne's solemn view of our -transient life and Mrs. Fyne's natural capacity for responsibility, -it had never occurred to them that the simplest way out of the -difficulty was to do nothing and dismiss the matter as no concern of -theirs. Which in a strict worldly sense it certainly was not. But -they spent, Fyne told me, a most disturbed afternoon, considering -the ways and means of dealing with the danger hanging over the head -of the girl out for a ride (and no doubt enjoying herself) with an -abominable scamp. - - - -CHAPTER FOUR--THE GOVERNESS - - - -And the best of it was that the danger was all over already. There -was no danger any more. The supposed nephew's appearance had a -purpose. He had come, full, full to trembling--with the bigness of -his news. There must have been rumours already as to the shaky -position of the de Barral's concerns; but only amongst those in the -very inmost know. No rumour or echo of rumour had reached the -profane in the West-End--let alone in the guileless marine suburb of -Hove. The Fynes had no suspicion; the governess, playing with cold, -distinguished exclusiveness the part of mother to the fabulously -wealthy Miss de Barral, had no suspicion; the masters of music, of -drawing, of dancing to Miss de Barral, had no idea; the minds of her -medical man, of her dentist, of the servants in the house, of the -tradesmen proud of having the name of de Barral on their books, were -in a state of absolute serenity. Thus, that fellow, who had -unexpectedly received a most alarming straight tip from somebody in -the City arrived in Brighton, at about lunch-time, with something -very much in the nature of a deadly bomb in his possession. But he -knew better than to throw it on the public pavement. He ate his -lunch impenetrably, sitting opposite Flora de Barral, and then, on -some excuse, closeted himself with the woman whom little Fyne's -charity described (with a slight hesitation of speech however) as -his "Aunt." - -What they said to each other in private we can imagine. She came -out of her own sitting-room with red spots on her cheek-bones, which -having provoked a question from her "beloved" charge, were accounted -for by a curt "I have a headache coming on." But we may be certain -that the talk being over she must have said to that young -blackguard: "You had better take her out for a ride as usual." We -have proof positive of this in Fyne and Mrs. Fyne observing them -mount at the door and pass under the windows of their sitting-room, -talking together, and the poor girl all smiles; because she enjoyed -in all innocence the company of Charley. She made no secret of it -whatever to Mrs. Fyne; in fact, she had confided to her, long -before, that she liked him very much: a confidence which had filled -Mrs. Fyne with desolation and that sense of powerless anguish which -is experienced in certain kinds of nightmare. For how could she -warn the girl? She did venture to tell her once that she didn't -like Mr. Charley. Miss de Barral heard her with astonishment. How -was it possible not to like Charley? Afterwards with naive loyalty -she told Mrs. Fyne that, immensely as she was fond of her she could -not hear a word against Charley--the wonderful Charley. - -The daughter of de Barral probably enjoyed her jolly ride with the -jolly Charley (infinitely more jolly than going out with a stupid -old riding-master), very much indeed, because the Fynes saw them -coming back at a later hour than usual. In fact it was getting -nearly dark. On dismounting, helped off by the delightful Charley, -she patted the neck of her horse and went up the steps. Her last -ride. She was then within a few days of her sixteenth birthday, a -slight figure in a riding habit, rather shorter than the average -height for her age, in a black bowler hat from under which her fine -rippling dark hair cut square at the ends was hanging well down her -back. The delightful Charley mounted again to take the two horses -round to the mews. Mrs. Fyne remaining at the window saw the house -door close on Miss de Barral returning from her last ride. - -And meantime what had the governess (out of a nobleman's family) so -judiciously selected (a lady, and connected with well-known county -people as she said) to direct the studies, guard the health, form -the mind, polish the manners, and generally play the perfect mother -to that luckless child--what had she been doing? Well, having got -rid of her charge by the most natural device possible, which proved -her practical sense, she started packing her belongings, an act -which showed her clear view of the situation. She had worked -methodically, rapidly, and well, emptying the drawers, clearing the -tables in her special apartment of that big house, with something -silently passionate in her thoroughness; taking everything belonging -to her and some things of less unquestionable ownership, a jewelled -penholder, an ivory and gold paper knife (the house was full of -common, costly objects), some chased silver boxes presented by de -Barral and other trifles; but the photograph of Flora de Barral, -with the loving inscription, which stood on her writing desk, of the -most modern and expensive style, in a silver-gilt frame, she -neglected to take. Having accidentally, in the course of the -operations, knocked it off on the floor she let it lie there after a -downward glance. Thus it, or the frame at least, became, I suppose, -part of the assets in the de Barral bankruptcy. - -At dinner that evening the child found her company dull and brusque. -It was uncommonly slow. She could get nothing from her governess -but monosyllables, and the jolly Charley actually snubbed the -various cheery openings of his "little chum"--as he used to call her -at times,--but not at that time. No doubt the couple were nervous -and preoccupied. For all this we have evidence, and for the fact -that Flora being offended with the delightful nephew of her -profoundly respected governess sulked through the rest of the -evening and was glad to retire early. Mrs., Mrs.--I've really -forgotten her name--the governess, invited her nephew to her -sitting-room, mentioning aloud that it was to talk over some family -matters. This was meant for Flora to hear, and she heard it-- -without the slightest interest. In fact there was nothing -sufficiently unusual in such an invitation to arouse in her mind -even a passing wonder. She went bored to bed and being tired with -her long ride slept soundly all night. Her last sleep, I won't say -of innocence--that word would not render my exact meaning, because -it has a special meaning of its own--but I will say: of that -ignorance, or better still, of that unconsciousness of the world's -ways, the unconsciousness of danger, of pain, of humiliation, of -bitterness, of falsehood. An unconsciousness which in the case of -other beings like herself is removed by a gradual process of -experience and information, often only partial at that, with saving -reserves, softening doubts, veiling theories. Her unconsciousness -of the evil which lives in the secret thoughts and therefore in the -open acts of mankind, whenever it happens that evil thought meets -evil courage; her unconsciousness was to be broken into with profane -violence with desecrating circumstances, like a temple violated by a -mad, vengeful impiety. Yes, that very young girl, almost no more -than a child--this was what was going to happen to her. And if you -ask me, how, wherefore, for what reason? I will answer you: Why, -by chance! By the merest chance, as things do happen, lucky and -unlucky, terrible or tender, important or unimportant; and even -things which are neither, things so completely neutral in character -that you would wonder why they do happen at all if you didn't know -that they, too, carry in their insignificance the seeds of further -incalculable chances. - -Of course, all the chances were that de Barral should have fallen -upon a perfectly harmless, naive, usual, inefficient specimen of -respectable governess for his daughter; or on a commonplace silly -adventuress who would have tried, say, to marry him or work some -other sort of common mischief in a small way. Or again he might -have chanced on a model of all the virtues, or the repository of all -knowledge, or anything equally harmless, conventional, and middle -class. All calculations were in his favour; but, chance being -incalculable, he fell upon an individuality whom it is much easier -to define by opprobrious names than to classify in a calm and -scientific spirit--but an individuality certainly, and a temperament -as well. Rare? No. There is a certain amount of what I would -politely call unscrupulousness in all of us. Think for instance of -the excellent Mrs. Fyne, who herself, and in the bosom of her -family, resembled a governess of a conventional type. Only, her -mental excesses were theoretical, hedged in by so much humane -feeling and conventional reserves, that they amounted to no more -than mere libertinage of thought; whereas the other woman, the -governess of Flora de Barral, was, as you may have noticed, severely -practical--terribly practical. No! Hers was not a rare -temperament, except in its fierce resentment of repression; a -feeling which like genius or lunacy is apt to drive people into -sudden irrelevancy. Hers was feminine irrelevancy. A male genius, -a male ruffian, or even a male lunatic, would not have behaved -exactly as she did behave. There is a softness in masculine nature, -even the most brutal, which acts as a check. - -While the girl slept those two, the woman of forty, an age in itself -terrible, and that hopeless young "wrong 'un" of twenty-three (also -well connected I believe) had some sort of subdued row in the -cleared rooms: wardrobes open, drawers half pulled out and empty, -trunks locked and strapped, furniture in idle disarray, and not so -much as a single scrap of paper left behind on the tables. The -maid, whom the governess and the pupil shared between them, after -finishing with Flora, came to the door as usual, but was not -admitted. She heard the two voices in dispute before she knocked, -and then being sent away retreated at once--the only person in the -house convinced at that time that there was "something up." - -Dark and, so to speak, inscrutable spaces being met with in life -there must be such places in any statement dealing with life. In -what I am telling you of now--an episode of one of my humdrum -holidays in the green country, recalled quite naturally after all -the years by our meeting a man who has been a blue-water sailor-- -this evening confabulation is a dark, inscrutable spot. And we may -conjecture what we like. I have no difficulty in imagining that the -woman--of forty, and the chief of the enterprise--must have raged at -large. And perhaps the other did not rage enough. Youth feels -deeply it is true, but it has not the same vivid sense of lost -opportunities. It believes in the absolute reality of time. And -then, in that abominable scamp with his youth already soiled, -withered like a plucked flower ready to be flung on some rotting -heap of rubbish, no very genuine feeling about anything could exist- --not even about the hazards of his own unclean existence. A -sneering half-laugh with some such remark as: "We are properly sold -and no mistake" would have been enough to make trouble in that way. -And then another sneer, "Waste time enough over it too," followed -perhaps by the bitter retort from the other party "You seemed to -like it well enough though, playing the fool with that chit of a -girl." Something of that sort. Don't you see it--eh . . . " - -Marlow looked at me with his dark penetrating glance. I was struck -by the absolute verisimilitude of this suggestion. But we were -always tilting at each other. I saw an opening and pushed my -uncandid thrust. - -"You have a ghastly imagination," I said with a cheerfully sceptical -smile. - -"Well, and if I have," he returned unabashed. "But let me remind -you that this situation came to me unasked. I am like a puzzle- -headed chief-mate we had once in the dear old Samarcand when I was a -youngster. The fellow went gravely about trying to "account to -himself"--his favourite expression--for a lot of things no one would -care to bother one's head about. He was an old idiot but he was -also an accomplished practical seaman. I was quite a boy and he -impressed me. I must have caught the disposition from him." - -"Well--go on with your accounting then," I said, assuming an air of -resignation. - -"That's just it." Marlow fell into his stride at once. "That's -just it. Mere disappointed cupidity cannot account for the -proceedings of the next morning; proceedings which I shall not -describe to you--but which I shall tell you of presently, not as a -matter of conjecture but of actual fact. Meantime returning to that -evening altercation in deadened tones within the private apartment -of Miss de Barral's governess, what if I were to tell you that -disappointment had most likely made them touchy with each other, but -that perhaps the secret of his careless, railing behaviour, was in -the thought, springing up within him with an emphatic oath of relief -"Now there's nothing to prevent me from breaking away from that old -woman." And that the secret of her envenomed rage, not against this -miserable and attractive wretch, but against fate, accident and the -whole course of human life, concentrating its venom on de Barral and -including the innocent girl herself, was in the thought, in the fear -crying within her "Now I have nothing to hold him with . . . " - -I couldn't refuse Marlow the tribute of a prolonged whistle "Phew! -So you suppose that . . . " - -He waved his hand impatiently. - -"I don't suppose. It was so. And anyhow why shouldn't you accept -the supposition. Do you look upon governesses as creatures above -suspicion or necessarily of moral perfection? I suppose their -hearts would not stand looking into much better than other people's. -Why shouldn't a governess have passions, all the passions, even that -of libertinage, and even ungovernable passions; yet suppressed by -the very same means which keep the rest of us in order: early -training--necessity--circumstances--fear of consequences; till there -comes an age, a time when the restraint of years becomes -intolerable--and infatuation irresistible . . . " - -"But if infatuation--quite possible I admit," I argued, "how do you -account for the nature of the conspiracy." - -"You expect a cogency of conduct not usual in women," said Marlow. -"The subterfuges of a menaced passion are not to be fathomed. You -think it is going on the way it looks, whereas it is capable, for -its own ends, of walking backwards into a precipice. - -When one once acknowledges that she was not a common woman, then all -this is easily understood. She was abominable but she was not -common. She had suffered in her life not from its constant -inferiority but from constant self-repression. A common woman -finding herself placed in a commanding position might have formed -the design to become the second Mrs. de Barral. Which would have -been impracticable. De Barral would not have known what to do with -a wife. But even if by some impossible chance he had made advances, -this governess would have repulsed him with scorn. She had treated -him always as an inferior being with an assured, distant politeness. -In her composed, schooled manner she despised and disliked both -father and daughter exceedingly. I have a notion that she had -always disliked intensely all her charges including the two ducal -(if they were ducal) little girls with whom she had dazzled de -Barral. What an odious, ungratified existence it must have been for -a woman as avid of all the sensuous emotions which life can give as -most of her betters. - -She had seen her youth vanish, her freshness disappear, her hopes -die, and now she felt her flaming middle-age slipping away from her. -No wonder that with her admirably dressed, abundant hair, thickly -sprinkled with white threads and adding to her elegant aspect the -piquant distinction of a powdered coiffure--no wonder, I say, that -she clung desperately to her last infatuation for that graceless -young scamp, even to the extent of hatching for him that amazing -plot. He was not so far gone in degradation as to make him utterly -hopeless for such an attempt. She hoped to keep him straight with -that enormous bribe. She was clearly a woman uncommon enough to -live without illusions--which, of course, does not mean that she was -reasonable. She had said to herself, perhaps with a fury of self- -contempt "In a few years I shall be too old for anybody. Meantime I -shall have him--and I shall hold him by throwing to him the money of -that ordinary, silly, little girl of no account." Well, it was a -desperate expedient--but she thought it worth while. And besides -there is hardly a woman in the world, no matter how hard, depraved -or frantic, in whom something of the maternal instinct does not -survive, unconsumed like a salamander, in the fires of the most -abandoned passion. Yes there might have been that sentiment for him -too. There WAS no doubt. So I say again: No wonder! No wonder -that she raged at everything--and perhaps even at him, with -contradictory reproaches: for regretting the girl, a little fool -who would never in her life be worth anybody's attention, and for -taking the disaster itself with a cynical levity in which she -perceived a flavour of revolt. - -And so the altercation in the night went on, over the irremediable. -He arguing "What's the hurry? Why clear out like this?" perhaps a -little sorry for the girl and as usual without a penny in his -pocket, appreciating the comfortable quarters, wishing to linger on -as long as possible in the shameless enjoyment of this already -doomed luxury. There was really no hurry for a few days. Always -time enough to vanish. And, with that, a touch of masculine -softness, a sort of regard for appearances surviving his -degradation: "You might behave decently at the last, Eliza." But -there was no softness in the sallow face under the gala effect of -powdered hair, its formal calmness gone, the dark-ringed eyes -glaring at him with a sort of hunger. "No! No! If it is as you -say then not a day, not an hour, not a moment." She stuck to it, -very determined that there should be no more of that boy and girl -philandering since the object of it was gone; angry with herself for -having suffered from it so much in the past, furious at its having -been all in vain. - -But she was reasonable enough not to quarrel with him finally. What -was the good? She found means to placate him. The only means. As -long as there was some money to be got she had hold of him. "Now go -away. We shall do no good by any more of this sort of talk. I want -to be alone for a bit." He went away, sulkily acquiescent. There -was a room always kept ready for him on the same floor, at the -further end of a short thickly carpeted passage. - -How she passed the night, this woman with no illusions to help her -through the hours which must have been sleepless I shouldn't like to -say. It ended at last; and this strange victim of the de Barral -failure, whose name would never be known to the Official Receiver, -came down to breakfast, impenetrable in her everyday perfection. -From the very first, somehow, she had accepted the fatal news for -true. All her life she had never believed in her luck, with that -pessimism of the passionate who at bottom feel themselves to be the -outcasts of a morally restrained universe. But this did not make it -any easier, on opening the morning paper feverishly, to see the -thing confirmed. Oh yes! It was there. The Orb had suspended -payment--the first growl of the storm faint as yet, but to the -initiated the forerunner of a deluge. As an item of news it was not -indecently displayed. It was not displayed at all in a sense. The -serious paper, the only one of the great dailies which had always -maintained an attitude of reserve towards the de Barral group of -banks, had its "manner." Yes! a modest item of news! But there was -also, on another page, a special financial article in a hostile tone -beginning with the words "We have always feared" and a guarded, -half-column leader, opening with the phrase: "It is a deplorable -sign of the times" what was, in effect, an austere, general rebuke -to the absurd infatuations of the investing public. She glanced -through these articles, a line here and a line there--no more was -necessary to catch beyond doubt the murmur of the oncoming flood. -Several slighting references by name to de Barral revived her -animosity against the man, suddenly, as by the effect of unforeseen -moral support. The miserable wretch! . . . " - - -"--You understand," Marlow interrupted the current of his narrative, -"that in order to be consecutive in my relation of this affair I am -telling you at once the details which I heard from Mrs. Fyne later -in the day, as well as what little Fyne imparted to me with his -usual solemnity during that morning call. As you may easily guess -the Fynes, in their apartments, had read the news at the same time, -and, as a matter of fact, in the same august and highly moral -newspaper, as the governess in the luxurious mansion a few doors -down on the opposite side of the street. But they read them with -different feelings. They were thunderstruck. Fyne had to explain -the full purport of the intelligence to Mrs. Fyne whose first cry -was that of relief. Then that poor child would be safe from these -designing, horrid people. Mrs. Fyne did not know what it might mean -to be suddenly reduced from riches to absolute penury. Fyne with -his masculine imagination was less inclined to rejoice extravagantly -at the girl's escape from the moral dangers which had been menacing -her defenceless existence. It was a confoundedly big price to pay. -What an unfortunate little thing she was! "We might be able to do -something to comfort that poor child at any rate for the time she is -here," said Mrs. Fyne. She felt under a sort of moral obligation -not to be indifferent. But no comfort for anyone could be got by -rushing out into the street at this early hour; and so, following -the advice of Fyne not to act hastily, they both sat down at the -window and stared feelingly at the great house, awful to their eyes -in its stolid, prosperous, expensive respectability with ruin -absolutely standing at the door. - -By that time, or very soon after, all Brighton had the information -and formed a more or less just appreciation of its gravity. The -butler in Miss de Barral's big house had seen the news, perhaps -earlier than anybody within a mile of the Parade, in the course of -his morning duties of which one was to dry the freshly delivered -paper before the fire--an occasion to glance at it which no -intelligent man could have neglected. He communicated to the rest -of the household his vaguely forcible impression that something had -gone d-bly wrong with the affairs of "her father in London." - -This brought an atmosphere of constraint through the house, which -Flora de Barral coming down somewhat later than usual could not help -noticing in her own way. Everybody seemed to stare so stupidly -somehow; she feared a dull day. - -In the dining-room the governess in her place, a newspaper half- -concealed under the cloth on her lap, after a few words exchanged -with lips that seemed hardly to move, remaining motionless, her eyes -fixed before her in an enduring silence; and presently Charley -coming in to whom she did not even give a glance. He hardly said -good morning, though he had a half-hearted try to smile at the girl, -and sitting opposite her with his eyes on his plate and slight -quivers passing along the line of his clean-shaven jaw, he too had -nothing to say. It was dull, horribly dull to begin one's day like -this; but she knew what it was. These never-ending family affairs! -It was not for the first time that she had suffered from their -depressing after-effects on these two. It was a shame that the -delightful Charley should be made dull by these stupid talks, and it -was perfectly stupid of him to let himself be upset like this by his -aunt. - -When after a period of still, as if calculating, immobility, her -governess got up abruptly and went out with the paper in her hand, -almost immediately afterwards followed by Charley who left his -breakfast half eaten, the girl was positively relieved. They would -have it out that morning whatever it was, and be themselves again in -the afternoon. At least Charley would be. To the moods of her -governess she did not attach so much importance. - -For the first time that morning the Fynes saw the front door of the -awful house open and the objectionable young man issue forth, his -rascality visible to their prejudiced eyes in his very bowler hat -and in the smart cut of his short fawn overcoat. He walked away -rapidly like a man hurrying to catch a train, glancing from side to -side as though he were carrying something off. Could he be -departing for good? Undoubtedly, undoubtedly! But Mrs. Fyne's -fervent "thank goodness" turned out to be a bit, as the Americans-- -some Americans--say "previous." In a very short time the odious -fellow appeared again, strolling, absolutely strolling back, his hat -now tilted a little on one side, with an air of leisure and -satisfaction. Mrs. Fyne groaned not only in the spirit, at this -sight, but in the flesh, audibly; and asked her husband what it -might mean. Fyne naturally couldn't say. Mrs. Fyne believed that -there was something horrid in progress and meantime the object of -her detestation had gone up the steps and had knocked at the door -which at once opened to admit him. - -He had been only as far as the bank. - -His reason for leaving his breakfast unfinished to run after Miss de -Barral's governess, was to speak to her in reference to that very -errand possessing the utmost possible importance in his eyes. He -shrugged his shoulders at the nervousness of her eyes and hands, at -the half-strangled whisper "I had to go out. I could hardly contain -myself." That was her affair. He was, with a young man's -squeamishness, rather sick of her ferocity. He did not understand -it. Men do not accumulate hate against each other in tiny amounts, -treasuring every pinch carefully till it grows at last into a -monstrous and explosive hoard. He had run out after her to remind -her of the balance at the bank. What about lifting that money -without wasting any more time? She had promised him to leave -nothing behind. - -An account opened in her name for the expenses of the establishment -in Brighton, had been fed by de Barral with deferential lavishness. -The governess crossed the wide hall into a little room at the side -where she sat down to write the cheque, which he hastened out to go -and cash as if it were stolen or a forgery. As observed by the -Fynes, his uneasy appearance on leaving the house arose from the -fact that his first trouble having been caused by a cheque of -doubtful authenticity, the possession of a document of the sort made -him unreasonably uncomfortable till this one was safely cashed. And -after all, you know it was stealing of an indirect sort; for the -money was de Barral's money if the account was in the name of the -accomplished lady. At any rate the cheque was cashed. On getting -hold of the notes and gold he recovered his jaunty bearing, it being -well known that with certain natures the presence of money (even -stolen) in the pocket, acts as a tonic, or at least as a stimulant. -He cocked his hat a little on one side as though he had had a drink -or two--which indeed he might have had in reality, to celebrate the -occasion. - -The governess had been waiting for his return in the hall, -disregarding the side-glances of the butler as he went in and out of -the dining-room clearing away the breakfast things. It was she, -herself, who had opened the door so promptly. "It's all right," he -said touching his breast-pocket; and she did not dare, the miserable -wretch without illusions, she did not dare ask him to hand it over. -They looked at each other in silence. He nodded significantly: -"Where is she now?" and she whispered "Gone into the drawing-room. -Want to see her again?" with an archly black look which he -acknowledged by a muttered, surly: "I am damned if I do. Well, as -you want to bolt like this, why don't we go now?" - -She set her lips with cruel obstinacy and shook her head. She had -her idea, her completed plan. At that moment the Fynes, still at -the window and watching like a pair of private detectives, saw a man -with a long grey beard and a jovial face go up the steps helping -himself with a thick stick, and knock at the door. Who could he be? - -He was one of Miss de Barral's masters. She had lately taken up -painting in water-colours, having read in a high-class woman's -weekly paper that a great many princesses of the European royal -houses were cultivating that art. This was the water-colour -morning; and the teacher, a veteran of many exhibitions, of a -venerable and jovial aspect, had turned up with his usual -punctuality. He was no great reader of morning papers, and even had -he seen the news it is very likely he would not have understood its -real purport. At any rate he turned up, as the governess expected -him to do, and the Fynes saw him pass through the fateful door. - -He bowed cordially to the lady in charge of Miss de Barral's -education, whom he saw in the hall engaged in conversation with a -very good-looking but somewhat raffish young gentleman. She turned -to him graciously: "Flora is already waiting for you in the -drawing-room." - -The cultivation of the art said to be patronized by princesses was -pursued in the drawing-room from considerations of the right kind of -light. The governess preceded the master up the stairs and into the -room where Miss de Barral was found arrayed in a holland pinafore -(also of the right kind for the pursuit of the art) and smilingly -expectant. The water-colour lesson enlivened by the jocular -conversation of the kindly, humorous, old man was always great fun; -and she felt she would be compensated for the tiresome beginning of -the day. - -Her governess generally was present at the lesson; but on this -occasion she only sat down till the master and pupil had gone to -work in earnest, and then as though she had suddenly remembered some -order to give, rose quietly and went out of the room. - -Once outside, the servants summoned by the passing maid without a -bell being rung, and quick, quick, let all this luggage be taken -down into the hall, and let one of you call a cab. She stood -outside the drawing-room door on the landing, looking at each piece, -trunk, leather cases, portmanteaus, being carried past her, her -brows knitted and her aspect so sombre and absorbed that it took -some little time for the butler to muster courage enough to speak to -her. But he reflected that he was a free-born Briton and had his -rights. He spoke straight to the point but in the usual respectful -manner. - -"Beg you pardon, ma'am--but are you going away for good?" - -He was startled by her tone. Its unexpected, unlady-like harshness -fell on his trained ear with the disagreeable effect of a false -note. "Yes. I am going away. And the best thing for all of you is -to go away too, as soon as you like. You can go now, to-day, this -moment. You had your wages paid you only last week. The longer you -stay the greater your loss. But I have nothing to do with it now. -You are the servants of Mr. de Barral--you know." - -The butler was astounded by the manner of this advice, and as his -eyes wandered to the drawing-room door the governess extended her -arm as if to bar the way. "Nobody goes in there." And that was -said still in another tone, such a tone that all trace of the -trained respectfulness vanished from the butler's bearing. He -stared at her with a frank wondering gaze. "Not till I am gone," -she added, and there was such an expression on her face that the man -was daunted by the mystery of it. He shrugged his shoulders -slightly and without another word went down the stairs on his way to -the basement, brushing in the hall past Mr. Charles who hat on head -and both hands rammed deep into his overcoat pockets paced up and -down as though on sentry duty there. - -The ladies' maid was the only servant upstairs, hovering in the -passage on the first floor, curious and as if fascinated by the -woman who stood there guarding the door. Being beckoned closer -imperiously and asked by the governess to bring out of the now empty -rooms the hat and veil, the only objects besides the furniture still -to be found there, she did so in silence but inwardly fluttered. -And while waiting uneasily, with the veil, before that woman who, -without moving a step away from the drawing-room door was pinning -with careless haste her hat on her head, she heard within a sudden -burst of laughter from Miss de Barral enjoying the fun of the water- -colour lesson given her for the last time by the cheery old man. - -Mr. and Mrs. Fyne ambushed at their window--a most incredible -occupation for people of their kind--saw with renewed anxiety a cab -come to the door, and watched some luggage being carried out and put -on its roof. The butler appeared for a moment, then went in again. -What did it mean? Was Flora going to be taken to her father; or -were these people, that woman and her horrible nephew, about to -carry her off somewhere? Fyne couldn't tell. He doubted the last, -Flora having now, he judged, no value, either positive or -speculative. Though no great reader of character he did not credit -the governess with humane intentions. He confessed to me naively -that he was excited as if watching some action on the stage. Then -the thought struck him that the girl might have had some money -settled on her, be possessed of some means, of some little fortune -of her own and therefore - - -He imparted this theory to his wife who shared fully his -consternation. "I can't believe the child will go away without -running in to say good-bye to us," she murmured. "We must find out! -I shall ask her." But at that very moment the cab rolled away, -empty inside, and the door of the house which had been standing -slightly ajar till then was pushed to. - -They remained silent staring at it till Mrs. Fyne whispered -doubtfully "I really think I must go over." Fyne didn't answer for -a while (his is a reflective mind, you know), and then as if Mrs. -Fyne's whispers had an occult power over that door it opened wide -again and the white-bearded man issued, astonishingly active in his -movements, using his stick almost like a leaping-pole to get down -the steps; and hobbled away briskly along the pavement. Naturally -the Fynes were too far off to make out the expression of his face. -But it would not have helped them very much to a guess at the -conditions inside the house. The expression was humorously puzzled- --nothing more. - -For, at the end of his lesson, seizing his trusty stick and coming -out with his habitual vivacity, he very nearly cannoned just outside -the drawing-room door into the back of Miss de Barral's governess. -He stopped himself in time and she turned round swiftly. It was -embarrassing; he apologised; but her face was not startled; it was -not aware of him; it wore a singular expression of resolution. A -very singular expression which, as it were, detained him for a -moment. In order to cover his embarrassment, he made some inane -remark on the weather, upon which, instead of returning another -inane remark according to the tacit rules of the game, she only gave -him a smile of unfathomable meaning. Nothing could have been more -singular. The good-looking young gentleman of questionable -appearance took not the slightest notice of him in the hall. No -servant was to be seen. He let himself out pulling the door to -behind him with a crash as, in a manner, he was forced to do to get -it shut at all. - -When the echo of it had died away the woman on the landing leaned -over the banister and called out bitterly to the man below "Don't -you want to come up and say good-bye." He had an impatient movement -of the shoulders and went on pacing to and fro as though he had not -heard. But suddenly he checked himself, stood still for a moment, -then with a gloomy face and without taking his hands out of his -pockets ran smartly up the stairs. Already facing the door she -turned her head for a whispered taunt: "Come! Confess you were -dying to see her stupid little face once more,"--to which he -disdained to answer. - -Flora de Barral, still seated before the table at which she had been -wording on her sketch, raised her head at the noise of the opening -door. The invading manner of their entrance gave her the sense of -something she had never seen before. She knew them well. She knew -the woman better than she knew her father. There had been between -them an intimacy of relation as great as it can possibly be without -the final closeness of affection. The delightful Charley walked in, -with his eyes fixed on the back of her governess whose raised veil -hid her forehead like a brown band above the black line of the -eyebrows. The girl was astounded and alarmed by the altogether -unknown expression in the woman's face. The stress of passion often -discloses an aspect of the personality completely ignored till then -by its closest intimates. There was something like an emanation of -evil from her eyes and from the face of the other, who, exactly -behind her and overtopping her by half a head, kept his eyelids -lowered in a sinister fashion--which in the poor girl, reached, -stirred, set free that faculty of unreasoning explosive terror lying -locked up at the bottom of all human hearts and of the hearts of -animals as well. With suddenly enlarged pupils and a movement as -instinctive almost as the bounding of a startled fawn, she jumped up -and found herself in the middle of the big room, exclaiming at those -amazing and familiar strangers. - -"What do you want?" - -You will note that she cried: What do you want? Not: What has -happened? She told Mrs. Fyne that she had received suddenly the -feeling of being personally attacked. And that must have been very -terrifying. The woman before her had been the wisdom, the -authority, the protection of life, security embodied and visible and -undisputed. - -You may imagine then the force of the shock in the intuitive -perception not merely of danger, for she did not know what was -alarming her, but in the sense of the security being gone. And not -only security. I don't know how to explain it clearly. Look! Even -a small child lives, plays and suffers in terms of its conception of -its own existence. Imagine, if you can, a fact coming in suddenly -with a force capable of shattering that very conception itself. It -was only because of the girl being still so much of a child that she -escaped mental destruction; that, in other words she got over it. -Could one conceive of her more mature, while still as ignorant as -she was, one must conclude that she would have become an idiot on -the spot--long before the end of that experience. Luckily, people, -whether mature or not mature (and who really is ever mature?) are -for the most part quite incapable of understanding what is happening -to them: a merciful provision of nature to preserve an average -amount of sanity for working purposes in this world . . . " - -"But we, my dear Marlow, have the inestimable advantage of -understanding what is happening to others," I struck in. "Or at -least some of us seem to. Is that too a provision of nature? And -what is it for? Is it that we may amuse ourselves gossiping about -each other's affairs? You for instance seem--" - -"I don't know what I seem," Marlow silenced me, "and surely life -must be amused somehow. It would be still a very respectable -provision if it were only for that end. But from that same -provision of understanding, there springs in us compassion, charity, -indignation, the sense of solidarity; and in minds of any largeness -an inclination to that indulgence which is next door to affection. -I don't mean to say that I am inclined to an indulgent view of the -precious couple which broke in upon an unsuspecting girl. They came -marching in (it's the very expression she used later on to Mrs. -Fyne) but at her cry they stopped. It must have been startling -enough to them. It was like having the mask torn off when you don't -expect it. The man stopped for good; he didn't offer to move a step -further. But, though the governess had come in there for the very -purpose of taking the mask off for the first time in her life, she -seemed to look upon the frightened cry as a fresh provocation. -"What are you screaming for, you little fool?" she said advancing -alone close to the girl who was affected exactly as if she had seen -Medusa's head with serpentine locks set mysteriously on the -shoulders of that familiar person, in that brown dress, under that -hat she knew so well. It made her lose all her hold on reality. -She told Mrs. Fyne: "I didn't know where I was. I didn't even know -that I was frightened. If she had told me it was a joke I would -have laughed. If she had told me to put on my hat and go out with -her I would have gone to put on my hat and gone out with her and -never said a single word; I should have been convinced I had been -mad for a minute or so, and I would have worried myself to death -rather than breathe a hint of it to her or anyone. But the wretch -put her face close to mine and I could not move. Directly I had -looked into her eyes I felt grown on to the carpet." - -It was years afterwards that she used to talk like this to Mrs. -Fyne--and to Mrs. Fyne alone. Nobody else ever heard the story from -her lips. But it was never forgotten. It was always felt; it -remained like a mark on her soul, a sort of mystic wound, to be -contemplated, to be meditated over. And she said further to Mrs. -Fyne, in the course of many confidences provoked by that -contemplation, that, as long as that woman called her names, it was -almost soothing, it was in a manner reassuring. Her imagination -had, like her body, gone off in a wild bound to meet the unknown; -and then to hear after all something which more in its tone than in -its substance was mere venomous abuse, had steadied the inward -flutter of all her being. - -"She called me a little fool more times than I can remember. I! A -fool! Why, Mrs. Fyne! I do assure you I had never yet thought at -all; never of anything in the world, till then. I just went on -living. And one can't be a fool without one has at least tried to -think. But what had I ever to think about?" - -"And no doubt," commented Marlow, "her life had been a mere life of -sensations--the response to which can neither be foolish nor wise. -It can only be temperamental; and I believe that she was of a -generally happy disposition, a child of the average kind. Even when -she was asked violently whether she imagined that there was anything -in her, apart from her money, to induce any intelligent person to -take any sort of interest in her existence, she only caught her -breath in one dry sob and said nothing, made no other sound, made no -movement. When she was viciously assured that she was in heart, -mind, manner and appearance, an utterly common and insipid creature, -she remained still, without indignation, without anger. She stood, -a frail and passive vessel into which the other went on pouring all -the accumulated dislike for all her pupils, her scorn of all her -employers (the ducal one included), the accumulated resentment, the -infinite hatred of all these unrelieved years of--I won't say -hypocrisy. The practice of perfect hypocrisy is a relief in itself, -a secret triumph of the vilest sort, no doubt, but still a way of -getting even with the common morality from which some of us appear -to suffer so much. No! I will say the years, the passionate, -bitter years, of restraint, the iron, admirably mannered restraint -at every moment, in a never-failing perfect correctness of speech, -glances, movements, smiles, gestures, establishing for her a high -reputation, an impressive record of success in her sphere. It had -been like living half strangled for years. - -And all this torture for nothing, in the end! What looked at last -like a possible prize (oh, without illusions! but still a prize) -broken in her hands, fallen in the dust, the bitter dust, of -disappointment, she revelled in the miserable revenge--pretty safe -too--only regretting the unworthiness of the girlish figure which -stood for so much she had longed to be able to spit venom at, if -only once, in perfect liberty. The presence of the young man at her -back increased both her satisfaction and her rage. But the very -violence of the attack seemed to defeat its end by rendering the -representative victim as it were insensible. The cause of this -outrage naturally escaping the girl's imagination her attitude was -in effect that of dense, hopeless stupidity. And it is a fact that -the worst shocks of life are often received without outcries, -without gestures, without a flow of tears and the convulsions of -sobbing. The insatiable governess missed these signs exceedingly. -This pitiful stolidity was only a fresh provocation. Yet the poor -girl was deadly pale. - -"I was cold," she used to explain to Mrs. Fyne. "I had had time to -get terrified. She had pushed her face so near mine and her teeth -looked as though she wanted to bite me. Her eyes seemed to have -become quite dry, hard and small in a lot of horrible wrinkles. I -was too afraid of her to shudder, too afraid of her to put my -fingers to my ears. I didn't know what I expected her to call me -next, but when she told me I was no better than a beggar--that there -would be no more masters, no more servants, no more horses for me--I -said to myself: Is that all? I should have laughed if I hadn't -been too afraid of her to make the least little sound." - -It seemed that poor Flora had to know all the possible phases of -that sort of anguish, beginning with instinctive panic, through the -bewildered stage, the frozen stage and the stage of blanched -apprehension, down to the instinctive prudence of extreme terror-- -the stillness of the mouse. But when she heard herself called the -child of a cheat and a swindler, the very monstrous unexpectedness -of this caused in her a revulsion towards letting herself go. She -screamed out all at once "You mustn't speak like this of Papa!" - -The effort of it uprooted her from that spot where her little feet -seemed dug deep into the thick luxurious carpet, and she retreated -backwards to a distant part of the room, hearing herself repeat "You -mustn't, you mustn't" as if it were somebody else screaming. She -came to a chair and flung herself into it. Thereupon the somebody -else ceased screaming and she lolled, exhausted, sightless, in a -silent room, as if indifferent to everything and without a single -thought in her head. - -The next few seconds seemed to last for ever so long; a black abyss -of time separating what was past and gone from the reappearance of -the governess and the reawakening of fear. And that woman was -forcing the words through her set teeth: "You say I mustn't, I -mustn't. All the world will be speaking of him like this to-morrow. -They will say it, and they'll print it. You shall hear it and you -shall read it--and then you shall know whose daughter you are." - -Her face lighted up with an atrocious satisfaction. "He's nothing -but a thief," she cried, "this father of yours. As to you I have -never been deceived in you for a moment. I have been growing more -and more sick of you for years. You are a vulgar, silly nonentity, -and you shall go back to where you belong, whatever low place you -have sprung from, and beg your bread--that is if anybody's charity -will have anything to do with you, which I doubt--" - -She would have gone on regardless of the enormous eyes, of the open -mouth of the girl who sat up suddenly with the wild staring -expression of being choked by invisible fingers on her throat, and -yet horribly pale. The effect on her constitution was so profound, -Mrs. Fyne told me, that she who as a child had a rather pretty -delicate colouring, showed a white bloodless face for a couple of -years afterwards, and remained always liable at the slightest -emotion to an extraordinary ghost-like whiteness. The end came in -the abomination of desolation of the poor child's miserable cry for -help: "Charley! Charley!" coming from her throat in hidden gasping -efforts. Her enlarged eyes had discovered him where he stood -motionless and dumb. - -He started from his immobility, a hand withdrawn brusquely from the -pocket of his overcoat, strode up to the woman, seized her by the -arm from behind, saying in a rough commanding tone: "Come away, -Eliza." In an instant the child saw them close together and remote, -near the door, gone through the door, which she neither heard nor -saw being opened or shut. But it was shut. Oh yes, it was shut. -Her slow unseeing glance wandered all over the room. For some time -longer she remained leaning forward, collecting her strength, -doubting if she would be able to stand. She stood up at last. -Everything about her spun round in an oppressive silence. She -remembered perfectly--as she told Mrs. Fyne--that clinging to the -arm of the chair she called out twice "Papa! Papa!" At the thought -that he was far away in London everything about her became quite -still. Then, frightened suddenly by the solitude of that empty -room, she rushed out of it blindly. - - -With that fatal diffidence in well doing, inherent in the present -condition of humanity, the Fynes continued to watch at their window. -"It's always so difficult to know what to do for the best," Fyne -assured me. It is. Good intentions stand in their own way so much. -Whereas if you want to do harm to anyone you needn't hesitate. You -have only to go on. No one will reproach you with your mistakes or -call you a confounded, clumsy meddler. The Fynes watched the door, -the closed street door inimical somehow to their benevolent -thoughts, the face of the house cruelly impenetrable. It was just -as on any other day. The unchanged daily aspect of inanimate things -is so impressive that Fyne went back into the room for a moment, -picked up the paper again, and ran his eyes over the item of news. -No doubt of it. It looked very bad. He came back to the window and -Mrs. Fyne. Tired out as she was she sat there resolute and ready -for responsibility. But she had no suggestion to offer. People do -fear a rebuff wonderfully, and all her audacity was in her thoughts. -She shrank from the incomparably insolent manner of the governess. -Fyne stood by her side, as in those old-fashioned photographs of -married couples where you see a husband with his hand on the back of -his wife's chair. And they were about as efficient as an old -photograph, and as still, till Mrs. Fyne started slightly. The -street door had swung open, and, bursting out, appeared the young -man, his hat (Mrs. Fyne observed) tilted forward over his eyes. -After him the governess slipped through, turning round at once to -shut the door behind her with care. Meantime the man went down the -white steps and strode along the pavement, his hands rammed deep -into the pockets of his fawn overcoat. The woman, that woman of -composed movements, of deliberate superior manner, took a little run -to catch up with him, and directly she had caught up with him tried -to introduce her hand under his arm. Mrs. Fyne saw the brusque half -turn of the fellow's body as one avoids an importunate contact, -defeating her attempt rudely. She did not try again but kept pace -with his stride, and Mrs. Fyne watched them, walking independently, -turn the corner of the street side by side, disappear for ever. - -The Fynes looked at each other eloquently, doubtfully: What do you -think of this? Then with common accord turned their eyes back to -the street door, closed, massive, dark; the great, clear-brass -knocker shining in a quiet slant of sunshine cut by a diagonal line -of heavy shade filling the further end of the street. Could the -girl be already gone? Sent away to her father? Had she any -relations? Nobody but de Barral himself ever came to see her, Mrs. -Fyne remembered; and she had the instantaneous, profound, maternal -perception of the child's loneliness--and a girl too! It was -irresistible. And, besides, the departure of the governess was not -without its encouraging influence. "I am going over at once to find -out," she declared resolutely but still staring across the street. -Her intention was arrested by the sight of that awful, sombrely -glistening door, swinging back suddenly on the yawning darkness of -the hall, out of which literally flew out, right out on the -pavement, almost without touching the white steps, a little figure -swathed in a holland pinafore up to the chin, its hair streaming -back from its head, darting past a lamp-post, past the red pillar- -box . . . "Here," cried Mrs. Fyne; "she's coming here! Run, John! -Run!" - -Fyne bounded out of the room. This is his own word. Bounded! He -assured me with intensified solemnity that he bounded; and the sight -of the short and muscular Fyne bounding gravely about the -circumscribed passages and staircases of a small, very high class, -private hotel, would have been worth any amount of money to a man -greedy of memorable impressions. But as I looked at him, the desire -of laughter at my very lips, I asked myself: how many men could be -found ready to compromise their cherished gravity for the sake of -the unimportant child of a ruined financier with an ugly, black -cloud already wreathing his head. I didn't laugh at little Fyne. I -encouraged him: "You did!--very good . . . Well?" - -His main thought was to save the child from some unpleasant -interference. There was a porter downstairs, page boys; some people -going away with their trunks in the passage; a railway omnibus at -the door, white-breasted waiters dodging about the entrance. - -He was in time. He was at the door before she reached it in her -blind course. She did not recognize him; perhaps she did not see -him. He caught her by the arm as she ran past and, very sensibly, -without trying to check her, simply darted in with her and up the -stairs, causing no end of consternation amongst the people in his -way. They scattered. What might have been their thoughts at the -spectacle of a shameless middle-aged man abducting headlong into the -upper regions of a respectable hotel a terrified young girl -obviously under age, I don't know. And Fyne (he told me so) did not -care for what people might think. All he wanted was to reach his -wife before the girl collapsed. For a time she ran with him but at -the last flight of stairs he had to seize and half drag, half carry -her to his wife. Mrs. Fyne waited at the door with her quite -unmoved physiognomy and her readiness to confront any sort of -responsibility, which already characterized her, long before she -became a ruthless theorist. Relieved, his mission accomplished, -Fyne closed hastily the door of the sitting-room. - -But before long both Fynes became frightened. After a period of -immobility in the arms of Mrs. Fyne, the girl, who had not said a -word, tore herself out from that slightly rigid embrace. She -struggled dumbly between them, they did not know why, soundless and -ghastly, till she sank exhausted on a couch. Luckily the children -were out with the two nurses. The hotel housemaid helped Mrs. Fyne -to put Flora de Barral to bed. She was as if gone speechless and -insane. She lay on her back, her face white like a piece of paper, -her dark eyes staring at the ceiling, her awful immobility broken by -sudden shivering fits with a loud chattering of teeth in the shadowy -silence of the room, the blinds pulled down, Mrs. Fyne sitting by -patiently, her arms folded, yet inwardly moved by the riddle of that -distress of which she could not guess the word, and saying to -herself: "That child is too emotional--much too emotional to be -ever really sound!" As if anyone not made of stone could be -perfectly sound in this world. And then how sound? In what sense-- -to resist what? Force or corruption? And even in the best armour -of steel there are joints a treacherous stroke can always find if -chance gives the opportunity. - -General considerations never had the power to trouble Mrs. Fyne -much. The girl not being in a state to be questioned she waited by -the bedside. Fyne had crossed over to the house, his scruples -overcome by his anxiety to discover what really had happened. He -did not have to lift the knocker; the door stood open on the inside -gloom of the hall; he walked into it and saw no one about, the -servants having assembled for a fatuous consultation in the -basement. Fyne's uplifted bass voice startled them down there, the -butler coming up, staring and in his shirt sleeves, very suspicious -at first, and then, on Fyne's explanation that he was the husband of -a lady who had called several times at the house--Miss de Barral's -mother's friend--becoming humanely concerned and communicative, in a -man to man tone, but preserving his trained high-class servant's -voice: "Oh bless you, sir, no! She does not mean to come back. -She told me so herself"--he assured Fyne with a faint shade of -contempt creeping into his tone. - -As regards their young lady nobody downstairs had any idea that she -had run out of the house. He dared say they all would have been -willing to do their very best for her, for the time being; but since -she was now with her mother's friends . . . - -He fidgeted. He murmured that all this was very unexpected. He -wanted to know what he had better do with letters or telegrams which -might arrive in the course of the day. - -"Letters addressed to Miss de Barral, you had better bring over to -my hotel over there," said Fyne beginning to feel extremely worried -about the future. The man said "Yes, sir," adding, "and if a letter -comes addressed to Mrs. . . . " - -Fyne stopped him by a gesture. "I don't know . . . Anything you -like." - -"Very well, sir." - -The butler did not shut the street door after Fyne, but remained on -the doorstep for a while, looking up and down the street in the -spirit of independent expectation like a man who is again his own -master. Mrs. Fyne hearing her husband return came out of the room -where the girl was lying in bed. "No change," she whispered; and -Fyne could only make a hopeless sign of ignorance as to what all -this meant and how it would end. - -He feared future complications--naturally; a man of limited means, -in a public position, his time not his own. Yes. He owned to me in -the parlour of my farmhouse that he had been very much concerned -then at the possible consequences. But as he was making this -artless confession I said to myself that, whatever consequences and -complications he might have imagined, the complication from which he -was suffering now could never, never have presented itself to his -mind. Slow but sure (for I conceive that the Book of Destiny has -been written up from the beginning to the last page) it had been -coming for something like six years--and now it had come. The -complication was there! I looked at his unshaken solemnity with the -amused pity we give the victim of a funny if somewhat ill-natured -practical joke. - -"Oh hang it," he exclaimed--in no logical connection with what he -had been relating to me. Nevertheless the exclamation was -intelligible enough. - -However at first there were, he admitted, no untoward complications, -no embarrassing consequences. To a telegram in guarded terms -dispatched to de Barral no answer was received for more than twenty- -four hours. This certainly caused the Fynes some anxiety. When the -answer arrived late on the evening of next day it was in the shape -of an elderly man. An unexpected sort of man. Fyne explained to me -with precision that he evidently belonged to what is most -respectable in the lower middle classes. He was calm and slow in -his speech. He was wearing a frock-coat, had grey whiskers meeting -under his chin, and declared on entering that Mr. de Barral was his -cousin. He hastened to add that he had not seen his cousin for many -years, while he looked upon Fyne (who received him alone) with so -much distrust that Fyne felt hurt (the person actually refusing at -first the chair offered to him) and retorted tartly that he, for his -part, had NEVER seen Mr. de Barral, in his life, and that, since the -visitor did not want to sit down, he, Fyne, begged him to state his -business as shortly as possible. The man in black sat down then -with a faint superior smile. - -He had come for the girl. His cousin had asked him in a note -delivered by a messenger to go to Brighton at once and take "his -girl" over from a gentleman named Fyne and give her house-room for a -time in his family. And there he was. His business had not allowed -him to come sooner. His business was the manufacture on a large -scale of cardboard boxes. He had two grown-up girls of his own. He -had consulted his wife and so that was all right. The girl would -get a welcome in his home. His home most likely was not what she -had been used to but, etc. etc. - -All the time Fyne felt subtly in that man's manner a derisive -disapproval of everything that was not lower middle class, a -profound respect for money, a mean sort of contempt for speculators -that fail, and a conceited satisfaction with his own respectable -vulgarity. - -With Mrs. Fyne the manner of the obscure cousin of de Barral was but -little less offensive. He looked at her rather slyly but her cold, -decided demeanour impressed him. Mrs. Fyne on her side was simply -appalled by the personage, but did not show it outwardly. Not even -when the man remarked with false simplicity that Florrie--her name -was Florrie wasn't it? would probably miss at first all her grand -friends. And when he was informed that the girl was in bed, not -feeling well at all he showed an unsympathetic alarm. She wasn't an -invalid was she? No. What was the matter with her then? - -An extreme distaste for that respectable member of society was -depicted in Fyne's face even as he was telling me of him after all -these years. He was a specimen of precisely the class of which -people like the Fynes have the least experience; and I imagine he -jarred on them painfully. He possessed all the civic virtues in -their very meanest form, and the finishing touch was given by a low -sort of consciousness he manifested of possessing them. His -industry was exemplary. He wished to catch the earliest possible -train next morning. It seems that for seven and twenty years he had -never missed being seated on his office-stool at the factory -punctually at ten o'clock every day. He listened to Mrs. Fyne's -objections with undisguised impatience. Why couldn't Florrie get up -and have her breakfast at eight like other people? In his house the -breakfast was at eight sharp. Mrs. Fyne's polite stoicism overcame -him at last. He had come down at a very great personal -inconvenience, he assured her with displeasure, but he gave up the -early train. - -The good Fynes didn't dare to look at each other before this -unforeseen but perfectly authorized guardian, the same thought -springing up in their minds: Poor girl! Poor girl! If the women -of the family were like this too! . . . And of course they would be. -Poor girl! But what could they have done even if they had been -prepared to raise objections. The person in the frock-coat had the -father's note; he had shown it to Fyne. Just a request to take care -of the girl--as her nearest relative--without any explanation or a -single allusion to the financial catastrophe, its tone strangely -detached and in its very silence on the point giving occasion to -think that the writer was not uneasy as to the child's future. -Probably it was that very idea which had set the cousin so readily -in motion. Men had come before out of commercial crashes with -estates in the country and a comfortable income, if not for -themselves then for their wives. And if a wife could be made -comfortable by a little dexterous management then why not a -daughter? Yes. This possibility might have been discussed in the -person's household and judged worth acting upon. - -The man actually hinted broadly that such was his belief and in face -of Fyne's guarded replies gave him to understand that he was not the -dupe of such reticences. Obviously he looked upon the Fynes as -being disappointed because the girl was taken away from them. They, -by a diplomatic sacrifice in the interests of poor Flora, had asked -the man to dinner. He accepted ungraciously, remarking that he was -not used to late hours. He had generally a bit of supper about -half-past eight or nine. However . . . - -He gazed contemptuously round the prettily decorated dining-room. -He wrinkled his nose in a puzzled way at the dishes offered to him -by the waiter but refused none, devouring the food with a great -appetite and drinking ("swilling" Fyne called it) gallons of ginger -beer, which was procured for him (in stone bottles) at his request. -The difficulty of keeping up a conversation with that being -exhausted Mrs. Fyne herself, who had come to the table armed with -adamantine resolution. The only memorable thing he said was when, -in a pause of gorging himself "with these French dishes" he -deliberately let his eyes roam over the little tables occupied by -parties of diners, and remarked that his wife did for a moment think -of coming down with him, but that he was glad she didn't do so. -"She wouldn't have been at all happy seeing all this alcohol about. -Not at all happy," he declared weightily. - -"You must have had a charming evening," I said to Fyne, "if I may -judge from the way you have kept the memory green." - -"Delightful," he growled with, positively, a flash of anger at the -recollection, but lapsed back into his solemnity at once. After we -had been silent for a while I asked whether the man took away the -girl next day. - -Fyne said that he did; in the afternoon, in a fly, with a few -clothes the maid had got together and brought across from the big -house. He only saw Flora again ten minutes before they left for the -railway station, in the Fynes' sitting-room at the hotel. It was a -most painful ten minutes for the Fynes. The respectable citizen -addressed Miss de Barral as "Florrie" and "my dear," remarking to -her that she was not very big "there's not much of you my dear" in a -familiarly disparaging tone. Then turning to Mrs. Fyne, and quite -loud "She's very white in the face. Why's that?" To this Mrs. Fyne -made no reply. She had put the girl's hair up that morning with her -own hands. It changed her very much, observed Fyne. He, naturally, -played a subordinate, merely approving part. All he could do for -Miss de Barral personally was to go downstairs and put her into the -fly himself, while Miss de Barral's nearest relation, having been -shouldered out of the way, stood by, with an umbrella and a little -black bag, watching this proceeding with grim amusement, as it -seemed. It was difficult to guess what the girl thought or what she -felt. She no longer looked a child. She whispered to Fyne a faint -"Thank you," from the fly, and he said to her in very distinct tones -and while still holding her hand: "Pray don't forget to write fully -to my wife in a day or two, Miss de Barral." Then Fyne stepped back -and the cousin climbed into the fly muttering quite audibly: "I -don't think you'll be troubled much with her in the future;" without -however looking at Fyne on whom he did not even bestow a nod. The -fly drove away. - - - -CHAPTER FIVE--THE TEA-PARTY - - - -"Amiable personality," I observed seeing Fyne on the point of -falling into a brown study. But I could not help adding with -meaning: "He hadn't the gift of prophecy though." - -Fyne got up suddenly with a muttered "No, evidently not." He was -gloomy, hesitating. I supposed that he would not wish to play chess -that afternoon. This would dispense me from leaving my rooms on a -day much too fine to be wasted in walking exercise. And I was -disappointed when picking up his cap he intimated to me his hope of -seeing me at the cottage about four o'clock--as usual. - -"It wouldn't be as usual." I put a particular stress on that -remark. He admitted, after a short reflection, that it would not -be. No. Not as usual. In fact it was his wife who hoped, rather, -for my presence. She had formed a very favourable opinion of my -practical sagacity. - -This was the first I ever heard of it. I had never suspected that -Mrs. Fyne had taken the trouble to distinguish in me the signs of -sagacity or folly. The few words we had exchanged last night in the -excitement--or the bother--of the girl's disappearance, were the -first moderately significant words which had ever passed between us. -I had felt myself always to be in Mrs. Fyne's view her husband's -chess-player and nothing else--a convenience--almost an implement. - -"I am highly flattered," I said. "I have always heard that there -are no limits to feminine intuition; and now I am half inclined to -believe it is so. But still I fail to see in what way my sagacity, -practical or otherwise, can be of any service to Mrs. Fyne. One -man's sagacity is very much like any other man's sagacity. And with -you at hand--" - -Fyne, manifestly not attending to what I was saying, directed -straight at me his worried solemn eyes and struck in: - -"Yes, yes. Very likely. But you will come--won't you?" - -I had made up my mind that no Fyne of either sex would make me walk -three miles (there and back to their cottage) on this fine day. If -the Fynes had been an average sociable couple one knows only because -leisure must be got through somehow, I would have made short work of -that special invitation. But they were not that. Their undeniable -humanity had to be acknowledged. At the same time I wanted to have -my own way. So I proposed that I should be allowed the pleasure of -offering them a cup of tea at my rooms. - -A short reflective pause--and Fyne accepted eagerly in his own and -his wife's name. A moment after I heard the click of the gate-latch -and then in an ecstasy of barking from his demonstrative dog his -serious head went past my window on the other side of the hedge, its -troubled gaze fixed forward, and the mind inside obviously employed -in earnest speculation of an intricate nature. One at least of his -wife's girl-friends had become more than a mere shadow for him. I -surmised however that it was not of the girl-friend but of his wife -that Fyne was thinking. He was an excellent husband. - -I prepared myself for the afternoon's hospitalities, calling in the -farmer's wife and reviewing with her the resources of the house and -the village. She was a helpful woman. But the resources of my -sagacity I did not review. Except in the gross material sense of -the afternoon tea I made no preparations for Mrs. Fyne. - -It was impossible for me to make any such preparations. I could not -tell what sort of sustenance she would look for from my sagacity. -And as to taking stock of the wares of my mind no one I imagine is -anxious to do that sort of thing if it can be avoided. A vaguely -grandiose state of mental self-confidence is much too agreeable to -be disturbed recklessly by such a delicate investigation. Perhaps -if I had had a helpful woman at my elbow, a dear, flattering acute, -devoted woman . . . There are in life moments when one positively -regrets not being married. No! I don't exaggerate. I have said-- -moments, not years or even days. Moments. The farmer's wife -obviously could not be asked to assist. She could not have been -expected to possess the necessary insight and I doubt whether she -would have known how to be flattering enough. She was being helpful -in her own way, with an extraordinary black bonnet on her head, a -good mile off by that time, trying to discover in the village shops -a piece of eatable cake. The pluck of women! The optimism of the -dear creatures! - -And she managed to find something which looked eatable. That's all -I know as I had no opportunity to observe the more intimate effects -of that comestible. I myself never eat cake, and Mrs. Fyne, when -she arrived punctually, brought with her no appetite for cake. She -had no appetite for anything. But she had a thirst--the sign of -deep, of tormenting emotion. Yes it was emotion, not the brilliant -sunshine--more brilliant than warm as is the way of our discreet -self-repressed, distinguished, insular sun, which would not turn a -real lady scarlet--not on any account. Mrs. Fyne looked even cool. -She wore a white skirt and coat; a white hat with a large brim -reposed on her smoothly arranged hair. The coat was cut something -like an army mess-jacket and the style suited her. I dare say there -are many youthful subalterns, and not the worst-looking too, who -resemble Mrs. Fyne in the type of face, in the sunburnt complexion, -down to that something alert in bearing. But not many would have -had that aspect breathing a readiness to assume any responsibility -under Heaven. This is the sort of courage which ripens late in life -and of course Mrs. Fyne was of mature years for all her unwrinkled -face. - -She looked round the room, told me positively that I was very -comfortable there; to which I assented, humbly, acknowledging my -undeserved good fortune. - -"Why undeserved?" she wanted to know. - -"I engaged these rooms by letter without asking any questions. It -might have been an abominable hole," I explained to her. "I always -do things like that. I don't like to be bothered. This is no great -proof of sagacity--is it? Sagacious people I believe like to -exercise that faculty. I have heard that they can't even help -showing it in the veriest trifles. It must be very delightful. But -I know nothing of it. I think that I have no sagacity--no practical -sagacity." - -Fyne made an inarticulate bass murmur of protest. I asked after the -children whom I had not seen yet since my return from town. They -had been very well. They were always well. Both Fyne and Mrs. Fyne -spoke of the rude health of their children as if it were a result of -moral excellence; in a peculiar tone which seemed to imply some -contempt for people whose children were liable to be unwell at -times. One almost felt inclined to apologize for the inquiry. And -this annoyed me; unreasonably, I admit, because the assumption of -superior merit is not a very exceptional weakness. Anxious to make -myself disagreeable by way of retaliation I observed in accents of -interested civility that the dear girls must have been wondering at -the sudden disappearance of their mother's young friend. Had they -been putting any awkward questions about Miss Smith. Wasn't it as -Miss Smith that Miss de Barral had been introduced to me? - -Mrs. Fyne, staring fixedly but also colouring deeper under her tan, -told me that the children had never liked Flora very much. She -hadn't the high spirits which endear grown-ups to healthy children, -Mrs. Fyne explained unflinchingly. Flora had been staying at the -cottage several times before. Mrs. Fyne assured me that she often -found it very difficult to have her in the house. - -"But what else could we do?" she exclaimed. - -That little cry of distress quite genuine in its inexpressiveness, -altered my feeling towards Mrs. Fyne. It would have been so easy to -have done nothing and to have thought no more about it. My liking -for her began while she was trying to tell me of the night she spent -by the girl's bedside, the night before her departure with her -unprepossessing relative. That Mrs. Fyne found means to comfort the -child I doubt very much. She had not the genius for the task of -undoing that which the hate of an infuriated woman had planned so -well. - -You will tell me perhaps that children's impressions are not -durable. That's true enough. But here, child is only a manner of -speaking. The girl was within a few days of her sixteenth birthday; -she was old enough to be matured by the shock. The very effort she -had to make in conveying the impression to Mrs. Fyne, in remembering -the details, in finding adequate words--or any words at all--was in -itself a terribly enlightening, an ageing process. She had talked a -long time, uninterrupted by Mrs. Fyne, childlike enough in her -wonder and pain, pausing now and then to interject the pitiful -query: "It was cruel of her. Wasn't it cruel, Mrs. Fyne?" - -For Charley she found excuses. He at any rate had not said -anything, while he had looked very gloomy and miserable. He -couldn't have taken part against his aunt--could he? But after all -he did, when she called upon him, take "that cruel woman away." He -had dragged her out by the arm. She had seen that plainly. She -remembered it. That was it! The woman was mad. "Oh! Mrs. Fyne, -don't tell me she wasn't mad. If you had only seen her face . . . " - -But Mrs. Fyne was unflinching in her idea that as much truth as -could be told was due in the way of kindness to the girl, whose fate -she feared would be to live exposed to the hardest realities of -unprivileged existences. She explained to her that there were in -the world evil-minded, selfish people. Unscrupulous people . . . -These two persons had been after her father's money. The best thing -she could do was to forget all about them. - -"After papa's money? I don't understand," poor Flora de Barral had -murmured, and lay still as if trying to think it out in the silence -and shadows of the room where only a night-light was burning. Then -she had a long shivering fit while holding tight the hand of Mrs. -Fyne whose patient immobility by the bedside of that brutally -murdered childhood did infinite honour to her humanity. That vigil -must have been the more trying because I could see very well that at -no time did she think the victim particularly charming or -sympathetic. It was a manifestation of pure compassion, of -compassion in itself, so to speak, not many women would have been -capable of displaying with that unflinching steadiness. The -shivering fit over, the girl's next words in an outburst of sobs -were, "Oh! Mrs. Fyne, am I really such a horrid thing as she has -made me out to be?" - -"No, no!" protested Mrs. Fyne. "It is your former governess who is -horrid and odious. She is a vile woman. I cannot tell you that she -was mad but I think she must have been beside herself with rage and -full of evil thoughts. You must try not to think of these -abominations, my dear child." - -They were not fit for anyone to think of much, Mrs. Fyne commented -to me in a curt positive tone. All that had been very trying. The -girl was like a creature struggling under a net. - -"But how can I forget? she called my father a cheat and a swindler! -Do tell me Mrs. Fyne that it isn't true. It can't be true. How can -it be true?" - -She sat up in bed with a sudden wild motion as if to jump out and -flee away from the sound of the words which had just passed her own -lips. Mrs. Fyne restrained her, soothed her, induced her at last to -lay her head on her pillow again, assuring her all the time that -nothing this woman had had the cruelty to say deserved to be taken -to heart. The girl, exhausted, cried quietly for a time. It may be -she had noticed something evasive in Mrs. Fyne's assurances. After -a while, without stirring, she whispered brokenly: - -"That awful woman told me that all the world would call papa these -awful names. Is it possible? Is it possible?" - -Mrs. Fyne kept silent. - -"Do say something to me, Mrs. Fyne," the daughter of de Barral -insisted in the same feeble whisper. - -Again Mrs. Fyne assured me that it had been very trying. Terribly -trying. "Yes, thanks, I will." She leaned back in the chair with -folded arms while I poured another cup of tea for her, and Fyne went -out to pacify the dog which, tied up under the porch, had become -suddenly very indignant at somebody having the audacity to walk -along the lane. Mrs. Fyne stirred her tea for a long time, drank a -little, put the cup down and said with that air of accepting all the -consequences: - -"Silence would have been unfair. I don't think it would have been -kind either. I told her that she must be prepared for the world -passing a very severe judgment on her father . . . " - - -"Wasn't it admirable," cried Marlow interrupting his narrative. -"Admirable!" And as I looked dubiously at this unexpected -enthusiasm he started justifying it after his own manner. - -"I say admirable because it was so characteristic. It was perfect. -Nothing short of genius could have found better. And this was -nature! As they say of an artist's work: this was a perfect Fyne. -Compassion--judiciousness--something correctly measured. None of -your dishevelled sentiment. And right! You must confess that -nothing could have been more right. I had a mind to shout "Brava! -Brava!" but I did not do that. I took a piece of cake and went out -to bribe the Fyne dog into some sort of self-control. His sharp -comical yapping was unbearable, like stabs through one's brain, and -Fyne's deeply modulated remonstrances abashed the vivacious animal -no more than the deep, patient murmur of the sea abashes a nigger -minstrel on a popular beach. Fyne was beginning to swear at him in -low, sepulchral tones when I appeared. The dog became at once -wildly demonstrative, half strangling himself in his collar, his -eyes and tongue hanging out in the excess of his incomprehensible -affection for me. This was before he caught sight of the cake in my -hand. A series of vertical springs high up in the air followed, and -then, when he got the cake, he instantly lost his interest in -everything else. - -Fyne was slightly vexed with me. As kind a master as any dog could -wish to have, he yet did not approve of cake being given to dogs. -The Fyne dog was supposed to lead a Spartan existence on a diet of -repulsive biscuits with an occasional dry, hygienic, bone thrown in. -Fyne looked down gloomily at the appeased animal, I too looked at -that fool-dog; and (you know how one's memory gets suddenly -stimulated) I was reminded visually, with an almost painful -distinctness, of the ghostly white face of the girl I saw last -accompanied by that dog--deserted by that dog. I almost heard her -distressed voice as if on the verge of resentful tears calling to -the dog, the unsympathetic dog. Perhaps she had not the power of -evoking sympathy, that personal gift of direct appeal to the -feelings. I said to Fyne, mistrusting the supine attitude of the -dog: - -"Why don't you let him come inside?" - -Oh dear no! He couldn't think of it! I might indeed have saved my -breath, I knew it was one of the Fynes' rules of life, part of their -solemnity and responsibility, one of those things that were part of -their unassertive but ever present superiority, that their dog must -not be allowed in. It was most improper to intrude the dog into the -houses of the people they were calling on--if it were only a -careless bachelor in farmhouse lodgings and a personal friend of the -dog. It was out of the question. But they would let him bark one's -sanity away outside one's window. They were strangely consistent in -their lack of imaginative sympathy. I didn't insist but simply led -the way back to the parlour, hoping that no wayfarer would happen -along the lane for the next hour or so to disturb the dog's -composure. - -Mrs. Fyne seated immovable before the table charged with plates, -cups, jugs, a cold teapot, crumbs, and the general litter of the -entertainment turned her head towards us. - -"You see, Mr. Marlow," she said in an unexpectedly confidential -tone: "they are so utterly unsuited for each other." - -At the moment I did not know how to apply this remark. I thought at -first of Fyne and the dog. Then I adjusted it to the matter in hand -which was neither more nor less than an elopement. Yes, by Jove! -It was something very much like an elopement--with certain unusual -characteristics of its own which made it in a sense equivocal. With -amused wonder I remembered that my sagacity was requisitioned in -such a connection. How unexpected! But we never know what tests -our gifts may be put to. Sagacity dictated caution first of all. I -believe caution to be the first duty of sagacity. Fyne sat down as -if preparing himself to witness a joust, I thought. - -"Do you think so, Mrs. Fyne?" I said sagaciously. "Of course you -are in a position . . . " I was continuing with caution when she -struck out vivaciously for immediate assent. - -"Obviously! Clearly! You yourself must admit . . . " - -"But, Mrs. Fyne," I remonstrated, "you forget that I don't know your -brother." - -This argument which was not only sagacious but true, overwhelmingly -true, unanswerably true, seemed to surprise her. - -I wondered why. I did not know enough of her brother for the -remotest guess at what he might be like. I had never set eyes on -the man. I didn't know him so completely that by contrast I seemed -to have known Miss de Barral--whom I had seen twice (altogether -about sixty minutes) and with whom I had exchanged about sixty -words--from the cradle so to speak. And perhaps, I thought, looking -down at Mrs. Fyne (I had remained standing) perhaps she thinks that -this ought to be enough for a sagacious assent. - -She kept silent; and I looking at her with polite expectation, went -on addressing her mentally in a mood of familiar approval which -would have astonished her had it been audible: You my dear at any -rate are a sincere woman . . . " - -"I call a woman sincere," Marlow began again after giving me a cigar -and lighting one himself, "I call a woman sincere when she -volunteers a statement resembling remotely in form what she really -would like to say, what she really thinks ought to be said if it -were not for the necessity to spare the stupid sensitiveness of men. -The women's rougher, simpler, more upright judgment, embraces the -whole truth, which their tact, their mistrust of masculine idealism, -ever prevents them from speaking in its entirety. And their tact is -unerring. We could not stand women speaking the truth. We could -not bear it. It would cause infinite misery and bring about most -awful disturbances in this rather mediocre, but still idealistic -fool's paradise in which each of us lives his own little life--the -unit in the great sum of existence. And they know it. They are -merciful. This generalization does not apply exactly to Mrs. Fyne's -outburst of sincerity in a matter in which neither my affections nor -my vanity were engaged. That's why, may be, she ventured so far. -For a woman she chose to be as open as the day with me. There was -not only the form but almost the whole substance of her thought in -what she said. She believed she could risk it. She had reasoned -somewhat in this way; there's a man, possessing a certain amount of -sagacity . . . " - -Marlow paused with a whimsical look at me. The last few words he -had spoken with the cigar in his teeth. He took it out now by an -ample movement of his arm and blew a thin cloud. - -"You smile? It would have been more kind to spare my blushes. But -as a matter of fact I need not blush. This is not vanity; it is -analysis. We'll let sagacity stand. But we must also note what -sagacity in this connection stands for. When you see this you shall -see also that there was nothing in it to alarm my modesty. I don't -think Mrs. Fyne credited me with the possession of wisdom tempered -by common sense. And had I had the wisdom of the Seven Sages of -Antiquity, she would not have been moved to confidence or -admiration. The secret scorn of women for the capacity to consider -judiciously and to express profoundly a meditated conclusion is -unbounded. They have no use for these lofty exercises which they -look upon as a sort of purely masculine game--game meaning a -respectable occupation devised to kill time in this man-arranged -life which must be got through somehow. What women's acuteness -really respects are the inept "ideas" and the sheeplike impulses by -which our actions and opinions are determined in matters of real -importance. For if women are not rational they are indeed acute. -Even Mrs. Fyne was acute. The good woman was making up to her -husband's chess-player simply because she had scented in him that -small portion of 'femininity,' that drop of superior essence of -which I am myself aware; which, I gratefully acknowledge, has saved -me from one or two misadventures in my life either ridiculous or -lamentable, I am not very certain which. It matters very little. -Anyhow misadventures. Observe that I say 'femininity,' a privilege- --not 'feminism,' an attitude. I am not a feminist. It was Fyne who -on certain solemn grounds had adopted that mental attitude; but it -was enough to glance at him sitting on one side, to see that he was -purely masculine to his finger-tips, masculine solidly, densely, -amusingly,--hopelessly. - -I did glance at him. You don't get your sagacity recognized by a -man's wife without feeling the propriety and even the need to glance -at the man now and again. So I glanced at him. Very masculine. So -much so that "hopelessly" was not the last word of it. He was -helpless. He was bound and delivered by it. And if by the obscure -promptings of my composite temperament I beheld him with malicious -amusement, yet being in fact, by definition and especially from -profound conviction, a man, I could not help sympathizing with him -largely. Seeing him thus disarmed, so completely captive by the -very nature of things I was moved to speak to him kindly. - -"Well. And what do you think of it?" - -"I don't know. How's one to tell? But I say that the thing is done -now and there's an end of it," said the masculine creature as -bluntly as his innate solemnity permitted. - -Mrs. Fyne moved a little in her chair. I turned to her and remarked -gently that this was a charge, a criticism, which was often made. -Some people always ask: What could he see in her? Others wonder -what she could have seen in him? Expressions of unsuitability. - -She said with all the emphasis of her quietly folded arms: - -"I know perfectly well what Flora has seen in my brother." - -I bowed my head to the gust but pursued my point. - -"And then the marriage in most cases turns out no worse than the -average, to say the least of it." - -Mrs. Fyne was disappointed by the optimistic turn of my sagacity. -She rested her eyes on my face as though in doubt whether I had -enough femininity in my composition to understand the case. - -I waited for her to speak. She seemed to be asking herself; Is it -after all, worth while to talk to that man? You understand how -provoking this was. I looked in my mind for something appallingly -stupid to say, with the object of distressing and teasing Mrs. Fyne. -It is humiliating to confess a failure. One would think that a man -of average intelligence could command stupidity at will. But it -isn't so. I suppose it's a special gift or else the difficulty -consists in being relevant. Discovering that I could find no really -telling stupidity, I turned to the next best thing; a platitude. I -advanced, in a common-sense tone, that, surely, in the matter of -marriage a man had only himself to please. - -Mrs. Fyne received this without the flutter of an eyelid. Fyne's -masculine breast, as might have been expected, was pierced by that -old, regulation shaft. He grunted most feelingly. I turned to him -with false simplicity. "Don't you agree with me?" - -"The very thing I've been telling my wife," he exclaimed in his -extra-manly bass. "We have been discussing--" - -A discussion in the Fyne menage! How portentous! Perhaps the very -first difference they had ever had: Mrs. Fyne unflinching and ready -for any responsibility, Fyne solemn and shrinking--the children in -bed upstairs; and outside the dark fields, the shadowy contours of -the land on the starry background of the universe, with the crude -light of the open window like a beacon for the truant who would -never come back now; a truant no longer but a downright fugitive. -Yet a fugitive carrying off spoils. It was the flight of a raider-- -or a traitor? This affair of the purloined brother, as I had named -it to myself, had a very puzzling physiognomy. The girl must have -been desperate, I thought, hearing the grave voice of Fyne well -enough but catching the sense of his words not at all, except the -very last words which were: - -"Of course, it's extremely distressing." - -I looked at him inquisitively. What was distressing him? The -purloining of the son of the poet-tyrant by the daughter of the -financier-convict. Or only, if I may say so, the wind of their -flight disturbing the solemn placidity of the Fynes' domestic -atmosphere. My incertitude did not last long, for he added: - -"Mrs. Fyne urges me to go to London at once." - -One could guess at, almost see, his profound distaste for the -journey, his distress at a difference of feeling with his wife. -With his serious view of the sublunary comedy Fyne suffered from not -being able to agree solemnly with her sentiment as he was accustomed -to do, in recognition of having had his way in one supreme instance; -when he made her elope with him--the most momentous step imaginable -in a young lady's life. He had been really trying to acknowledge it -by taking the rightness of her feeling for granted on every other -occasion. It had become a sort of habit at last. And it is never -pleasant to break a habit. The man was deeply troubled. I said: -"Really! To go to London!" - -He looked dumbly into my eyes. It was pathetic and funny. "And you -of course feel it would be useless," I pursued. - -He evidently felt that, though he said nothing. He only went on -blinking at me with a solemn and comical slowness. "Unless it be to -carry there the family's blessing," I went on, indulging my chaffing -humour steadily, in a rather sneaking fashion, for I dared not look -at Mrs. Fyne, to my right. No sound or movement came from that -direction. "You think very naturally that to match mere good, sound -reasons, against the passionate conclusions of love is a waste of -intellect bordering on the absurd." - -He looked surprised as if I had discovered something very clever. -He, dear man, had thought of nothing at all. - -He simply knew that he did not want to go to London on that mission. -Mere masculine delicacy. In a moment he became enthusiastic. - -"Yes! Yes! Exactly. A man in love . . . You hear, my dear? Here -you have an independent opinion--" - -"Can anything be more hopeless," I insisted to the fascinated little -Fyne, "than to pit reason against love. I must confess however that -in this case when I think of that poor girl's sharp chin I wonder if -. . . " - -My levity was too much for Mrs. Fyne. Still leaning back in her -chair she exclaimed: - -"Mr. Marlow!" - - -As if mysteriously affected by her indignation the absurd Fyne dog -began to bark in the porch. It might have been at a trespassing -bumble-bee however. That animal was capable of any eccentricity. -Fyne got up quickly and went out to him. I think he was glad to -leave us alone to discuss that matter of his journey to London. A -sort of anti-sentimental journey. He, too, apparently, had -confidence in my sagacity. It was touching, this confidence. It -was at any rate more genuine than the confidence his wife pretended -to have in her husband's chess-player, of three successive holidays. -Confidence be hanged! Sagacity--indeed! She had simply marched in -without a shadow of misgiving to make me back her up. But she had -delivered herself into my hands . . . " - -Interrupting his narrative Marlow addressed me in his tone between -grim jest and grim earnest: - -"Perhaps you didn't know that my character is upon the whole rather -vindictive." - -"No, I didn't know," I said with a grin. "That's rather unusual for -a sailor. They always seemed to me the least vindictive body of men -in the world." - -"H'm! Simple souls," Marlow muttered moodily. "Want of -opportunity. The world leaves them alone for the most part. For -myself it's towards women that I feel vindictive mostly, in my small -way. I admit that it is small. But then the occasions in -themselves are not great. Mainly I resent that pretence of winding -us round their dear little fingers, as of right. Not that the -result ever amounts to much generally. There are so very few -momentous opportunities. It is the assumption that each of us is a -combination of a kid and an imbecile which I find provoking--in a -small way; in a very small way. You needn't stare as though I were -breathing fire and smoke out of my nostrils. I am not a women- -devouring monster. I am not even what is technically called "a -brute." I hope there's enough of a kid and an imbecile in me to -answer the requirements of some really good woman eventually--some -day . . . Some day. Why do you gasp? You don't suppose I should be -afraid of getting married? That supposition would be offensive . . -. " - -"I wouldn't dream of offending you," I said. - -"Very well. But meantime please remember that I was not married to -Mrs. Fyne. That lady's little finger was none of my legal property. -I had not run off with it. It was Fyne who had done that thing. -Let him be wound round as much as his backbone could stand--or even -more, for all I cared. His rushing away from the discussion on the -transparent pretence of quieting the dog confirmed my notion of -there being a considerable strain on his elasticity. I confronted -Mrs. Fyne resolved not to assist her in her eminently feminine -occupation of thrusting a stick in the spokes of another woman's -wheel. - -She tried to preserve her calm-eyed superiority. She was familiar -and olympian, fenced in by the tea-table, that excellent symbol of -domestic life in its lighter hour and its perfect security. In a -few severely unadorned words she gave me to understand that she had -ventured to hope for some really helpful suggestion from me. To -this almost chiding declaration--because my vindictiveness seldom -goes further than a bit of teasing--I said that I was really doing -my best. And being a physiognomist . . . " - -"Being what?" she interrupted me. - -"A physiognomist," I repeated raising my voice a little. "A -physiognomist, Mrs. Fyne. And on the principles of that science a -pointed little chin is a sufficient ground for interference. You -want to interfere--do you not?" - -Her eyes grew distinctly bigger. She had never been bantered before -in her life. The late subtle poet's method of making himself -unpleasant was merely savage and abusive. Fyne had been always -solemnly subservient. What other men she knew I cannot tell but I -assume they must have been gentlemanly creatures. The girl-friends -sat at her feet. How could she recognize my intention. She didn't -know what to make of my tone. - -"Are you serious in what you say?" she asked slowly. And it was -touching. It was as if a very young, confiding girl had spoken. I -felt myself relenting. - -"No. I am not, Mrs. Fyne," I said. "I didn't know I was expected -to be serious as well as sagacious. No. That science is farcical -and therefore I am not serious. It's true that most sciences are -farcical except those which teach us how to put things together." - -"The question is how to keep these two people apart," she struck in. -She had recovered. I admired the quickness of women's wit. Mental -agility is a rare perfection. And aren't they agile! Aren't they-- -just! And tenacious! When they once get hold you may uproot the -tree but you won't shake them off the branch. In fact the more you -shake . . . But only look at the charm of contradictory perfections! -No wonder men give in--generally. I won't say I was actually -charmed by Mrs. Fyne. I was not delighted with her. What affected -me was not what she displayed but something which she could not -conceal. And that was emotion--nothing less. The form of her -declaration was dry, almost peremptory--but not its tone. Her voice -faltered just the least bit, she smiled faintly; and as we were -looking straight at each other I observed that her eyes were -glistening in a peculiar manner. She was distressed. And indeed -that Mrs. Fyne should have appealed to me at all was in itself the -evidence of her profound distress. "By Jove she's desperate too," I -thought. This discovery was followed by a movement of instinctive -shrinking from this unreasonable and unmasculine affair. They were -all alike, with their supreme interest aroused only by fighting with -each other about some man: a lover, a son, a brother. - -"But do you think there's time yet to do anything?" I asked. - -She had an impatient movement of her shoulders without detaching -herself from the back of the chair. Time! Of course? It was less -than forty-eight hours since she had followed him to London . . . I -am no great clerk at those matters but I murmured vaguely an -allusion to special licences. We couldn't tell what might have -happened to-day already. But she knew better, scornfully. Nothing -had happened. - -"Nothing's likely to happen before next Friday week,--if then." - -This was wonderfully precise. Then after a pause she added that she -should never forgive herself if some effort were not made, an -appeal. - -"To your brother?" I asked. - -"Yes. John ought to go to-morrow. Nine o'clock train." - -"So early as that!" I said. But I could not find it in my heart to -pursue this discussion in a jocular tone. I submitted to her -several obvious arguments, dictated apparently by common sense but -in reality by my secret compassion. Mrs. Fyne brushed them aside, -with the semi-conscious egoism of all safe, established, existences. -They had known each other so little. Just three weeks. And of that -time, too short for the birth of any serious sentiment, the first -week had to be deducted. They would hardly look at each other to -begin with. Flora barely consented to acknowledge Captain Anthony's -presence. Good morning--good night--that was all--absolutely the -whole extent of their intercourse. Captain Anthony was a silent -man, completely unused to the society of girls of any sort and so -shy in fact that he avoided raising his eyes to her face at the -table. It was perfectly absurd. It was even inconvenient, -embarrassing to her--Mrs. Fyne. After breakfast Flora would go off -by herself for a long walk and Captain Anthony (Mrs. Fyne referred -to him at times also as Roderick) joined the children. But he was -actually too shy to get on terms with his own nieces. - -This would have sounded pathetic if I hadn't known the Fyne children -who were at the same time solemn and malicious, and nursed a secret -contempt for all the world. No one could get on terms with those -fresh and comely young monsters! They just tolerated their parents -and seemed to have a sort of mocking understanding among themselves -against all outsiders, yet with no visible affection for each other. -They had the habit of exchanging derisive glances which to a shy man -must have been very trying. They thought their uncle no doubt a -bore and perhaps an ass. - -I was not surprised to hear that very soon Anthony formed the habit -of crossing the two neighbouring fields to seek the shade of a clump -of elms at a good distance from the cottage. He lay on the grass -and smoked his pipe all the morning. Mrs. Fyne wondered at her -brother's indolent habits. He had asked for books it is true but -there were but few in the cottage. He read them through in three -days and then continued to lie contentedly on his back with no other -companion but his pipe. Amazing indolence! The live-long morning, -Mrs. Fyne, busy writing upstairs in the cottage, could see him out -of the window. She had a very long sight, and these elms were -grouped on a rise of the ground. His indolence was plainly exposed -to her criticism on a gentle green slope. Mrs. Fyne wondered at it; -she was disgusted too. But having just then 'commenced author,' as -you know, she could not tear herself away from the fascinating -novelty. She let him wallow in his vice. I imagine Captain Anthony -must have had a rather pleasant time in a quiet way. It was, I -remember, a hot dry summer, favourable to contemplative life out of -doors. And Mrs. Fyne was scandalized. Women don't understand the -force of a contemplative temperament. It simply shocks them. They -feel instinctively that it is the one which escapes best the -domination of feminine influences. The dear girls were exchanging -jeering remarks about "lazy uncle Roderick" openly, in her indulgent -hearing. And it was so strange, she told me, because as a boy he -was anything but indolent. On the contrary. Always active. - -I remarked that a man of thirty-five was no longer a boy. It was an -obvious remark but she received it without favour. She told me -positively that the best, the nicest men remained boys all their -lives. She was disappointed not to be able to detect anything -boyish in her brother. Very, very sorry. She had not seen him for -fifteen years or thereabouts, except on three or four occasions for -a few hours at a time. No. Not a trace of the boy, he used to be, -left in him. - -She fell silent for a moment and I mused idly on the boyhood of -little Fyne. I could not imagine what it might have been like. His -dominant trait was clearly the remnant of still earlier days, -because I've never seen such staring solemnity as Fyne's except in a -very young baby. But where was he all that time? Didn't he suffer -contamination from the indolence of Captain Anthony, I inquired. I -was told that Mr. Fyne was very little at the cottage at the time. -Some colleague of his was convalescing after a severe illness in a -little seaside village in the neighbourhood and Fyne went off every -morning by train to spend the day with the elderly invalid who had -no one to look after him. It was a very praiseworthy excuse for -neglecting his brother-in-law "the son of the poet, you know," with -whom he had nothing in common even in the remotest degree. If -Captain Anthony (Roderick) had been a pedestrian it would have been -sufficient; but he was not. Still, in the afternoon, he went -sometimes for a slow casual stroll, by himself of course, the -children having definitely cold-shouldered him, and his only sister -being busy with that inflammatory book which was to blaze upon the -world a year or more afterwards. It seems however that she was -capable of detaching her eyes from her task now and then, if only -for a moment, because it was from that garret fitted out for a study -that one afternoon she observed her brother and Flora de Barral -coming down the road side by side. They had met somewhere -accidentally (which of them crossed the other's path, as the saying -is, I don't know), and were returning to tea together. She noticed -that they appeared to be conversing without constraint. - -"I had the simplicity to be pleased," Mrs. Fyne commented with a dry -little laugh. "Pleased for both their sakes." Captain Anthony -shook off his indolence from that day forth, and accompanied Miss -Flora frequently on her morning walks. Mrs. Fyne remained pleased. -She could now forget them comfortably and give herself up to the -delights of audacious thought and literary composition. Only a week -before the blow fell she, happening to raise her eyes from the -paper, saw two figures seated on the grass under the shade of the -elms. She could make out the white blouse. There could be no -mistake. - -"I suppose they imagined themselves concealed by the hedge. They -forgot no doubt I was working in the garret," she said bitterly. -"Or perhaps they didn't care. They were right. I am rather a -simple person . . . " She laughed again . . . "I was incapable of -suspecting such duplicity." - -"Duplicity is a strong word, Mrs. Fyne--isn't it?" I expostulated. -"And considering that Captain Anthony himself . . . " - -"Oh well--perhaps," she interrupted me. Her eyes which never -strayed away from mine, her set features, her whole immovable -figure, how well I knew those appearances of a person who has "made -up her mind." A very hopeless condition that, specially in women. -I mistrusted her concession so easily, so stonily made. She -reflected a moment. "Yes. I ought to have said--ingratitude, -perhaps." - -After having thus disengaged her brother and pushed the poor girl a -little further off as it were--isn't women's cleverness perfectly -diabolic when they are really put on their mettle?--after having -done these things and also made me feel that I was no match for her, -she went on scrupulously: "One doesn't like to use that word -either. The claim is very small. It's so little one could do for -her. Still . . . " - -"I dare say," I exclaimed, throwing diplomacy to the winds. "But -really, Mrs. Fyne, it's impossible to dismiss your brother like this -out of the business . . . " - -"She threw herself at his head," Mrs. Fyne uttered firmly. - -"He had no business to put his head in the way, then," I retorted -with an angry laugh. I didn't restrain myself because her fixed -stare seemed to express the purpose to daunt me. I was not afraid -of her, but it occurred to me that I was within an ace of drifting -into a downright quarrel with a lady and, besides, my guest. There -was the cold teapot, the emptied cups, emblems of hospitality. It -could not be. I cut short my angry laugh while Mrs. Fyne murmured -with a slight movement of her shoulders, "He! Poor man! Oh come . -. . " - -By a great effort of will I found myself able to smile amiably, to -speak with proper softness. - -"My dear Mrs. Fyne, you forget that I don't know him--not even by -sight. It's difficult to imagine a victim as passive as all that; -but granting you the (I very nearly said: imbecility, but checked -myself in time) innocence of Captain Anthony, don't you think now, -frankly, that there is a little of your own fault in what has -happened. You bring them together, you leave your brother to -himself!" - -She sat up and leaning her elbow on the table sustained her head in -her open palm casting down her eyes. Compunction? It was indeed a -very off-hand way of treating a brother come to stay for the first -time in fifteen years. I suppose she discovered very soon that she -had nothing in common with that sailor, that stranger, fashioned and -marked by the sea of long voyages. In her strong-minded way she had -scorned pretences, had gone to her writing which interested her -immensely. A very praiseworthy thing your sincere conduct,--if it -didn't at times resemble brutality so much. But I don't think it -was compunction. That sentiment is rare in women . . . " - -"Is it?" I interrupted indignantly. - -"You know more women than I do," retorted the unabashed Marlow. -"You make it your business to know them--don't you? You go about a -lot amongst all sorts of people. You are a tolerably honest -observer. Well, just try to remember how many instances of -compunction you have seen. I am ready to take your bare word for -it. Compunction! Have you ever seen as much as its shadow? Have -you ever? Just a shadow--a passing shadow! I tell you it is so -rare that you may call it non-existent. They are too passionate. -Too pedantic. Too courageous with themselves--perhaps. No I don't -think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne felt the slightest compunction at -her treatment of her sea-going brother. What HE thought of it who -can tell? It is possible that he wondered why he had been so -insistently urged to come. It is possible that he wondered -bitterly--or contemptuously--or humbly. And it may be that he was -only surprised and bored. Had he been as sincere in his conduct as -his only sister he would have probably taken himself off at the end -of the second day. But perhaps he was afraid of appearing brutal. -I am not far removed from the conviction that between the -sincerities of his sister and of his dear nieces, Captain Anthony of -the Ferndale must have had his loneliness brought home to his bosom -for the first time of his life, at an age, thirty-five or -thereabouts, when one is mature enough to feel the pang of such a -discovery. Angry or simply sad but certainly disillusioned he -wanders about and meets the girl one afternoon and under the sway of -a strong feeling forgets his shyness. This is no supposition. It -is a fact. There was such a meeting in which the shyness must have -perished before we don't know what encouragement, or in the -community of mood made apparent by some casual word. You remember -that Mrs. Fyne saw them one afternoon coming back to the cottage -together. Don't you think that I have hit on the psychology of the -situation? . . . " - -"Doubtless . . . " I began to ponder. - -"I was very certain of my conclusions at the time," Marlow went on -impatiently. "But don't think for a moment that Mrs. Fyne in her -new attitude and toying thoughtfully with a teaspoon was about to -surrender. She murmured: - -"It's the last thing I should have thought could happen." - -"You didn't suppose they were romantic enough," I suggested dryly. - -She let it pass and with great decision but as if speaking to -herself, - -"Roderick really must be warned." - -She didn't give me the time to ask of what precisely. She raised -her head and addressed me. - -"I am surprised and grieved more than I can tell you at Mr. Fyne's -resistance. We have been always completely at one on every -question. And that we should differ now on a point touching my -brother so closely is a most painful surprise to me." Her hand -rattled the teaspoon brusquely by an involuntary movement. "It is -intolerable," she added tempestuously--for Mrs. Fyne that is. I -suppose she had nerves of her own like any other woman. - -Under the porch where Fyne had sought refuge with the dog there was -silence. I took it for a proof of deep sagacity. I don't mean on -the part of the dog. He was a confirmed fool. - -I said: - -"You want absolutely to interfere . . . ?" Mrs. Fyne nodded just -perceptibly . . . "Well--for my part . . . but I don't really know -how matters stand at the present time. You have had a letter from -Miss de Barral. What does that letter say?" - -"She asks for her valise to be sent to her town address," Mrs. Fyne -uttered reluctantly and stopped. I waited a bit--then exploded. - -"Well! What's the matter? Where's the difficulty? Does your -husband object to that? You don't mean to say that he wants you to -appropriate the girl's clothes?" - -"Mr. Marlow!" - -"Well, but you talk of a painful difference of opinion with your -husband, and then, when I ask for information on the point, you -bring out a valise. And only a few moments ago you reproached me -for not being serious. I wonder who is the serious person of us two -now." - -She smiled faintly and in a friendly tone, from which I concluded at -once that she did not mean to show me the girl's letter, she said -that undoubtedly the letter disclosed an understanding between -Captain Anthony and Flora de Barral. - -"What understanding?" I pressed her. "An engagement is an -understanding." - -"There is no engagement--not yet," she said decisively. "That -letter, Mr. Marlow, is couched in very vague terms. That is why--" - -I interrupted her without ceremony. - -"You still hope to interfere to some purpose. Isn't it so? Yes? -But how should you have liked it if anybody had tried to interfere -between you and Mr. Fyne at the time when your understanding with -each other could still have been described in vague terms?" - -She had a genuine movement of astonished indignation. It is with -the accent of perfect sincerity that she cried out at me: - -"But it isn't at all the same thing! How can you!" - -Indeed how could I! The daughter of a poet and the daughter of a -convict are not comparable in the consequences of their conduct if -their necessity may wear at times a similar aspect. Amongst these -consequences I could perceive undesirable cousins for these dear -healthy girls, and such like, possible causes of embarrassment in -the future. - -"No! You can't be serious," Mrs. Fyne's smouldering resentment -broke out again. "You haven't thought--" - -"Oh yes, Mrs. Fyne! I have thought. I am still thinking. I am -even trying to think like you." - -"Mr. Marlow," she said earnestly. "Believe me that I really am -thinking of my brother in all this . . . " I assured her that I -quite believed she was. For there is no law of nature making it -impossible to think of more than one person at a time. Then I said: - -"She has told him all about herself of course." - -"All about her life," assented Mrs. Fyne with an air, however, of -making some mental reservation which I did not pause to investigate. -"Her life!" I repeated. "That girl must have had a mighty bad time -of it." - -"Horrible," Mrs. Fyne admitted with a ready frankness very -creditable under the circumstances, and a warmth of tone which made -me look at her with a friendly eye. "Horrible! No! You can't -imagine the sort of vulgar people she became dependent on . . . You -know her father never attempted to see her while he was still at -large. After his arrest he instructed that relative of his--the -odious person who took her away from Brighton--not to let his -daughter come to the court during the trial. He refused to hold any -communication with her whatever." - -I remembered what Mrs. Fyne had told me before of the view she had -years ago of de Barral clinging to the child at the side of his -wife's grave and later on of these two walking hand in hand the -observed of all eyes by the sea. Pictures from Dickens--pregnant -with pathos. - - - -CHAPTER SIX--FLORA - - - -"A very singular prohibition," remarked Mrs. Fyne after a short -silence. "He seemed to love the child." - -She was puzzled. But I surmised that it might have been the -sullenness of a man unconscious of guilt and standing at bay to -fight his "persecutors," as he called them; or else the fear of a -softer emotion weakening his defiant attitude; perhaps, even, it was -a self-denying ordinance, in order to spare the girl the sight of -her father in the dock, accused of cheating, sentenced as a -swindler--proving the possession of a certain moral delicacy. - -Mrs. Fyne didn't know what to think. She supposed it might have -been mere callousness. But the people amongst whom the girl had -fallen had positively not a grain of moral delicacy. Of that she -was certain. Mrs. Fyne could not undertake to give me an idea of -their abominable vulgarity. Flora used to tell her something of her -life in that household, over there, down Limehouse way. It was -incredible. It passed Mrs. Fyne's comprehension. It was a sort of -moral savagery which she could not have thought possible. - -I, on the contrary, thought it very possible. I could imagine -easily how the poor girl must have been bewildered and hurt at her -reception in that household--envied for her past while delivered -defenceless to the tender mercies of people without any fineness -either of feeling or mind, unable to understand her misery, grossly -curious, mistaking her manner for disdain, her silent shrinking for -pride. The wife of the "odious person" was witless and fatuously -conceited. Of the two girls of the house one was pious and the -other a romp; both were coarse-minded--if they may be credited with -any mind at all. The rather numerous men of the family were dense -and grumpy, or dense and jocose. None in that grubbing lot had -enough humanity to leave her alone. At first she was made much of, -in an offensively patronising manner. The connection with the great -de Barral gratified their vanity even in the moment of the smash. -They dragged her to their place of worship, whatever it might have -been, where the congregation stared at her, and they gave parties to -other beings like themselves at which they exhibited her with -ignoble self-satisfaction. She did not know how to defend herself -from their importunities, insolence and exigencies. She lived -amongst them, a passive victim, quivering in every nerve, as if she -were flayed. After the trial her position became still worse. On -the least occasion and even on no occasions at all she was scolded, -or else taunted with her dependence. The pious girl lectured her on -her defects, the romping girl teased her with contemptuous -references to her accomplishments, and was always trying to pick -insensate quarrels with her about some "fellow" or other. The -mother backed up her girls invariably, adding her own silly, -wounding remarks. I must say they were probably not aware of the -ugliness of their conduct. They were nasty amongst themselves as a -matter of course; their disputes were nauseating in origin, in -manner, in the spirit of mean selfishness. These women, too, seemed -to enjoy greatly any sort of row and were always ready to combine -together to make awful scenes to the luckless girl on incredibly -flimsy pretences. Thus Flora on one occasion had been reduced to -rage and despair, had her most secret feelings lacerated, had -obtained a view of the utmost baseness to which common human nature -can descend--I won't say e propos de bottes as the French would -excellently put it, but literally e propos of some mislaid cheap -lace trimmings for a nightgown the romping one was making for -herself. Yes, that was the origin of one of the grossest scenes -which, in their repetition, must have had a deplorable effect on the -unformed character of the most pitiful of de Barral's victims. I -have it from Mrs. Fyne. The girl turned up at the Fynes' house at -half-past nine on a cold, drizzly evening. She had walked -bareheaded, I believe, just as she ran out of the house, from -somewhere in Poplar to the neighbourhood of Sloane Square--without -stopping, without drawing breath, if only for a sob. - -"We were having some people to dinner," said the anxious sister of -Captain Anthony. - -She had heard the front door bell and wondered what it might mean. -The parlourmaid managed to whisper to her without attracting -attention. The servants had been frightened by the invasion of that -wild girl in a muddy skirt and with wisps of damp hair sticking to -her pale cheeks. But they had seen her before. This was not the -first occasion, nor yet the last. - -Directly she could slip away from her guests Mrs. Fyne ran upstairs. - -"I found her in the night nursery crouching on the floor, her head -resting on the cot of the youngest of my girls. The eldest was -sitting up in bed looking at her across the room." - -Only a nightlight was burning there. Mrs. Fyne raised her up, took -her over to Mr. Fyne's little dressing-room on the other side of the -landing, to a fire by which she could dry herself, and left her -there. She had to go back to her guests. - -A most disagreeable surprise it must have been to the Fynes. -Afterwards they both went up and interviewed the girl. She jumped -up at their entrance. She had shaken her damp hair loose; her eyes -were dry--with the heat of rage. - -I can imagine little Fyne solemnly sympathetic, solemnly listening, -solemnly retreating to the marital bedroom. Mrs. Fyne pacified the -girl, and, fortunately, there was a bed which could be made up for -her in the dressing-room. - -"But--what could one do after all!" concluded Mrs. Fyne. - -And this stereotyped exclamation, expressing the difficulty of the -problem and the readiness (at any rate) of good intentions, made me, -as usual, feel more kindly towards her. - -Next morning, very early, long before Fyne had to start for his -office, the "odious personage" turned up, not exactly unexpected -perhaps, but startling all the same, if only by the promptness of -his action. From what Flora herself related to Mrs. Fyne, it seems -that without being very perceptibly less "odious" than his family he -had in a rather mysterious fashion interposed his authority for the -protection of the girl. "Not that he cares," explained Flora. "I -am sure he does not. I could not stand being liked by any of these -people. If I thought he liked me I would drown myself rather than -go back with him." - -For of course he had come to take "Florrie" home. The scene was the -dining-room--breakfast interrupted, dishes growing cold, little -Fyne's toast growing leathery, Fyne out of his chair with his back -to the fire, the newspaper on the carpet, servants shut out, Mrs. -Fyne rigid in her place with the girl sitting beside her--the -"odious person," who had bustled in with hardly a greeting, looking -from Fyne to Mrs. Fyne as though he were inwardly amused at -something he knew of them; and then beginning ironically his -discourse. He did not apologize for disturbing Fyne and his "good -lady" at breakfast, because he knew they did not want (with a nod at -the girl) to have more of her than could be helped. He came the -first possible moment because he had his business to attend to. He -wasn't drawing a tip-top salary (this staring at Fyne) in a -luxuriously furnished office. Not he. He had risen to be an -employer of labour and was bound to give a good example. - -I believe the fellow was aware of, and enjoyed quietly, the -consternation his presence brought to the bosom of Mr. and Mrs. -Fyne. He turned briskly to the girl. Mrs. Fyne confessed to me -that they had remained all three silent and inanimate. He turned to -the girl: "What's this game, Florrie? You had better give it up. -If you expect me to run all over London looking for you every time -you happen to have a tiff with your auntie and cousins you are -mistaken. I can't afford it." - -Tiff--was the sort of definition to take one's breath away, having -regard to the fact that both the word convict and the word pauper -had been used a moment before Flora de Barral ran away from the -quarrel about the lace trimmings. Yes, these very words! So at -least the girl had told Mrs. Fyne the evening before. The word tiff -in connection with her tale had a peculiar savour, a paralysing -effect. Nobody made a sound. The relative of de Barral proceeded -uninterrupted to a display of magnanimity. "Auntie told me to tell -you she's sorry--there! And Amelia (the romping sister) shan't -worry you again. I'll see to that. You ought to be satisfied. -Remember your position." - -Emboldened by the utter stillness pervading the room he addressed -himself to Mrs. Fyne with stolid effrontery: - -"What I say is that people should be good-natured. She can't stand -being chaffed. She puts on her grand airs. She won't take a bit of -a joke from people as good as herself anyway. We are a plain lot. -We don't like it. And that's how trouble begins." - -Insensible to the stony stare of three pairs of eyes, which, if the -stories of our childhood as to the power of the human eye are true, -ought to have been enough to daunt a tiger, that unabashed -manufacturer from the East End fastened his fangs, figuratively -speaking, into the poor girl and prepared to drag her away for a -prey to his cubs of both sexes. "Auntie has thought of sending you -your hat and coat. I've got them outside in the cab." - -Mrs. Fyne looked mechanically out of the window. A four-wheeler -stood before the gate under the weeping sky. The driver in his -conical cape and tarpaulin hat, streamed with water. The drooping -horse looked as though it had been fished out, half unconscious, -from a pond. Mrs. Fyne found some relief in looking at that -miserable sight, away from the room in which the voice of the -amiable visitor resounded with a vulgar intonation exhorting the -strayed sheep to return to the delightful fold. "Come, Florrie, -make a move. I can't wait on you all day here." - -Mrs. Fyne heard all this without turning her head away from the -window. Fyne on the hearthrug had to listen and to look on too. I -shall not try to form a surmise as to the real nature of the -suspense. Their very goodness must have made it very anxious. The -girl's hands were lying in her lap; her head was lowered as if in -deep thought; and the other went on delivering a sort of homily. -Ingratitude was condemned in it, the sinfulness of pride was pointed -out--together with the proverbial fact that it "goes before a fall." -There were also some sound remarks as to the danger of nonsensical -notions and the disadvantages of a quick temper. It sets one's best -friends against one. "And if anybody ever wanted friends in the -world it's you, my girl." Even respect for parental authority was -invoked. "In the first hour of his trouble your father wrote to me -to take care of you--don't forget it. Yes, to me, just a plain man, -rather than to any of his fine West-End friends. You can't get over -that. And a father's a father no matter what a mess he's got -himself into. You ain't going to throw over your own father--are -you?" - -It was difficult to say whether he was more absurd than cruel or -more cruel than absurd. Mrs. Fyne, with the fine ear of a woman, -seemed to detect a jeering intention in his meanly unctuous tone, -something more vile than mere cruelty. She glanced quickly over her -shoulder and saw the girl raise her two hands to her head, then let -them fall again on her lap. Fyne in front of the fire was like the -victim of an unholy spell--bereft of motion and speech but obviously -in pain. It was a short pause of perfect silence, and then that -"odious creature" (he must have been really a remarkable individual -in his way) struck out into sarcasm. - -"Well? . . . " Again a silence. "If you have fixed it up with the -lady and gentleman present here for your board and lodging you had -better say so. I don't want to interfere in a bargain I know -nothing of. But I wonder how your father will take it when he comes -out . . . or don't you expect him ever to come out?" - -At that moment, Mrs. Fyne told me she met the girl's eyes. There -was that in them which made her shut her own. She also felt as -though she would have liked to put her fingers in her ears. She -restrained herself, however; and the "plain man" passed in his -appalling versatility from sarcasm to veiled menace. - -"You have--eh? Well and good. But before I go home let me ask you, -my girl, to think if by any chance you throwing us over like this -won't be rather bad for your father later on? Just think it over." - -He looked at his victim with an air of cunning mystery. She jumped -up so suddenly that he started back. Mrs. Fyne rose too, and even -the spell was removed from her husband. But the girl dropped again -into the chair and turned her head to look at Mrs. Fyne. This time -it was no accidental meeting of fugitive glances. It was a -deliberate communication. To my question as to its nature Mrs. Fyne -said she did not know. "Was it appealing?" I suggested. "No," she -said. "Was it frightened, angry, crushed, resigned?" "No! No! -Nothing of these." But it had frightened her. She remembered it to -this day. She had been ever since fancying she could detect the -lingering reflection of that look in all the girl's glances. In the -attentive, in the casual--even in the grateful glances--in the -expression of the softest moods. - -"Has she her soft moods, then?" I asked with interest. - -Mrs Fyne, much moved by her recollections, heeded not my inquiry. -All her mental energy was concentrated on the nature of that -memorable glance. The general tradition of mankind teaches us that -glances occupy a considerable place in the self-expression of women. -Mrs. Fyne was trying honestly to give me some idea, as much perhaps -to satisfy her own uneasiness as my curiosity. She was frowning in -the effort as you see sometimes a child do (what is delightful in -women is that they so often resemble intelligent children--I mean -the crustiest, the sourest, the most battered of them do--at times). -She was frowning, I say, and I was beginning to smile faintly at her -when all at once she came out with something totally unexpected. - -"It was horribly merry," she said. - -I suppose she must have been satisfied by my sudden gravity because -she looked at me in a friendly manner. - -"Yes, Mrs. Fyne," I said, smiling no longer. "I see. It would have -been horrible even on the stage." - -"Ah!" she interrupted me--and I really believe her change of -attitude back to folded arms was meant to check a shudder. "But it -wasn't on the stage, and it was not with her lips that she laughed." - -"Yes. It must have been horrible," I assented. "And then she had -to go away ultimately--I suppose. You didn't say anything?" - -"No," said Mrs. Fyne. "I rang the bell and told one of the maids to -go and bring the hat and coat out of the cab. And then we waited." - -I don't think that there ever was such waiting unless possibly in a -jail at some moment or other on the morning of an execution. The -servant appeared with the hat and coat, and then, still as on the -morning of an execution, when the condemned, I believe, is offered a -breakfast, Mrs. Fyne, anxious that the white-faced girl should -swallow something warm (if she could) before leaving her house for -an interminable drive through raw cold air in a damp four-wheeler-- -Mrs. Fyne broke the awful silence: "You really must try to eat -something," in her best resolute manner. She turned to the "odious -person" with the same determination. "Perhaps you will sit down and -have a cup of coffee, too." - -The worthy "employer of labour" sat down. He might have been awed -by Mrs. Fyne's peremptory manner--for she did not think of -conciliating him then. He sat down, provisionally, like a man who -finds himself much against his will in doubtful company. He -accepted ungraciously the cup handed to him by Mrs. Fyne, took an -unwilling sip or two and put it down as if there were some moral -contamination in the coffee of these "swells." Between whiles he -directed mysteriously inexpressive glances at little Fyne, who, I -gather, had no breakfast that morning at all. Neither had the girl. -She never moved her hands from her lap till her appointed guardian -got up, leaving his cup half full. - -"Well. If you don't mean to take advantage of this lady's kind -offer I may just as well take you home at once. I want to begin my -day--I do." - -After a few more dumb, leaden-footed minutes while Flora was putting -on her hat and jacket, the Fynes without moving, without saying -anything, saw these two leave the room. - -"She never looked back at us," said Mrs. Fyne. "She just followed -him out. I've never had such a crushing impression of the miserable -dependence of girls--of women. This was an extreme case. But a -young man--any man--could have gone to break stones on the roads or -something of that kind--or enlisted--or--" - -It was very true. Women can't go forth on the high roads and by- -ways to pick up a living even when dignity, independence, or -existence itself are at stake. But what made me interrupt Mrs. -Fyne's tirade was my profound surprise at the fact of that -respectable citizen being so willing to keep in his home the poor -girl for whom it seemed there was no place in the world. And not -only willing but anxious. I couldn't credit him with generous -impulses. For it seemed obvious to me from what I had learned that, -to put it mildly, he was not an impulsive person. - -"I confess that I can't understand his motive," I exclaimed. - -"This is exactly what John wondered at, at first," said Mrs. Fyne. -By that time an intimacy--if not exactly confidence--had sprung up -between us which permitted her in this discussion to refer to her -husband as John. "You know he had not opened his lips all that -time," she pursued. "I don't blame his restraint. On the contrary. -What could he have said? I could see he was observing the man very -thoughtfully." - -"And so, Mr. Fyne listened, observed and meditated," I said. -"That's an excellent way of coming to a conclusion. And may I ask -at what conclusion he had managed to arrive? On what ground did he -cease to wonder at the inexplicable? For I can't admit humanity to -be the explanation. It would be too monstrous." - -It was nothing of the sort, Mrs. Fyne assured me with some -resentment, as though I had aspersed little Fyne's sanity. Fyne -very sensibly had set himself the mental task of discovering the -self-interest. I should not have thought him capable of so much -cynicism. He said to himself that for people of that sort -(religious fears or the vanity of righteousness put aside) money-- -not great wealth, but money, just a little money--is the measure of -virtue, of expediency, of wisdom--of pretty well everything. But -the girl was absolutely destitute. The father was in prison after -the most terribly complete and disgraceful smash of modern times. -And then it dawned upon Fyne that this was just it. The great -smash, in the great dust of vanishing millions! Was it possible -that they all had vanished to the last penny? Wasn't there, -somewhere, something palpable; some fragment of the fabric left? - -"That's it," had exclaimed Fyne, startling his wife by this -explosive unseating of his lips less than half an hour after the -departure of de Barral's cousin with de Barral's daughter. It was -still in the dining-room, very near the time for him to go forth -affronting the elements in order to put in another day's work in his -country's service. All he could say at the moment in elucidation of -this breakdown from his usual placid solemnity was: - -"The fellow imagines that de Barral has got some plunder put away -somewhere." - -This being the theory arrived at by Fyne, his comment on it was that -a good many bankrupts had been known to have taken such a -precaution. It was possible in de Barral's case. Fyne went so far -in his display of cynical pessimism as to say that it was extremely -probable. - -He explained at length to Mrs. Fyne that de Barral certainly did not -take anyone into his confidence. But the beastly relative had made -up his low mind that it was so. He was selfish and pitiless in his -stupidity, but he had clearly conceived the notion of making a claim -on de Barral when de Barral came out of prison on the strength of -having "looked after" (as he would have himself expressed it) his -daughter. He nursed his hopes, such as they were, in secret, and it -is to be supposed kept them even from his wife. - -I could see it very well. That belief accounted for his mysterious -air while he interfered in favour of the girl. He was the only -protector she had. It was as though Flora had been fated to be -always surrounded by treachery and lies stifling every better -impulse, every instinctive aspiration of her soul to trust and to -love. It would have been enough to drive a fine nature into the -madness of universal suspicion--into any sort of madness. I don't -know how far a sense of humour will stand by one. To the foot of -the gallows, perhaps. But from my recollection of Flora de Barral I -feared that she hadn't much sense of humour. She had cried at the -desertion of the absurd Fyne dog. That animal was certainly free -from duplicity. He was frank and simple and ridiculous. The -indignation of the girl at his unhypocritical behaviour had been -funny but not humorous. - -As you may imagine I was not very anxious to resume the discussion -on the justice, expediency, effectiveness or what not, of Fyne's -journey to London. It isn't that I was unfaithful to little Fyne -out in the porch with the dog. (They kept amazingly quiet there. -Could they have gone to sleep?) What I felt was that either my -sagacity or my conscience would come out damaged from that campaign. -And no man will willingly put himself in the way of moral damage. I -did not want a war with Mrs. Fyne. I much preferred to hear -something more of the girl. I said: - -"And so she went away with that respectable ruffian." - -Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders slightly--"What else could she have -done?" I agreed with her by another hopeless gesture. It isn't so -easy for a girl like Flora de Barral to become a factory hand, a -pathetic seamstress or even a barmaid. She wouldn't have known how -to begin. She was the captive of the meanest conceivable fate. And -she wasn't mean enough for it. It is to be remarked that a good -many people are born curiously unfitted for the fate awaiting them -on this earth. As I don't want you to think that I am unduly -partial to the girl we shall say that she failed decidedly to endear -herself to that simple, virtuous and, I believe, teetotal household. -It's my conviction that an angel would have failed likewise. It's -no use going into details; suffice it to state that before the year -was out she was again at the Fynes' door. - -This time she was escorted by a stout youth. His large pale face -wore a smile of inane cunning soured by annoyance. His clothes were -new and the indescribable smartness of their cut, a genre which had -never been obtruded on her notice before, astonished Mrs. Fyne, who -came out into the hall with her hat on; for she was about to go out -to hear a new pianist (a girl) in a friend's house. The youth -addressing Mrs. Fyne easily begged her not to let "that silly thing -go back to us any more." There had been, he said, nothing but -"ructions" at home about her for the last three weeks. Everybody in -the family was heartily sick of quarrelling. His governor had -charged him to bring her to this address and say that the lady and -gentleman were quite welcome to all there was in it. She hadn't -enough sense to appreciate a plain, honest English home and she was -better out of it. - -The young, pimply-faced fellow was vexed by this job his governor -had sprung on him. It was the cause of his missing an appointment -for that afternoon with a certain young lady. The lady he was -engaged to. But he meant to dash back and try for a sight of her -that evening yet "if he were to burst over it." "Good-bye, Florrie. -Good luck to you--and I hope I'll never see your face again." - -With that he ran out in lover-like haste leaving the hall-door wide -open. Mrs. Fyne had not found a word to say. She had been too much -taken aback even to gasp freely. But she had the presence of mind -to grab the girl's arm just as she, too, was running out into the -street--with the haste, I suppose, of despair and to keep I don't -know what tragic tryst. - -"You stopped her with your own hand, Mrs. Fyne," I said. "I presume -she meant to get away. That girl is no comedian--if I am any -judge." - -"Yes! I had to use some force to drag her in." - -Mrs. Fyne had no difficulty in stating the truth. "You see I was in -the very act of letting myself out when these two appeared. So -that, when that unpleasant young man ran off, I found myself alone -with Flora. It was all I could do to hold her in the hall while I -called to the servants to come and shut the door." - -As is my habit, or my weakness, or my gift, I don't know which, I -visualized the story for myself. I really can't help it. And the -vision of Mrs. Fyne dressed for a rather special afternoon function, -engaged in wrestling with a wild-eyed, white-faced girl had a -certain dramatic fascination. - -"Really!" I murmured. - -"Oh! There's no doubt that she struggled," said Mrs. Fyne. She -compressed her lips for a moment and then added: "As to her being a -comedian that's another question." - -Mrs. Fyne had returned to her attitude of folded arms. I saw before -me the daughter of the refined poet accepting life whole with its -unavoidable conditions of which one of the first is the instinct of -self-preservation and the egoism of every living creature. "The -fact remains nevertheless that you--yourself--have, in your own -words, pulled her in," I insisted in a jocular tone, with a serious -intention. - -"What was one to do," exclaimed Mrs. Fyne with almost comic -exasperation. "Are you reproaching me with being too impulsive?" - -And she went on telling me that she was not that in the least. One -of the recommendations she always insisted on (to the girl-friends, -I imagine) was to be on guard against impulse. Always! But I had -not been there to see the face of Flora at the time. If I had it -would be haunting me to this day. Nobody unless made of iron would -have allowed a human being with a face like that to rush out alone -into the streets. - -"And doesn't it haunt you, Mrs. Fyne?" I asked. - -"No, not now," she said implacably. "Perhaps if I had let her go it -might have done . . . Don't conclude, though, that I think she was -playing a comedy then, because after struggling at first she ended -by remaining. She gave up very suddenly. She collapsed in our -arms, mine and the maid's who came running up in response to my -calls, and . . . " - -"And the door was then shut," I completed the phrase in my own way. - -"Yes, the door was shut," Mrs. Fyne lowered and raised her head -slowly. - -I did not ask her for details. Of one thing I am certain, and that -is that Mrs. Fyne did not go out to the musical function that -afternoon. She was no doubt considerably annoyed at missing the -privilege of hearing privately an interesting young pianist (a girl) -who, since, had become one of the recognized performers. Mrs. Fyne -did not dare leave her house. As to the feelings of little Fyne -when he came home from the office, via his club, just half an hour -before dinner, I have no information. But I venture to affirm that -in the main they were kindly, though it is quite possible that in -the first moment of surprise he had to keep down a swear-word or -two. - - -The long and the short of it all is that next day the Fynes made up -their minds to take into their confidence a certain wealthy old -lady. With certain old ladies the passing years bring back a sort -of mellowed youthfulness of feeling, an optimistic outlook, liking -for novelty, readiness for experiment. The old lady was very much -interested: "Do let me see the poor thing!" She was accordingly -allowed to see Flora de Barral in Mrs. Fyne's drawing-room on a day -when there was no one else there, and she preached to her with -charming, sympathetic authority: "The only way to deal with our -troubles, my dear child, is to forget them. You must forget yours. -It's very simple. Look at me. I always forget mine. At your age -one ought to be cheerful." - -Later on when left alone with Mrs. Fyne she said to that lady: "I -do hope the child will manage to be cheerful. I can't have sad -faces near me. At my age one needs cheerful companions." - -And in this hope she carried off Flora de Barral to Bournemouth for -the winter months in the quality of reader and companion. She had -said to her with kindly jocularity: "We shall have a good time -together. I am not a grumpy old woman." But on their return to -London she sought Mrs. Fyne at once. She had discovered that Flora -was not naturally cheerful. When she made efforts to be it was -still worse. The old lady couldn't stand the strain of that. And -then, to have the whole thing out, she could not bear to have for a -companion anyone who did not love her. She was certain that Flora -did not love her. Why? She couldn't say. Moreover, she had caught -the girl looking at her in a peculiar way at times. Oh no!--it was -not an evil look--it was an unusual expression which one could not -understand. And when one remembered that her father was in prison -shut up together with a lot of criminals and so on--it made one -uncomfortable. If the child had only tried to forget her troubles! -But she obviously was incapable or unwilling to do so. And that was -somewhat perverse--wasn't it? Upon the whole, she thought it would -be better perhaps - - -Mrs. Fyne assented hurriedly to the unspoken conclusion: "Oh -certainly! Certainly," wondering to herself what was to be done -with Flora next; but she was not very much surprised at the change -in the old lady's view of Flora de Barral. She almost understood -it. - -What came next was a German family, the continental acquaintances of -the wife of one of Fyne's colleagues in the Home Office. Flora of -the enigmatical glances was dispatched to them without much -reflection. As it was not considered absolutely necessary to take -them into full confidence, they neither expected the girl to be -specially cheerful nor were they discomposed unduly by the -indescribable quality of her glances. The German woman was quite -ordinary; there were two boys to look after; they were ordinary, -too, I presume; and Flora, I understand, was very attentive to them. -If she taught them anything it must have been by inspiration alone, -for she certainly knew nothing of teaching. But it was mostly -"conversation" which was demanded from her. Flora de Barral -conversing with two small German boys, regularly, industriously, -conscientiously, in order to keep herself alive in the world which -held for her the past we know and the future of an even more -undesirable quality--seems to me a very fantastic combination. But -I believe it was not so bad. She was being, she wrote, mercifully -drugged by her task. She had learned to "converse" all day long, -mechanically, absently, as if in a trance. An uneasy trance it must -have been! Her worst moments were when off duty--alone in the -evening, shut up in her own little room, her dulled thoughts waking -up slowly till she started into the full consciousness of her -position, like a person waking up in contact with something -venomous--a snake, for instance--experiencing a mad impulse to fling -the thing away and run off screaming to hide somewhere. - -At this period of her existence Flora de Barral used to write to -Mrs. Fyne not regularly but fairly often. I don't know how long she -would have gone on "conversing" and, incidentally, helping to -supervise the beautifully stocked linen closets of that well-to-do -German household, if the man of it had not developed in the -intervals of his avocations (he was a merchant and a thoroughly -domesticated character) a psychological resemblance to the -Bournemouth old lady. It appeared that he, too, wanted to be loved. - -He was not, however, of a conquering temperament--a kiss-snatching, -door-bursting type of libertine. In the very act of straying from -the path of virtue he remained a respectable merchant. It would -have been perhaps better for Flora if he had been a mere brute. But -he set about his sinister enterprise in a sentimental, cautious, -almost paternal manner; and thought he would be safe with a pretty -orphan. The girl for all her experience was still too innocent, and -indeed not yet sufficiently aware of herself as a woman, to mistrust -these masked approaches. She did not see them, in fact. She -thought him sympathetic--the first expressively sympathetic person -she had ever met. She was so innocent that she could not understand -the fury of the German woman. For, as you may imagine, the wifely -penetration was not to be deceived for any great length of time--the -more so that the wife was older than the husband. The man with the -peculiar cowardice of respectability never said a word in Flora's -defence. He stood by and heard her reviled in the most abusive -terms, only nodding and frowning vaguely from time to time. It will -give you the idea of the girl's innocence when I say that at first -she actually thought this storm of indignant reproaches was caused -by the discovery of her real name and her relation to a convict. -She had been sent out under an assumed name--a highly recommended -orphan of honourable parentage. Her distress, her burning cheeks, -her endeavours to express her regret for this deception were taken -for a confession of guilt. "You attempted to bring dishonour to my -home," the German woman screamed at her. - -Here's a misunderstanding for you! Flora de Barral, who felt the -shame but did not believe in the guilt of her father, retorted -fiercely, "Nevertheless I am as honourable as you are." And then -the German woman nearly went into a fit from rage. "I shall have -you thrown out into the street." - -Flora was not exactly thrown out into the street, I believe, but she -was bundled bag and baggage on board a steamer for London. Did I -tell you these people lived in Hamburg? Well yes--sent to the docks -late on a rainy winter evening in charge of some sneering lackey or -other who behaved to her insolently and left her on deck burning -with indignation, her hair half down, shaking with excitement and, -truth to say, scared as near as possible into hysterics. If it had -not been for the stewardess who, without asking questions, good -soul, took charge of her quietly in the ladies' saloon (luckily it -was empty) it is by no means certain she would ever have reached -England. I can't tell if a straw ever saved a drowning man, but I -know that a mere glance is enough to make despair pause. For in -truth we who are creatures of impulse are not creatures of despair. -Suicide, I suspect, is very often the outcome of mere mental -weariness--not an act of savage energy but the final symptom of -complete collapse. The quiet, matter-of-fact attentions of a ship's -stewardess, who did not seem aware of other human agonies than sea- -sickness, who talked of the probable weather of the passage--it -would be a rough night, she thought--and who insisted in a -professionally busy manner, "Let me make you comfortable down below -at once, miss," as though she were thinking of nothing else but her -tip--was enough to dissipate the shades of death gathering round the -mortal weariness of bewildered thinking which makes the idea of non- -existence welcome so often to the young. Flora de Barral did lie -down, and it may be presumed she slept. At any rate she survived -the voyage across the North Sea and told Mrs. Fyne all about it, -concealing nothing and receiving no rebuke--for Mrs. Fyne's opinions -had a large freedom in their pedantry. She held, I suppose, that a -woman holds an absolute right--or possesses a perfect excuse--to -escape in her own way from a man-mismanaged world. - - -What is to be noted is that even in London, having had time to take -a reflective view, poor Flora was far from being certain as to the -true inwardness of her violent dismissal. She felt the humiliation -of it with an almost maddened resentment. - -"And did you enlighten her on the point?" I ventured to ask. - -Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders with a philosophical acceptance of all -the necessities which ought not to be. Something had to be said, -she murmured. She had told the girl enough to make her come to the -right conclusion by herself. - -"And she did?" - -"Yes. Of course. She isn't a goose," retorted Mrs. Fyne tartly. - -"Then her education is completed," I remarked with some bitterness. -"Don't you think she ought to be given a chance?" - -Mrs. Fyne understood my meaning. - -"Not this one," she snapped in a quite feminine way. "It's all very -well for you to plead, but I--" - -"I do not plead. I simply asked. It seemed natural to ask what you -thought." - -"It's what I feel that matters. And I can't help my feelings. You -may guess," she added in a softer tone, "that my feelings are mostly -concerned with my brother. We were very fond of each other. The -difference of our ages was not very great. I suppose you know he is -a little younger than I am. He was a sensitive boy. He had the -habit of brooding. It is no use concealing from you that neither of -us was happy at home. You have heard, no doubt . . . Yes? Well, I -was made still more unhappy and hurt--I don't mind telling you that. -He made his way to some distant relations of our mother's people who -I believe were not known to my father at all. I don't wish to judge -their action." - -I interrupted Mrs. Fyne here. I had heard. Fyne was not very -communicative in general, but he was proud of his father-in-law-- -"Carleon Anthony, the poet, you know." Proud of his celebrity -without approving of his character. It was on that account, I -strongly suspect, that he seized with avidity upon the theory of -poetical genius being allied to madness, which he got hold of in -some idiotic book everybody was reading a few years ago. It struck -him as being truth itself--illuminating like the sun. He adopted it -devoutly. He bored me with it sometimes. Once, just to shut him -up, I asked quietly if this theory which he regarded as so -incontrovertible did not cause him some uneasiness about his wife -and the dear girls? He transfixed me with a pitying stare and -requested me in his deep solemn voice to remember the "well- -established fact" that genius was not transmissible. - -I said only "Oh! Isn't it?" and he thought he had silenced me by an -unanswerable argument. But he continued to talk of his glorious -father-in-law, and it was in the course of that conversation that he -told me how, when the Liverpool relations of the poet's late wife -naturally addressed themselves to him in considerable concern, -suggesting a friendly consultation as to the boy's future, the -incensed (but always refined) poet wrote in answer a letter of mere -polished badinage which offended mortally the Liverpool people. -This witty outbreak of what was in fact mortification and rage -appeared to them so heartless that they simply kept the boy. They -let him go to sea not because he was in their way but because he -begged hard to be allowed to go. - -"Oh! You do know," said Mrs. Fyne after a pause. "Well--I felt -myself very much abandoned. Then his choice of life--so -extraordinary, so unfortunate, I may say. I was very much grieved. -I should have liked him to have been distinguished--or at any rate -to remain in the social sphere where we could have had common -interests, acquaintances, thoughts. Don't think that I am estranged -from him. But the precise truth is that I do not know him. I was -most painfully affected when he was here by the difficulty of -finding a single topic we could discuss together." - -While Mrs. Fyne was talking of her brother I let my thoughts wander -out of the room to little Fyne who by leaving me alone with his wife -had, so to speak, entrusted his domestic peace to my honour. - -"Well, then, Mrs. Fyne, does it not strike you that it would be -reasonable under the circumstances to let your brother take care of -himself?" - -"And suppose I have grounds to think that he can't take care of -himself in a given instance." She hesitated in a funny, bashful -manner which roused my interest. Then: - -"Sailors I believe are very susceptible," she added with forced -assurance. - -I burst into a laugh which only increased the coldness of her -observing stare. - -"They are. Immensely! Hopelessly! My dear Mrs. Fyne, you had -better give it up! It only makes your husband miserable." - -"And I am quite miserable too. It is really our first difference . -. . " - -"Regarding Miss de Barral?" I asked. - -"Regarding everything. It's really intolerable that this girl -should be the occasion. I think he really ought to give way." - -She turned her chair round a little and picking up the book I had -been reading in the morning began to turn the leaves absently. - -Her eyes being off me, I felt I could allow myself to leave the -room. Its atmosphere had become hopeless for little Fyne's domestic -peace. You may smile. But to the solemn all things are solemn. I -had enough sagacity to understand that. - -I slipped out into the porch. The dog was slumbering at Fyne's -feet. The muscular little man leaning on his elbow and gazing over -the fields presented a forlorn figure. He turned his head quickly, -but seeing I was alone, relapsed into his moody contemplation of the -green landscape. - -I said loudly and distinctly: "I've come out to smoke a cigarette," -and sat down near him on the little bench. Then lowering my voice: -"Tolerance is an extremely difficult virtue," I said. "More -difficult for some than heroism. More difficult than compassion." - -I avoided looking at him. I knew well enough that he would not like -this opening. General ideas were not to his taste. He mistrusted -them. I lighted a cigarette, not that I wanted to smoke, but to -give another moment to the consideration of the advice--the -diplomatic advice I had made up my mind to bowl him over with. And -I continued in subdued tones. - -"I have been led to make these remarks by what I have discovered -since you left us. I suspected from the first. And now I am -certain. What your wife cannot tolerate in this affair is Miss de -Barral being what she is." - -He made a movement, but I kept my eyes away from him and went on -steadily. "That is--her being a woman. I have some idea of Mrs. -Fyne's mental attitude towards society with its injustices, with its -atrocious or ridiculous conventions. As against them there is no -audacity of action your wife's mind refuses to sanction. The -doctrine which I imagine she stuffs into the pretty heads of your -girl-guests is almost vengeful. A sort of moral fire-and-sword -doctrine. How far the lesson is wise is not for me to say. I don't -permit myself to judge. I seem to see her very delightful disciples -singeing themselves with the torches, and cutting their fingers with -the swords of Mrs. Fyne's furnishing." - -"My wife holds her opinions very seriously," murmured Fyne suddenly. - -"Yes. No doubt," I assented in a low voice as before. "But it is a -mere intellectual exercise. What I see is that in dealing with -reality Mrs. Fyne ceases to be tolerant. In other words, that she -can't forgive Miss de Barral for being a woman and behaving like a -woman. And yet this is not only reasonable and natural, but it is -her only chance. A woman against the world has no resources but in -herself. Her only means of action is to be what SHE IS. You -understand what I mean." - -Fyne mumbled between his teeth that he understood. But he did not -seem interested. What he expected of me was to extricate him from a -difficult situation. I don't know how far credible this may sound, -to less solemn married couples, but to remain at variance with his -wife seemed to him a considerable incident. Almost a disaster. - -"It looks as though I didn't care what happened to her brother," he -said. "And after all if anything . . . " - -I became a little impatient but without raising my tone: - -"What thing?" I asked. "The liability to get penal servitude is so -far like genius that it isn't hereditary. And what else can be -objected to the girl? All the energy of her deeper feelings, which -she would use up vainly in the danger and fatigue of a struggle with -society may be turned into devoted attachment to the man who offers -her a way of escape from what can be only a life of moral anguish. -I don't mention the physical difficulties." - -Glancing at Fyne out of the corner of one eye I discovered that he -was attentive. He made the remark that I should have said all this -to his wife. It was a sensible enough remark. But I had given Mrs. -Fyne up. I asked him if his impression was that his wife meant to -entrust him with a letter for her brother? - -No. He didn't think so. There were certain reasons which made Mrs. -Fyne unwilling to commit her arguments to paper. Fyne was to be -primed with them. But he had no doubt that if he persisted in his -refusal she would make up her mind to write. - -"She does not wish me to go unless with a full conviction that she -is right," said Fyne solemnly. - -"She's very exacting," I commented. And then I reflected that she -was used to it. "Would nothing less do for once?" - -"You don't mean that I should give way--do you?" asked Fyne in a -whisper of alarmed suspicion. - -As this was exactly what I meant, I let his fright sink into him. -He fidgeted. If the word may be used of so solemn a personage, he -wriggled. And when the horrid suspicion had descended into his very -heels, so to speak, he became very still. He sat gazing stonily -into space bounded by the yellow, burnt-up slopes of the rising -ground a couple of miles away. The face of the down showed the -white scar of the quarry where not more than sixteen hours before -Fyne and I had been groping in the dark with horrible apprehension -of finding under our hands the shattered body of a girl. For myself -I had in addition the memory of my meeting with her. She was -certainly walking very near the edge--courting a sinister solution. -But, now, having by the most unexpected chance come upon a man, she -had found another way to escape from the world. Such world as was -open to her--without shelter, without bread, without honour. The -best she could have found in it would have been a precarious dole of -pity diminishing as her years increased. The appeal of the -abandoned child Flora to the sympathies of the Fynes had been -irresistible. But now she had become a woman, and Mrs. Fyne was -presenting an implacable front to a particularly feminine -transaction. I may say triumphantly feminine. It is true that Mrs. -Fyne did not want women to be women. Her theory was that they -should turn themselves into unscrupulous sexless nuisances. An -offended theorist dwelt in her bosom somewhere. In what way she -expected Flora de Barral to set about saving herself from a most -miserable existence I can't conceive; but I verify believe that she -would have found it easier to forgive the girl an actual crime; say -the rifling of the Bournemouth old lady's desk, for instance. And -then--for Mrs. Fyne was very much of a woman herself--her sense of -proprietorship was very strong within her; and though she had not -much use for her brother, yet she did not like to see him annexed by -another woman. By a chit of a girl. And such a girl, too. Nothing -is truer than that, in this world, the luckless have no right to -their opportunities--as if misfortune were a legal disqualification. -Fyne's sentiments (as they naturally would be in a man) had more -stability. A good deal of his sympathy survived. Indeed I heard -him murmur "Ghastly nuisance," but I knew it was of the integrity of -his domestic accord that he was thinking. With my eyes on the dog -lying curled up in sleep in the middle of the porch I suggested in a -subdued impersonal tone: "Yes. Why not let yourself be persuaded?" - -I never saw little Fyne less solemn. He hissed through his teeth in -unexpectedly figurative style that it would take a lot to persuade -him to "push under the head of a poor devil of a girl quite -sufficiently plucky"--and snorted. He was still gazing at the -distant quarry, and I think he was affected by that sight. I -assured him that I was far from advising him to do anything so -cruel. I am convinced he had always doubted the soundness of my -principles, because he turned on me swiftly as though he had been on -the watch for a lapse from the straight path. - -"Then what do you mean? That I should pretend!" - -"No! What nonsense! It would be immoral. I may however tell you -that if I had to make a choice I would rather do something immoral -than something cruel. What I meant was that, not believing in the -efficacy of the interference, the whole question is reduced to your -consenting to do what your wife wishes you to do. That would be -acting like a gentleman, surely. And acting unselfishly too, -because I can very well understand how distasteful it may be to you. -Generally speaking, an unselfish action is a moral action. I'll -tell you what. I'll go with you." - -He turned round and stared at me with surprise and suspicion. "You -would go with me?" he repeated. - -"You don't understand," I said, amused at the incredulous disgust of -his tone. "I must run up to town, to-morrow morning. Let us go -together. You have a set of travelling chessmen." - -His physiognomy, contracted by a variety of emotions, relaxed to a -certain extent at the idea of a game. I told him that as I had -business at the Docks he should have my company to the very ship. - -"We shall beguile the way to the wilds of the East by improving -conversation," I encouraged him. - -"My brother-in-law is staying at an hotel--the Eastern Hotel," he -said, becoming sombre again. "I haven't the slightest idea where it -is." - -"I know the place. I shall leave you at the door with the -comfortable conviction that you are doing what's right since it -pleases a lady and cannot do any harm to anybody whatever." - -"You think so? No harm to anybody?" he repeated doubtfully. - -"I assure you it's not the slightest use," I said with all possible -emphasis which seemed only to increase the solemn discontent of his -expression. - -"But in order that my going should be a perfectly candid proceeding -I must first convince my wife that it isn't the slightest use," he -objected portentously. - -"Oh, you casuist!" I said. And I said nothing more because at that -moment Mrs. Fyne stepped out into the porch. We rose together at -her appearance. Her clear, colourless, unflinching glance enveloped -us both critically. I sustained the chill smilingly, but Fyne -stooped at once to release the dog. He was some time about it; then -simultaneously with his recovery of upright position the animal -passed at one bound from profoundest slumber into most tumultuous -activity. Enveloped in the tornado of his inane scurryings and -barkings I took Mrs. Fyne's hand extended to me woodenly and bowed -over it with deference. She walked down the path without a word; -Fyne had preceded her and was waiting by the open gate. They passed -out and walked up the road surrounded by a low cloud of dust raised -by the dog gyrating madly about their two figures progressing side -by side with rectitude and propriety, and (I don't know why) looking -to me as if they had annexed the whole country-side. Perhaps it was -that they had impressed me somehow with the sense of their -superiority. What superiority? Perhaps it consisted just in their -limitations. It was obvious that neither of them had carried away a -high opinion of me. But what affected me most was the indifference -of the Fyne dog. He used to precipitate himself at full speed and -with a frightful final upward spring upon my waistcoat, at least -once at each of our meetings. He had neglected that ceremony this -time notwithstanding my correct and even conventional conduct in -offering him a cake; it seemed to me symbolic of my final separation -from the Fyne household. And I remembered against him how on a -certain day he had abandoned poor Flora de Barral--who was morbidly -sensitive. - -I sat down in the porch and, maybe inspired by secret antagonism to -the Fynes, I said to myself deliberately that Captain Anthony must -be a fine fellow. Yet on the facts as I knew them he might have -been a dangerous trifler or a downright scoundrel. He had made a -miserable, hopeless girl follow him clandestinely to London. It is -true that the girl had written since, only Mrs. Fyne had been -remarkably vague as to the contents. They were unsatisfactory. -They did not positively announce imminent nuptials as far as I could -make it out from her rather mysterious hints. But then her -inexperience might have led her astray. There was no fathoming the -innocence of a woman like Mrs. Fyne who, venturing as far as -possible in theory, would know nothing of the real aspect of things. -It would have been comic if she were making all this fuss for -nothing. But I rejected this suspicion for the honour of human -nature. - -I imagined to myself Captain Anthony as simple and romantic. It was -much more pleasant. Genius is not hereditary but temperament may -be. And he was the son of a poet with an admirable gift of -individualising, of etherealizing the common-place; of making -touching, delicate, fascinating the most hopeless conventions of -the, so-called, refined existence. - -What I could not understand was Mrs. Fyne's dog-in-the-manger -attitude. Sentimentally she needed that brother of hers so little! -What could it matter to her one way or another--setting aside common -humanity which would suggest at least a neutral attitude. Unless -indeed it was the blind working of the law that in our world of -chances the luckless MUST be put in the wrong somehow. - -And musing thus on the general inclination of our instincts towards -injustice I met unexpectedly, at the turn of the road, as it were, a -shape of duplicity. It might have been unconscious on Mrs. Fyne's -part, but her leading idea appeared to me to be not to keep, not to -preserve her brother, but to get rid of him definitely. She did not -hope to stop anything. She had too much sense for that. Almost -anyone out of an idiot asylum would have had enough sense for that. -She wanted the protest to be made, emphatically, with Fyne's fullest -concurrence in order to make all intercourse for the future -impossible. Such an action would estrange the pair for ever from -the Fynes. She understood her brother and the girl too. Happy -together, they would never forgive that outspoken hostility--and -should the marriage turn out badly . . . Well, it would be just the -same. Neither of them would be likely to bring their troubles to -such a good prophet of evil. - -Yes. That must have been her motive. The inspiration of a possibly -unconscious Machiavellism! Either she was afraid of having a -sister-in-law to look after during the husband's long absences; or -dreaded the more or less distant eventuality of her brother being -persuaded to leave the sea, the friendly refuge of his unhappy -youth, and to settle on shore, bringing to her very door this -undesirable, this embarrassing connection. She wanted to be done -with it--maybe simply from the fatigue of continuous effort in good -or evil, which, in the bulk of common mortals, accounts for so many -surprising inconsistencies of conduct. - -I don't know that I had classed Mrs. Fyne, in my thoughts, amongst -common mortals. She was too quietly sure of herself for that. But -little Fyne, as I spied him next morning (out of the carriage -window) speeding along the platform, looked very much like a common, -flustered mortal who has made a very near thing of catching his -train: the starting wild eyes, the tense and excited face, the -distracted gait, all the common symptoms were there, rendered more -impressive by his native solemnity which flapped about him like a -disordered garment. Had he--I asked myself with interest--resisted -his wife to the very last minute and then bolted up the road from -the last conclusive argument, as though it had been a loaded gun -suddenly produced? I opened the carriage door, and a vigorous -porter shoved him in from behind just as the end of the rustic -platform went gliding swiftly from under his feet. He was very much -out of breath, and I waited with some curiosity for the moment he -would recover his power of speech. That moment came. He said "Good -morning" with a slight gasp, remained very still for another minute -and then pulled out of his pocket the travelling chessboard, and -holding it in his hand, directed at me a glance of inquiry. - -"Yes. Certainly," I said, very much disappointed. - - - -CHAPTER SEVEN--ON THE PAVEMENT - - - -Fyne was not willing to talk; but as I had been already let into the -secret, the fair-minded little man recognized that I had some right -to information if I insisted on it. And I did insist, after the -third game. We were yet some way from the end of our journey. - -"Oh, if you want to know," was his somewhat impatient opening. And -then he talked rather volubly. First of all his wife had not given -him to read the letter received from Flora (I had suspected him of -having it in his pocket), but had told him all about the contents. -It was not at all what it should have been even if the girl had -wished to affirm her right to disregard the feelings of all the -world. Her own had been trampled in the dirt out of all shape. -Extraordinary thing to say--I would admit, for a young girl of her -age. The whole tone of that letter was wrong, quite wrong. It was -certainly not the product of a--say, of a well-balanced mind. - -"If she were given some sort of footing in this world," I said, "if -only no bigger than the palm of my hand, she would probably learn to -keep a better balance." - -Fyne ignored this little remark. His wife, he said, was not the -sort of person to be addressed mockingly on a serious subject. -There was an unpleasant strain of levity in that letter, extending -even to the references to Captain Anthony himself. Such a -disposition was enough, his wife had pointed out to him, to alarm -one for the future, had all the circumstances of that preposterous -project been as satisfactory as in fact they were not. Other parts -of the letter seemed to have a challenging tone--as if daring them -(the Fynes) to approve her conduct. And at the same time implying -that she did not care, that it was for their own sakes that she -hoped they would "go against the world--the horrid world which had -crushed poor papa." - -Fyne called upon me to admit that this was pretty cool--considering. -And there was another thing, too. It seems that for the last six -months (she had been assisting two ladies who kept a kindergarten -school in Bayswater--a mere pittance), Flora had insisted on -devoting all her spare time to the study of the trial. She had been -looking up files of old newspapers, and working herself up into a -state of indignation with what she called the injustice and the -hypocrisy of the prosecution. Her father, Fyne reminded me, had -made some palpable hits in his answers in Court, and she had -fastened on them triumphantly. She had reached the conclusion of -her father's innocence, and had been brooding over it. Mrs. Fyne -had pointed out to him the danger of this. - -The train ran into the station and Fyne, jumping out directly it -came to a standstill, seemed glad to cut short the conversation. We -walked in silence a little way, boarded a bus, then walked again. I -don't suppose that since the days of his childhood, when surely he -was taken to see the Tower, he had been once east of Temple Bar. He -looked about him sullenly; and when I pointed out in the distance -the rounded front of the Eastern Hotel at the bifurcation of two -very broad, mean, shabby thoroughfares, rising like a grey stucco -tower above the lowly roofs of the dirty-yellow, two-storey houses, -he only grunted disapprovingly. - -"I wouldn't lay too much stress on what you have been telling me," I -observed quietly as we approached that unattractive building. "No -man will believe a girl who has just accepted his suit to be not -well balanced,--you know." - -"Oh! Accepted his suit," muttered Fyne, who seemed to have been -very thoroughly convinced indeed. "It may have been the other way -about." And then he added: "I am going through with it." - -I said that this was very praiseworthy but that a certain moderation -of statement . . . He waved his hand at me and mended his pace. I -guessed that he was anxious to get his mission over as quickly as -possible. He barely gave himself time to shake hands with me and -made a rush at the narrow glass door with the words Hotel Entrance -on it. It swung to behind his back with no more noise than the snap -of a toothless jaw. - -The absurd temptation to remain and see what would come of it got -over my better judgment. I hung about irresolute, wondering how -long an embassy of that sort would take, and whether Fyne on coming -out would consent to be communicative. I feared he would be shocked -at finding me there, would consider my conduct incorrect, -conceivably treat me with contempt. I walked off a few paces. -Perhaps it would be possible to read something on Fyne's face as he -came out; and, if necessary, I could always eclipse myself -discreetly through the door of one of the bars. The ground floor of -the Eastern Hotel was an unabashed pub, with plate-glass fronts, a -display of brass rails, and divided into many compartments each -having its own entrance. - -But of course all this was silly. The marriage, the love, the -affairs of Captain Anthony were none of my business. I was on the -point of moving down the street for good when my attention was -attracted by a girl approaching the hotel entrance from the west. -She was dressed very modestly in black. It was the white straw hat -of a good form and trimmed with a bunch of pale roses which had -caught my eye. The whole figure seemed familiar. Of course! Flora -de Barral. She was making for the hotel, she was going in. And -Fyne was with Captain Anthony! To meet him could not be pleasant -for her. I wished to save her from the awkwardness, and as I -hesitated what to do she looked up and our eyes happened to meet -just as she was turning off the pavement into the hotel doorway. -Instinctively I extended my arm. It was enough to make her stop. I -suppose she had some faint notion that she had seen me before -somewhere. She walked slowly forward, prudent and attentive, -watching my faint smile. - -"Excuse me," I said directly she had approached me near enough. -"Perhaps you would like to know that Mr. Fyne is upstairs with -Captain Anthony at this moment." - -She uttered a faint "Ah! Mr. Fyne!" I could read in her eyes that -she had recognized me now. Her serious expression extinguished the -imbecile grin of which I was conscious. I raised my hat. She -responded with a slow inclination of the head while her luminous, -mistrustful, maiden's glance seemed to whisper, "What is this one -doing here?" - -"I came up to town with Fyne this morning," I said in a businesslike -tone. "I have to see a friend in East India Dock. Fyne and I -parted this moment at the door here . . . " The girl regarded me -with darkening eyes . . . "Mrs. Fyne did not come with her husband," -I went on, then hesitated before that white face so still in the -pearly shadow thrown down by the hat-brim. "But she sent him," I -murmured by way of warning. - -Her eyelids fluttered slowly over the fixed stare. I imagine she -was not much disconcerted by this development. "I live a long way -from here," she whispered. - -I said perfunctorily, "Do you?" And we remained gazing at each -other. The uniform paleness of her complexion was not that of an -anaemic girl. It had a transparent vitality and at that particular -moment the faintest possible rosy tinge, the merest suspicion of -colour; an equivalent, I suppose, in any other girl to blushing like -a peony while she told me that Captain Anthony had arranged to show -her the ship that morning. - -It was easy to understand that she did not want to meet Fyne. And -when I mentioned in a discreet murmur that he had come because of -her letter she glanced at the hotel door quickly, and moved off a -few steps to a position where she could watch the entrance without -being seen. I followed her. At the junction of the two -thoroughfares she stopped in the thin traffic of the broad pavement -and turned to me with an air of challenge. "And so you know." - -I told her that I had not seen the letter. I had only heard of it. -She was a little impatient. "I mean all about me." - -Yes. I knew all about her. The distress of Mr. and Mrs. Fyne-- -especially of Mrs. Fyne--was so great that they would have shared it -with anybody almost--not belonging to their circle of friends. I -happened to be at hand--that was all. - -"You understand that I am not their friend. I am only a holiday -acquaintance." - -"She was not very much upset?" queried Flora de Barral, meaning, of -course, Mrs. Fyne. And I admitted that she was less so than her -husband--and even less than myself. Mrs. Fyne was a very self- -possessed person which nothing could startle out of her extreme -theoretical position. She did not seem startled when Fyne and I -proposed going to the quarry. - -"You put that notion into their heads," the girl said. - -I advanced that the notion was in their heads already. But it was -much more vividly in my head since I had seen her up there with my -own eyes, tempting Providence. - -She was looking at me with extreme attention, and murmured: - -"Is that what you called it to them? Tempting . . . " - -"No. I told them that you were making up your mind and I came along -just then. I told them that you were saved by me. My shout checked -you . . ." "She moved her head gently from right to left in -negation . . . "No? Well, have it your own way." - -I thought to myself: She has found another issue. She wants to -forget now. And no wonder. She wants to persuade herself that she -had never known such an ugly and poignant minute in her life. -"After all," I conceded aloud, "things are not always what they -seem." - -Her little head with its deep blue eyes, eyes of tenderness and -anger under the black arch of fine eyebrows was very still. The -mouth looked very red in the white face peeping from under the veil, -the little pointed chin had in its form something aggressive. -Slight and even angular in her modest black dress she was an -appealing and--yes--she was a desirable little figure. - -Her lips moved very fast asking me: - -"And they believed you at once?" - -"Yes, they believed me at once. Mrs. Fyne's word to us was "Go!" - -A white gleam between the red lips was so short that I remained -uncertain whether it was a smile or a ferocious baring of little -even teeth. The rest of the face preserved its innocent, tense and -enigmatical expression. She spoke rapidly. - -"No, it wasn't your shout. I had been there some time before you -saw me. And I was not there to tempt Providence, as you call it. I -went up there for--for what you thought I was going to do. Yes. I -climbed two fences. I did not mean to leave anything to Providence. -There seem to be people for whom Providence can do nothing. I -suppose you are shocked to hear me talk like that?" - -I shook my head. I was not shocked. What had kept her back all -that time, till I appeared on the scene below, she went on, was -neither fear nor any other kind of hesitation. One reaches a point, -she said with appalling youthful simplicity, where nothing that -concerns one matters any longer. But something did keep her back. -I should have never guessed what it was. She herself confessed that -it seemed absurd to say. It was the Fyne dog. - -Flora de Barral paused, looking at me, with a peculiar expression -and then went on. You see, she imagined the dog had become -extremely attached to her. She took it into her head that he might -fall over or jump down after her. She tried to drive him away. She -spoke sternly to him. It only made him more frisky. He barked and -jumped about her skirt in his usual, idiotic, high spirits. He -scampered away in circles between the pines charging upon her and -leaping as high as her waist. She commanded, "Go away. Go home." -She even picked up from the ground a bit of a broken branch and -threw it at him. At this his delight knew no bounds; his rushes -became faster, his yapping louder; he seemed to be having the time -of his life. She was convinced that the moment she threw herself -down he would spring over after her as if it were part of the game. -She was vexed almost to tears. She was touched too. And when he -stood still at some distance as if suddenly rooted to the ground -wagging his tail slowly and watching her intensely with his shining -eyes another fear came to her. She imagined herself gone and the -creature sitting on the brink, its head thrown up to the sky and -howling for hours. This thought was not to be borne. Then my shout -reached her ears. - -She told me all this with simplicity. My voice had destroyed her -poise--the suicide poise of her mind. Every act of ours, the most -criminal, the most mad presupposes a balance of thought, feeling and -will, like a correct attitude for an effective stroke in a game. -And I had destroyed it. She was no longer in proper form for the -act. She was not very much annoyed. Next day would do. She would -have to slip away without attracting the notice of the dog. She -thought of the necessity almost tenderly. She came down the path -carrying her despair with lucid calmness. But when she saw herself -deserted by the dog, she had an impulse to turn round, go up again -and be done with it. Not even that animal cared for her--in the -end. - -"I really did think that he was attached to me. What did he want to -pretend for, like this? I thought nothing could hurt me any more. -Oh yes. I would have gone up, but I felt suddenly so tired. So -tired. And then you were there. I didn't know what you would do. -You might have tried to follow me and I didn't think I could run-- -not up hill--not then." - -She had raised her white face a little, and it was queer to hear her -say these things. At that time of the morning there are -comparatively few people out in that part of the town. The broad -interminable perspective of the East India Dock Road, the great -perspective of drab brick walls, of grey pavement, of muddy roadway -rumbling dismally with loaded carts and vans lost itself in the -distance, imposing and shabby in its spacious meanness of aspect, in -its immeasurable poverty of forms, of colouring, of life--under a -harsh, unconcerned sky dried by the wind to a clear blue. It had -been raining during the night. The sunshine itself seemed poor. -From time to time a few bits of paper, a little dust and straw -whirled past us on the broad flat promontory of the pavement before -the rounded front of the hotel. - -Flora de Barral was silent for a while. I said: - -"And next day you thought better of it." - -Again she raised her eyes to mine with that peculiar expression of -informed innocence; and again her white cheeks took on the faintest -tinge of pink--the merest shadow of a blush. - -"Next day," she uttered distinctly, "I didn't think. I remembered. -That was enough. I remembered what I should never have forgotten. -Never. And Captain Anthony arrived at the cottage in the evening." - -"Ah yes. Captain Anthony," I murmured. And she repeated also in a -murmur, "Yes! Captain Anthony." The faint flush of warm life left -her face. I subdued my voice still more and not looking at her: -"You found him sympathetic?" I ventured. - -Her long dark lashes went down a little with an air of calculated -discretion. At least so it seemed to me. And yet no one could say -that I was inimical to that girl. But there you are! Explain it as -you may, in this world the friendless, like the poor, are always a -little suspect, as if honesty and delicacy were only possible to the -privileged few. - -"Why do you ask?" she said after a time, raising her eyes suddenly -to mine in an effect of candour which on the same principle (of the -disinherited not being to be trusted) might have been judged -equivocal. - -"If you mean what right I have . . . " She move slightly a hand in -a worn brown glove as much as to say she could not question anyone's -right against such an outcast as herself. - -I ought to have been moved perhaps; but I only noted the total -absence of humility . . . "No right at all," I continued, "but just -interest. Mrs. Fyne--it's too difficult to explain how it came -about--has talked to me of you--well--extensively." - -No doubt Mrs. Fyne had told me the truth, Flora said brusquely with -an unexpected hoarseness of tone. This very dress she was wearing -had been given her by Mrs. Fyne. Of course I looked at it. It -could not have been a recent gift. Close-fitting and black, with -heliotrope silk facings under a figured net, it looked far from new, -just on this side of shabbiness; in fact, it accentuated the -slightness of her figure, it went well in its suggestion of half -mourning with the white face in which the unsmiling red lips alone -seemed warm with the rich blood of life and passion. - -Little Fyne was staying up there an unconscionable time. Was he -arguing, preaching, remonstrating? Had he discovered in himself a -capacity and a taste for that sort of thing? Or was he perhaps, in -an intense dislike for the job, beating about the bush and only -puzzling Captain Anthony, the providential man, who, if he expected -the girl to appear at any moment, must have been on tenterhooks all -the time, and beside himself with impatience to see the back of his -brother-in-law. How was it that he had not got rid of Fyne long -before in any case? I don't mean by actually throwing him out of -the window, but in some other resolute manner. - -Surely Fyne had not impressed him. That he was an impressionable -man I could not doubt. The presence of the girl there on the -pavement before me proved this up to the hilt--and, well, yes, -touchingly enough. - -It so happened that in their wanderings to and fro our glances met. -They met and remained in contact more familiar than a hand-clasp, -more communicative, more expressive. There was something comic too -in the whole situation, in the poor girl and myself waiting together -on the broad pavement at a corner public-house for the issue of -Fyne's ridiculous mission. But the comic when it is human becomes -quickly painful. Yes, she was infinitely anxious. And I was asking -myself whether this poignant tension of her suspense depended--to -put it plainly--on hunger or love. - -The answer would have been of some interest to Captain Anthony. For -my part, in the presence of a young girl I always become convinced -that the dreams of sentiment--like the consoling mysteries of Faith- --are invincible; that it is never never reason which governs men and -women. - -Yet what sentiment could there have been on her part? I remembered -her tone only a moment since when she said: "That evening Captain -Anthony arrived at the cottage." And considering, too, what the -arrival of Captain Anthony meant in this connection, I wondered at -the calmness with which she could mention that fact. He arrived at -the cottage. In the evening. I knew that late train. He probably -walked from the station. The evening would be well advanced. I -could almost see a dark indistinct figure opening the wicket gate of -the garden. Where was she? Did she see him enter? Was she -somewhere near by and did she hear without the slightest premonition -his chance and fateful footsteps on the flagged path leading to the -cottage door? In the shadow of the night made more cruelly sombre -for her by the very shadow of death he must have appeared too -strange, too remote, too unknown to impress himself on her thought -as a living force--such a force as a man can bring to bear on a -woman's destiny. - -She glanced towards the hotel door again; I followed suit and then -our eyes met once more, this time intentionally. A tentative, -uncertain intimacy was springing up between us two. She said -simply: "You are waiting for Mr. Fyne to come out; are you?" - -I admitted to her that I was waiting to see Mr. Fyne come out. That -was all. I had nothing to say to him. - -"I have said yesterday all I had to say to him," I added meaningly. -"I have said it to them both, in fact. I have also heard all they -had to say." - -"About me?" she murmured. - -"Yes. The conversation was about you." - -"I wonder if they told you everything." - -If she wondered I could do nothing else but wonder too. But I did -not tell her that. I only smiled. The material point was that -Captain Anthony should be told everything. But as to that I was -very certain that the good sister would see to it. Was there -anything more to disclose--some other misery, some other deception -of which that girl had been a victim? It seemed hardly probable. -It was not even easy to imagine. What struck me most was her--I -suppose I must call it--composure. One could not tell whether she -understood what she had done. One wondered. She was not so much -unreadable as blank; and I did not know whether to admire her for it -or dismiss her from my thoughts as a passive butt of ferocious -misfortune. - -Looking back at the occasion when we first got on speaking terms on -the road by the quarry, I had to admit that she presented some -points of a problematic appearance. I don't know why I imagined -Captain Anthony as the sort of man who would not be likely to take -the initiative; not perhaps from indifference but from that peculiar -timidity before women which often enough is found in conjunction -with chivalrous instincts, with a great need for affection and great -stability of feelings. Such men are easily moved. At the least -encouragement they go forward with the eagerness, with the -recklessness of starvation. This accounted for the suddenness of -the affair. No! With all her inexperience this girl could not have -found any great difficulty in her conquering enterprise. She must -have begun it. And yet there she was, patient, almost unmoved, -almost pitiful, waiting outside like a beggar, without a right to -anything but compassion, for a promised dole. - -Every moment people were passing close by us, singly, in two and -threes; the inhabitants of that end of the town where life goes on -unadorned by grace or splendour; they passed us in their shabby -garments, with sallow faces, haggard, anxious or weary, or simply -without expression, in an unsmiling sombre stream not made up of -lives but of mere unconsidered existences whose joys, struggles, -thoughts, sorrows and their very hopes were miserable, glamourless, -and of no account in the world. And when one thought of their -reality to themselves one's heart became oppressed. But of all the -individuals who passed by none appeared to me for the moment so -pathetic in unconscious patience as the girl standing before me; -none more difficult to understand. It is perhaps because I was -thinking of things which I could not ask her about. - -In fact we had nothing to say to each other; but we two, strangers -as we really were to each other, had dealt with the most intimate -and final of subjects, the subject of death. It had created a sort -of bond between us. It made our silence weighty and uneasy. I -ought to have left her there and then; but, as I think I've told you -before, the fact of having shouted her away from the edge of a -precipice seemed somehow to have engaged my responsibility as to -this other leap. And so we had still an intimate subject between us -to lend more weight and more uneasiness to our silence. The subject -of marriage. I use the word not so much in reference to the -ceremony itself (I had no doubt of this, Captain Anthony being a -decent fellow) or in view of the social institution in general, as -to which I have no opinion, but in regard to the human relation. -The first two views are not particularly interesting. The ceremony, -I suppose, is adequate; the institution, I dare say, is useful or it -would not have endured. But the human relation thus recognized is a -mysterious thing in its origins, character and consequences. -Unfortunately you can't buttonhole familiarly a young girl as you -would a young fellow. I don't think that even another woman could -really do it. She would not be trusted. There is not between women -that fund of at least conditional loyalty which men may depend on in -their dealings with each other. I believe that any woman would -rather trust a man. The difficulty in such a delicate case was how -to get on terms. - -So we held our peace in the odious uproar of that wide roadway -thronged with heavy carts. Great vans carrying enormous piled-up -loads advanced swaying like mountains. It was as if the whole world -existed only for selling and buying and those who had nothing to do -with the movement of merchandise were of no account. - -"You must be tired," I said. One had to say something if only to -assert oneself against that wearisome, passionless and crushing -uproar. She raised her eyes for a moment. No, she was not. Not -very. She had not walked all the way. She came by train as far as -Whitechapel Station and had only walked from there. - -She had had an ugly pilgrimage; but whether of love or of necessity -who could tell? And that precisely was what I should have liked to -get at. This was not however a question to be asked point-blank, -and I could not think of any effective circumlocution. It occurred -to me too that she might conceivably know nothing of it herself--I -mean by reflection. That young woman had been obviously considering -death. She had gone the length of forming some conception of it. -But as to its companion fatality--love, she, I was certain, had -never reflected upon its meaning. - -With that man in the hotel, whom I did not know, and this girl -standing before me in the street I felt that it was an exceptional -case. He had broken away from his surroundings; she stood outside -the pale. One aspect of conventions which people who declaim -against them lose sight of is that conventions make both joy and -suffering easier to bear in a becoming manner. But those two were -outside all conventions. They would be as untrammelled in a sense -as the first man and the first woman. The trouble was that I could -not imagine anything about Flora de Barral and the brother of Mrs. -Fyne. Or, if you like, I could imagine ANYTHING which comes -practically to the same thing. Darkness and chaos are first -cousins. I should have liked to ask the girl for a word which would -give my imagination its line. But how was one to venture so far? I -can be rough sometimes but I am not naturally impertinent. I would -have liked to ask her for instance: "Do you know what you have done -with yourself?" A question like that. Anyhow it was time for one -of us to say something. A question it must be. And the question I -asked was: "So he's going to show you the ship?" - -She seemed glad I had spoken at last and glad of the opportunity to -speak herself. - -"Yes. He said he would--this morning. Did you say you did not know -Captain Anthony?" - -"No. I don't know him. Is he anything like his sister?" - -She looked startled and murmured "Sister!" in a puzzled tone which -astonished me. "Oh! Mrs. Fyne," she exclaimed, recollecting -herself, and avoiding my eyes while I looked at her curiously. - -What an extraordinary detachment! And all the time the stream of -shabby people was hastening by us, with the continuous dreary -shuffling of weary footsteps on the flagstones. The sunshine -falling on the grime of surfaces, on the poverty of tones and forms -seemed of an inferior quality, its joy faded, its brilliance -tarnished and dusty. I had to raise my voice in the dull vibrating -noise of the roadway. - -"You don't mean to say you have forgotten the connection?" - -She cried readily enough: "I wasn't thinking." And then, while I -wondered what could have been the images occupying her brain at this -time, she asked me: "You didn't see my letter to Mrs. Fyne--did -you?" - -"No. I didn't," I shouted. Just then the racket was distracting, a -pair-horse trolly lightly loaded with loose rods of iron passing -slowly very near us. "I wasn't trusted so far." And remembering -Mrs. Fyne's hints that the girl was unbalanced, I added: "Was it an -unreserved confession you wrote?" - -She did not answer me for a time, and as I waited I thought that -there's nothing like a confession to make one look mad; and that of -all confessions a written one is the most detrimental all round. -Never confess! Never, never! An untimely joke is a source of -bitter regret always. Sometimes it may ruin a man; not because it -is a joke, but because it is untimely. And a confession of whatever -sort is always untimely. The only thing which makes it supportable -for a while is curiosity. You smile? Ah, but it is so, or else -people would be sent to the rightabout at the second sentence. How -many sympathetic souls can you reckon on in the world? One in ten, -one in a hundred--in a thousand--in ten thousand? Ah! What a sell -these confessions are! What a horrible sell! You seek sympathy, -and all you get is the most evanescent sense of relief--if you get -that much. For a confession, whatever it may be, stirs the secret -depths of the hearer's character. Often depths that he himself is -but dimly aware of. And so the righteous triumph secretly, the -lucky are amused, the strong are disgusted, the weak either upset or -irritated with you according to the measure of their sincerity with -themselves. And all of them in their hearts brand you for either -mad or impudent . . . " - -I had seldom seen Marlow so vehement, so pessimistic, so earnestly -cynical before. I cut his declamation short by asking what answer -Flora de Barral had given to his question. "Did the poor girl admit -firing off her confidences at Mrs. Fyne--eight pages of close -writing--that sort of thing?" - -Marlow shook his head. - -"She did not tell me. I accepted her silence, as a kind of answer -and remarked that it would have been better if she had simply -announced the fact to Mrs. Fyne at the cottage. "Why didn't you do -it?" I asked point-blank. - -She said: "I am not a very plucky girl." She looked up at me and -added meaningly: "And YOU know it. And you know why." - -I must remark that she seemed to have become very subdued since our -first meeting at the quarry. Almost a different person from the -defiant, angry and despairing girl with quivering lips and resentful -glances. - -"I thought it was very sensible of you to get away from that sheer -drop," I said. - -She looked up with something of that old expression. - -"That's not what I mean. I see you will have it that you saved my -life. Nothing of the kind. I was concerned for that vile little -beast of a dog. No! It was the idea of--of doing away with myself -which was cowardly. That's what I meant by saying I am not a very -plucky girl." - -"Oh!" I retorted airily. "That little dog. He isn't really a bad -little dog." But she lowered her eyelids and went on: - -"I was so miserable that I could think only of myself. This was -mean. It was cruel too. And besides I had NOT given it up--not -then." - - -Marlow changed his tone. - -"I don't know much of the psychology of self-destruction. It's a -sort of subject one has few opportunities to study closely. I knew -a man once who came to my rooms one evening, and while smoking a -cigar confessed to me moodily that he was trying to discover some -graceful way of retiring out of existence. I didn't study his case, -but I had a glimpse of him the other day at a cricket match, with -some women, having a good time. That seems a fairly reasonable -attitude. Considered as a sin, it is a case for repentance before -the throne of a merciful God. But I imagine that Flora de Barral's -religion under the care of the distinguished governess could have -been nothing but outward formality. Remorse in the sense of gnawing -shame and unavailing regret is only understandable to me when some -wrong had been done to a fellow-creature. But why she, that girl -who existed on sufferance, so to speak--why she should writhe -inwardly with remorse because she had once thought of getting rid of -a life which was nothing in every respect but a curse--that I could -not understand. I thought it was very likely some obscure influence -of common forms of speech, some traditional or inherited feeling--a -vague notion that suicide is a legal crime; words of old moralists -and preachers which remain in the air and help to form all the -authorized moral conventions. Yes, I was surprised at her remorse. -But lowering her glance unexpectedly till her dark eye-lashes seemed -to rest against her white cheeks she presented a perfectly demure -aspect. It was so attractive that I could not help a faint smile. -That Flora de Barral should ever, in any aspect, have the power to -evoke a smile was the very last thing I should have believed. She -went on after a slight hesitation: - -"One day I started for there, for that place." - -Look at the influence of a mere play of physiognomy! If you -remember what we were talking about you will hardly believe that I -caught myself grinning down at that demure little girl. I must say -too that I felt more friendly to her at the moment than ever before. - -"Oh, you did? To take that jump? You are a determined young -person. Well, what happened that time?" - -An almost imperceptible alteration in her bearing; a slight droop of -her head perhaps--a mere nothing--made her look more demure than -ever. - -"I had left the cottage," she began a little hurriedly. "I was -walking along the road--you know, THE road. I had made up my mind I -was not coming back this time." - -I won't deny that these words spoken from under the brim of her hat -(oh yes, certainly, her head was down--she had put it down) gave me -a thrill; for indeed I had never doubted her sincerity. It could -never have been a make-believe despair. - -"Yes," I whispered. "You were going along the road." - -"When . . . " Again she hesitated with an effect of innocent -shyness worlds asunder from tragic issues; then glided on . . . -"When suddenly Captain Anthony came through a gate out of a field." - -I coughed down the beginning of a most improper fit of laughter, and -felt ashamed of myself. Her eyes raised for a moment seemed full of -innocent suffering and unexpressed menace in the depths of the -dilated pupils within the rings of sombre blue. It was--how shall I -say it?--a night effect when you seem to see vague shapes and don't -know what reality you may come upon at any time. Then she lowered -her eyelids again, shutting all mysteriousness out of the situation -except for the sobering memory of that glance, nightlike in the -sunshine, expressively still in the brutal unrest of the street. - -"So Captain Anthony joined you--did he?" - -"He opened a field-gate and walked out on the road. He crossed to -my side and went on with me. He had his pipe in his hand. He said: -'Are you going far this morning?'" - -These words (I was watching her white face as she spoke) gave me a -slight shudder. She remained demure, almost prim. And I remarked: - -"You have been talking together before, of course." - -"Not more than twenty words altogether since he arrived," she -declared without emphasis. "That day he had said 'Good morning' to -me when we met at breakfast two hours before. And I said good -morning to him. I did not see him afterwards till he came out on -the road." - -I thought to myself that this was not accidental. He had been -observing her. I felt certain also that he had not been asking any -questions of Mrs. Fyne. - -"I wouldn't look at him," said Flora de Barral. "I had done with -looking at people. He said to me: 'My sister does not put herself -out much for us. We had better keep each other company. I have -read every book there is in that cottage.' I walked on. He did not -leave me. I thought he ought to. But he didn't. He didn't seem to -notice that I would not talk to him." - -She was now perfectly still. The wretched little parasol hung down -against her dress from her joined hands. I was rigid with -attention. It isn't every day that one culls such a volunteered -tale on a girl's lips. The ugly street-noises swelling up for a -moment covered the next few words she said. It was vexing. The -next word I heard was "worried." - -"It worried you to have him there, walking by your side." - -"Yes. Just that," she went on with downcast eyes. There was -something prettily comical in her attitude and her tone, while I -pictured to myself a poor white-faced girl walking to her death with -an unconscious man striding by her side. Unconscious? I don't -know. First of all, I felt certain that this was no chance meeting. -Something had happened before. Was he a man for a coup-de-foudre, -the lightning stroke of love? I don't think so. That sort of -susceptibility is luckily rare. A world of inflammable lovers of -the Romeo and Juliet type would very soon end in barbarism and -misery. But it is a fact that in every man (not in every woman) -there lives a lover; a lover who is called out in all his -potentialities often by the most insignificant little things--as -long as they come at the psychological moment: the glimpse of a -face at an unusual angle, an evanescent attitude, the curve of a -cheek often looked at before, perhaps, but then, at the moment, -charged with astonishing significance. These are great mysteries, -of course. Magic signs. - -I don't know in what the sign consisted in this case. It might have -been her pallor (it wasn't pasty nor yet papery) that white face -with eyes like blue gleams of fire and lips like red coals. In -certain lights, in certain poises of head it suggested tragic -sorrow. Or it might have been her wavy hair. Or even just that -pointed chin stuck out a little, resentful and not particularly -distinguished, doing away with the mysterious aloofness of her -fragile presence. But any way at a given moment Anthony must have -suddenly SEEN the girl. And then, that something had happened to -him. Perhaps nothing more than the thought coming into his head -that this was "a possible woman." - -Followed this waylaying! Its resolute character makes me think it -was the chin's doing; that "common mortal" touch which stands in -such good stead to some women. Because men, I mean really masculine -men, those whose generations have evolved an ideal woman, are often -very timid. Who wouldn't be before the ideal? It's your -sentimental trifler, who has just missed being nothing at all, who -is enterprising, simply because it is easy to appear enterprising -when one does not mean to put one's belief to the test. - -Well, whatever it was that encouraged him, Captain Anthony stuck to -Flora de Barral in a manner which in a timid man might have been -called heroic if it had not been so simple. Whether policy, -diplomacy, simplicity, or just inspiration, he kept up his talk, -rather deliberate, with very few pauses. Then suddenly as if -recollecting himself: - -"It's funny. I don't think you are annoyed with me for giving you -my company unasked. But why don't you say something?" - -I asked Miss de Barral what answer she made to this query. - -"I made no answer," she said in that even, unemotional low voice -which seemed to be her voice for delicate confidences. "I walked -on. He did not seem to mind. We came to the foot of the quarry -where the road winds up hill, past the place where you were sitting -by the roadside that day. I began to wonder what I should do. -After we reached the top Captain Anthony said that he had not been -for a walk with a lady for years and years--almost since he was a -boy. We had then come to where I ought to have turned off and -struck across a field. I thought of making a run of it. But he -would have caught me up. I knew he would; and, of course, he would -not have allowed me. I couldn't give him the slip." - -"Why didn't you ask him to leave you?" I inquired curiously. - -"He would not have taken any notice," she went on steadily. "And -what could I have done then? I could not have started quarrelling -with him--could I? I hadn't enough energy to get angry. I felt -very tired suddenly. I just stumbled on straight along the road. -Captain Anthony told me that the family--some relations of his -mother--he used to know in Liverpool was broken up now, and he had -never made any friends since. All gone their different ways. All -the girls married. Nice girls they were and very friendly to him -when he was but little more than a boy. He repeated: 'Very nice, -cheery, clever girls.' I sat down on a bank against a hedge and -began to cry." - -"You must have astonished him not a little," I observed. - -Anthony, it seems, remained on the road looking down at her. He did -not offer to approach her, neither did he make any other movement or -gesture. Flora de Barral told me all this. She could see him -through her tears, blurred to a mere shadow on the white road, and -then again becoming more distinct, but always absolutely still and -as if lost in thought before a strange phenomenon which demanded the -closest possible attention. - -Flora learned later that he had never seen a woman cry; not in that -way, at least. He was impressed and interested by the -mysteriousness of the effect. She was very conscious of being -looked at, but was not able to stop herself crying. In fact, she -was not capable of any effort. Suddenly he advanced two steps, -stooped, caught hold of her hands lying on her lap and pulled her up -to her feet; she found herself standing close to him almost before -she realized what he had done. Some people were coming briskly -along the road and Captain Anthony muttered: "You don't want to be -stared at. What about that stile over there? Can we go back across -the fields?" - -She snatched her hands out of his grasp (it seems he had omitted to -let them go), marched away from him and got over the stile. It was -a big field sprinkled profusely with white sheep. A trodden path -crossed it diagonally. After she had gone more than half way she -turned her head for the first time. Keeping five feet or so behind, -Captain Anthony was following her with an air of extreme interest. -Interest or eagerness. At any rate she caught an expression on his -face which frightened her. But not enough to make her run. And -indeed it would have had to be something incredibly awful to scare -into a run a girl who had come to the end of her courage to live. - -As if encouraged by this glance over the shoulder Captain Anthony -came up boldly, and now that he was by her side, she felt his -nearness intimately, like a touch. She tried to disregard this -sensation. But she was not angry with him now. It wasn't worth -while. She was thankful that he had the sense not to ask questions -as to this crying. Of course he didn't ask because he didn't care. -No one in the world cared for her, neither those who pretended nor -yet those who did not pretend. She preferred the latter. - -Captain Anthony opened for her a gate into another field; when they -got through he kept walking abreast, elbow to elbow almost. His -voice growled pleasantly in her very ear. Staying in this dull -place was enough to give anyone the blues. His sister scribbled all -day. It was positively unkind. He alluded to his nieces as rude, -selfish monkeys, without either feelings or manners. And he went on -to talk about his ship being laid up for a month and dismantled for -repairs. The worst was that on arriving in London he found he -couldn't get the rooms he was used to, where they made him as -comfortable as such a confirmed sea-dog as himself could be anywhere -on shore. - -In the effort to subdue by dint of talking and to keep in check the -mysterious, the profound attraction he felt already for that -delicate being of flesh and blood, with pale cheeks, with darkened -eyelids and eyes scalded with hot tears, he went on speaking of -himself as a confirmed enemy of life on shore--a perfect terror to a -simple man, what with the fads and proprieties and the ceremonies -and affectations. He hated all that. He wasn't fit for it. There -was no rest and peace and security but on the sea. - -This gave one a view of Captain Anthony as a hermit withdrawn from a -wicked world. It was amusingly unexpected to me and nothing more. -But it must have appealed straight to that bruised and battered -young soul. Still shrinking from his nearness she had ended by -listening to him with avidity. His deep murmuring voice soothed -her. And she thought suddenly that there was peace and rest in the -grave too. - -She heard him say: "Look at my sister. She isn't a bad woman by -any means. She asks me here because it's right and proper, I -suppose, but she has no use for me. There you have your shore -people. I quite understand anybody crying. I would have been gone -already, only, truth to say, I haven't any friends to go to." He -added brusquely: "And you?" - -She made a slight negative sign. He must have been observing her, -putting two and two together. After a pause he said simply: "When -I first came here I thought you were governess to these girls. My -sister didn't say a word about you to me." - -Then Flora spoke for the first time. - -"Mrs. Fyne is my best friend." - -"So she is mine," he said without the slightest irony or bitterness, -but added with conviction: "That shows you what life ashore is. -Much better be out of it." - -As they were approaching the cottage he was heard again as though a -long silent walk had not intervened: "But anyhow I shan't ask her -anything about you." - -He stopped short and she went on alone. His last words had -impressed her. Everything he had said seemed somehow to have a -special meaning under its obvious conversational sense. Till she -went in at the door of the cottage she felt his eyes resting on her. - -That is it. He had made himself felt. That girl was, one may say, -washing about with slack limbs in the ugly surf of life with no -opportunity to strike out for herself, when suddenly she had been -made to feel that there was somebody beside her in the bitter water. -A most considerable moral event for her; whether she was aware of it -or not. They met again at the one o'clock dinner. I am inclined to -think that, being a healthy girl under her frail appearance, and -fast walking and what I may call relief-crying (there are many kinds -of crying) making one hungry, she made a good meal. It was Captain -Anthony who had no appetite. His sister commented on it in a curt, -business-like manner, and the eldest of his delightful nieces said -mockingly: "You have been taking too much exercise this morning, -Uncle Roderick." The mild Uncle Roderick turned upon her with a -"What do you know about it, young lady?" so charged with suppressed -savagery that the whole round table gave one gasp and went dumb for -the rest of the meal. He took no notice whatever of Flora de -Barral. I don't think it was from prudence or any calculated -motive. I believe he was so full of her aspects that he did not -want to look in her direction when there were other people to hamper -his imagination. - -You understand I am piecing here bits of disconnected statements. -Next day Flora saw him leaning over the field-gate. When she told -me this, I didn't of course ask her how it was she was there. -Probably she could not have told me how it was she was there. The -difficulty here is to keep steadily in view the then conditions of -her existence, a combination of dreariness and horror. - -That hermit-like but not exactly misanthropic sailor was leaning -over the gate moodily. When he saw the white-faced restless Flora -drifting like a lost thing along the road he put his pipe in his -pocket and called out "Good morning, Miss Smith" in a tone of -amazing happiness. She, with one foot in life and the other in a -nightmare, was at the same time inert and unstable, and very much at -the mercy of sudden impulses. She swerved, came distractedly right -up to the gate and looking straight into his eyes: "I am not Miss -Smith. That's not my name. Don't call me by it." - -She was shaking as if in a passion. His eyes expressed nothing; he -only unlatched the gate in silence, grasped her arm and drew her in. -Then closing it with a kick - - -"Not your name? That's all one to me. Your name's the least thing -about you I care for." He was leading her firmly away from the gate -though she resisted slightly. There was a sort of joy in his eyes -which frightened her. "You are not a princess in disguise," he said -with an unexpected laugh she found blood-curdling. "And that's all -I care for. You had better understand that I am not blind and not a -fool. And then it's plain for even a fool to see that things have -been going hard with you. You are on a lee shore and eating your -heart out with worry." - -What seemed most awful to her was the elated light in his eyes, the -rapacious smile that would come and go on his lips as if he were -gloating over her misery. But her misery was his opportunity and he -rejoiced while the tenderest pity seemed to flood his whole being. -He pointed out to her that she knew who he was. He was Mrs. Fyne's -brother. And, well, if his sister was the best friend she had in -the world, then, by Jove, it was about time somebody came along to -look after her a little. - -Flora had tried more than once to free herself, but he tightened his -grasp of her arm each time and even shook it a little without -ceasing to speak. The nearness of his face intimidated her. He -seemed striving to look her through. It was obvious the world had -been using her ill. And even as he spoke with indignation the very -marks and stamp of this ill-usage of which he was so certain seemed -to add to the inexplicable attraction he felt for her person. It -was not pity alone, I take it. It was something more spontaneous, -perverse and exciting. It gave him the feeling that if only he -could get hold of her, no woman would belong to him so completely as -this woman. - -"Whatever your troubles," he said, "I am the man to take you away -from them; that is, if you are not afraid. You told me you had no -friends. Neither have I. Nobody ever cared for me as far as I can -remember. Perhaps you could. Yes, I live on the sea. But who -would you be parting from? No one. You have no one belonging to -you." - -At this point she broke away from him and ran. He did not pursue -her. The tall hedges tossing in the wind, the wide fields, the -clouds driving over the sky and the sky itself wheeled about her in -masses of green and white and blue as if the world were breaking up -silently in a whirl, and her foot at the next step were bound to -find the void. She reached the gate all right, got out, and, once -on the road, discovered that she had not the courage to look back. -The rest of that day she spent with the Fyne girls who gave her to -understand that she was a slow and unprofitable person. Long after -tea, nearly at dusk, Captain Anthony (the son of the poet) appeared -suddenly before her in the little garden in front of the cottage. -They were alone for the moment. The wind had dropped. In the calm -evening air the voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls strolling -aimlessly on the road could be heard. He said to her severely: - -"You have understood?" - -She looked at him in silence. - -"That I love you," he finished. - -She shook her head the least bit. - -"Don't you believe me?" he asked in a low, infuriated voice. - -"Nobody would love me," she answered in a very quiet tone. "Nobody -could." - -He was dumb for a time, astonished beyond measure, as he well might -have been. He doubted his ears. He was outraged. - -"Eh? What? Can't love you? What do you know about it? It's my -affair, isn't it? You dare say THAT to a man who has just told you! -You must be mad!" - -"Very nearly," she said with the accent of pent-up sincerity, and -even relieved because she was able to say something which she felt -was true. For the last few days she had felt herself several times -near that madness which is but an intolerable lucidity of -apprehension. - -The clear voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls were coming nearer, -sounding affected in the peace of the passion-laden earth. He began -storming at her hastily. - -"Nonsense! Nobody can . . . Indeed! Pah! You'll have to be shown -that somebody can. I can. Nobody . . . " He made a contemptuous -hissing noise. "More likely YOU can't. They have done something to -you. Something's crushed your pluck. You can't face a man--that's -what it is. What made you like this? Where do you come from? You -have been put upon. The scoundrels--whoever they are, men or women, -seem to have robbed you of your very name. You say you are not Miss -Smith. Who are you, then?" - -She did not answer. He muttered, "Not that I care," and fell -silent, because the fatuous self-confident chatter of the Fyne girls -could be heard at the very gate. But they were not going to bed -yet. They passed on. He waited a little in silence and immobility, -then stamped his foot and lost control of himself. He growled at -her in a savage passion. She felt certain that he was threatening -her and calling her names. She was no stranger to abuse, as we -know, but there seemed to be a particular kind of ferocity in this -which was new to her. She began to tremble. The especially -terrifying thing was that she could not make out the nature of these -awful menaces and names. Not a word. Yet it was not the shrinking -anguish of her other experiences of angry scenes. She made a mighty -effort, though her knees were knocking together, and in an expiring -voice demanded that he should let her go indoors. "Don't stop me. -It's no use. It's no use," she repeated faintly, feeling an -invincible obstinacy rising within her, yet without anger against -that raging man. - -He became articulate suddenly, and, without raising his voice, -perfectly audible. - -"No use! No use! You dare stand here and tell me that--you white- -faced wisp, you wreath of mist, you little ghost of all the sorrow -in the world. You dare! Haven't I been looking at you? You are -all eyes. What makes your cheeks always so white as if you had seen -something . . . Don't speak. I love it . . . No use! And you -really think that I can now go to sea for a year or more, to the -other side of the world somewhere, leaving you behind. Why! You -would vanish . . . what little there is of you. Some rough wind -will blow you away altogether. You have no holding ground on earth. -Well, then trust yourself to me--to the sea--which is deep like your -eyes." - -She said: "Impossible." He kept quiet for a while, then asked in a -totally changed tone, a tone of gloomy curiosity: - -"You can't stand me then ? Is that it?" - -"No," she said, more steady herself. "I am not thinking of you at -all." - -The inane voices of the Fyne girls were heard over the sombre fields -calling to each other, thin and clear. He muttered: "You could try -to. Unless you are thinking of somebody else." - -"Yes. I am thinking of somebody else, of someone who has nobody to -think of him but me." - -His shadowy form stepped out of her way, and suddenly leaned -sideways against the wooden support of the porch. And as she stood -still, surprised by this staggering movement, his voice spoke up in -a tone quite strange to her. - -"Go in then. Go out of my sight--I thought you said nobody could -love you." - -She was passing him when suddenly he struck her as so forlorn that -she was inspired to say: "No one has ever loved me--not in that -way--if that's what you mean. Nobody would." - -He detached himself brusquely from the post, and she did not shrink; -but Mrs. Fyne and the girls were already at the gate. - -All he understood was that everything was not over yet. There was -no time to lose; Mrs. Fyne and the girls had come in at the gate. -He whispered "Wait" with such authority (he was the son of Carleon -Anthony, the domestic autocrat) that it did arrest her for a moment, -long enough to hear him say that he could not be left like this to -puzzle over her nonsense all night. She was to slip down again into -the garden later on, as soon as she could do so without being heard. -He would be there waiting for her till--till daylight. She didn't -think he could go to sleep, did she? And she had better come, or-- -he broke off on an unfinished threat. - -She vanished into the unlighted cottage just as Mrs. Fyne came up to -the porch. Nervous, holding her breath in the darkness of the -living-room, she heard her best friend say: "You ought to have -joined us, Roderick." And then: "Have you seen Miss Smith -anywhere?" - -Flora shuddered, expecting Anthony to break out into betraying -imprecations on Miss Smith's head, and cause a painful and -humiliating explanation. She imagined him full of his mysterious -ferocity. To her great surprise, Anthony's voice sounded very much -as usual, with perhaps a slight tinge of grimness. "Miss Smith! -No. I've seen no Miss Smith." - -Mrs. Fyne seemed satisfied--and not much concerned really. - -Flora, relieved, got clear away to her room upstairs, and shutting -her door quietly, dropped into a chair. She was used to reproaches, -abuse, to all sorts of wicked ill usage--short of actual beating on -her body. Otherwise inexplicable angers had cut and slashed and -trampled down her youth without mercy--and mainly, it appeared, -because she was the financier de Barral's daughter and also -condemned to a degrading sort of poverty through the action of -treacherous men who had turned upon her father in his hour of need. -And she thought with the tenderest possible affection of that -upright figure buttoned up in a long frock-coat, soft-voiced and -having but little to say to his girl. She seemed to feel his hand -closed round hers. On his flying visits to Brighton he would always -walk hand in hand with her. People stared covertly at them; the -band was playing; and there was the sea--the blue gaiety of the sea. -They were quietly happy together . . . It was all over! - -An immense anguish of the present wrung her heart, and she nearly -cried aloud. That dread of what was before her which had been -eating up her courage slowly in the course of odious years, flamed -up into an access of panic, that sort of headlong panic which had -already driven her out twice to the top of the cliff-like quarry. -She jumped up saying to herself: "Why not now? At once! Yes. -I'll do it now--in the dark!" The very horror of it seemed to give -her additional resolution. - -She came down the staircase quietly, and only on the point of -opening the door and because of the discovery that it was -unfastened, she remembered Captain Anthony's threat to stay in the -garden all night. She hesitated. She did not understand the mood -of that man clearly. He was violent. But she had gone beyond the -point where things matter. What would he think of her coming down -to him--as he would naturally suppose. And even that didn't matter. -He could not despise her more than she despised herself. She must -have been light-headed because the thought came into her mind that -should he get into ungovernable fury from disappointment, and -perchance strangle her, it would be as good a way to be done with it -as any. - -"You had that thought," I exclaimed in wonder. - -With downcast eyes and speaking with an almost painstaking precision -(her very lips, her red lips, seemed to move just enough to be heard -and no more), she said that, yes, the thought came into her head. -This makes one shudder at the mysterious ways girls acquire -knowledge. For this was a thought, wild enough, I admit, but which -could only have come from the depths of that sort of experience -which she had not had, and went far beyond a young girl's possible -conception of the strongest and most veiled of human emotions. - -"He was there, of course?" I said. - -"Yes, he was there." She saw him on the path directly she stepped -outside the porch. He was very still. It was as though he had been -standing there with his face to the door for hours. - -Shaken up by the changing moods of passion and tenderness, he must -have been ready for any extravagance of conduct. Knowing the -profound silence each night brought to that nook of the country, I -could imagine them having the feeling of being the only two people -on the wide earth. A row of six or seven lofty elms just across the -road opposite the cottage made the night more obscure in that little -garden. If these two could just make out each other that was all. - -"Well! And were you very much terrified?" I asked. - -She made me wait a little before she said, raising her eyes: "He -was gentleness itself." - -I noticed three abominable, drink-sodden loafers, sallow and dirty, -who had come to range themselves in a row within ten feet of us -against the front of the public-house. They stared at Flora de -Barral's back with unseeing, mournful fixity. - -"Let's move this way a little," I proposed. - -She turned at once and we made a few paces; not too far to take us -out of sight of the hotel door, but very nearly. I could just keep -my eyes on it. After all, I had not been so very long with the -girl. If you were to disentangle the words we actually exchanged -from my comments you would see that they were not so very many, -including everything she had so unexpectedly told me of her story. -No, not so very many. And now it seemed as though there would be no -more. No! I could expect no more. The confidence was wonderful -enough in its nature as far as it went, and perhaps not to have been -expected from any other girl under the sun. And I felt a little -ashamed. The origin of our intimacy was too gruesome. It was as if -listening to her I had taken advantage of having seen her poor -bewildered, scared soul without its veils. But I was curious, too; -or, to render myself justice without false modesty--I was anxious; -anxious to know a little more. - -I felt like a blackmailer all the same when I made my attempt with a -light-hearted remark. - -"And so you gave up that walk you proposed to take?" - -"Yes, I gave up the walk," she said slowly before raising her -downcast eyes. When she did so it was with an extraordinary effect. -It was like catching sight of a piece of blue sky, of a stretch of -open water. And for a moment I understood the desire of that man to -whom the sea and sky of his solitary life had appeared suddenly -incomplete without that glance which seemed to belong to them both. -He was not for nothing the son of a poet. I looked into those -unabashed eyes while the girl went on, her demure appearance and -precise tone changed to a very earnest expression. Woman is various -indeed. - -"But I want you to understand, Mr. . . . " she had actually to think -of my name . . . "Mr. Marlow, that I have written to Mrs. Fyne that -I haven't been--that I have done nothing to make Captain Anthony -behave to me as he had behaved. I haven't. I haven't. It isn't my -doing. It isn't my fault--if she likes to put it in that way. But -she, with her ideas, ought to understand that I couldn't, that I -couldn't . . . I know she hates me now. I think she never liked me. -I think nobody ever cared for me. I was told once nobody could care -for me; and I think it is true. At any rate I can't forget it." - -Her abominable experience with the governess had implanted in her -unlucky breast a lasting doubt, an ineradicable suspicion of herself -and of others. I said: - -"Remember, Miss de Barral, that to be fair you must trust a man -altogether--or not at all." - -She dropped her eyes suddenly. I thought I heard a faint sigh. I -tried to take a light tone again, and yet it seemed impossible to -get off the ground which gave me my standing with her. - -"Mrs. Fyne is absurd. She's an excellent woman, but really you -could not be expected to throw away your chance of life simply that -she might cherish a good opinion of your memory. That would be -excessive." - -"It was not of my life that I was thinking while Captain Anthony -was--was speaking to me," said Flora de Barral with an effort. - -I told her that she was wrong then. She ought to have been thinking -of her life, and not only of her life but of the life of the man who -was speaking to her too. She let me finish, then shook her head -impatiently. - -"I mean--death." - -"Well," I said, "when he stood before you there, outside the -cottage, he really stood between you and that. I have it out of -your own mouth. You can't deny it." - -"If you will have it that he saved my life, then he has got it. It -was not for me. Oh no! It was not for me that I--It was not fear! -There!" She finished petulantly: "And you may just as well know -it." - -She hung her head and swung the parasol slightly to and fro. I -thought a little. - -"Do you know French, Miss de Barral?" I asked. - -She made a sign with her head that she did, but without showing any -surprise at the question and without ceasing to swing her parasol. - -"Well then, somehow or other I have the notion that Captain Anthony -is what the French call un galant homme. I should like to think he -is being treated as he deserves." - -The form of her lips (I could see them under the brim of her hat) -was suddenly altered into a line of seriousness. The parasol -stopped swinging. - -"I have given him what he wanted--that's myself," she said without a -tremor and with a striking dignity of tone. - -Impressed by the manner and the directness of the words, I hesitated -for a moment what to say. Then made up my mind to clear up the -point. - -"And you have got what you wanted? Is that it?" - -The daughter of the egregious financier de Barral did not answer at -once this question going to the heart of things. Then raising her -head and gazing wistfully across the street noisy with the endless -transit of innumerable bargains, she said with intense gravity: - -"He has been most generous." - -I was pleased to hear these words. Not that I doubted the -infatuation of Roderick Anthony, but I was pleased to hear something -which proved that she was sensible and open to the sentiment of -gratitude which in this case was significant. In the face of man's -desire a girl is excusable if she thinks herself priceless. I mean -a girl of our civilization which has established a dithyrambic -phraseology for the expression of love. A man in love will accept -any convention exalting the object of his passion and in this -indirect way his passion itself. In what way the captain of the -ship Ferndale gave proofs of lover-like lavishness I could not guess -very well. But I was glad she was appreciative. It is lucky that -small things please women. And it is not silly of them to be thus -pleased. It is in small things that the deepest loyalty, that which -they need most, the loyalty of the passing moment, is best -expressed. - -She had remained thoughtful, letting her deep motionless eyes rest -on the streaming jumble of traffic. Suddenly she said: - -"And I wanted to ask you . . . I was really glad when I saw you -actually here. Who would have expected you here, at this spot, -before this hotel! I certainly never . . . You see it meant a lot -to me. You are the only person who knows . . . who knows for -certain . . . " - -"Knows what?" I said, not discovering at first what she had in her -mind. Then I saw it. "Why can't you leave that alone?" I -remonstrated, rather annoyed at the invidious position she was -forcing on me in a sense. "It's true that I was the only person to -see," I added. "But, as it happens, after your mysterious -disappearance I told the Fynes the story of our meeting." - -Her eyes raised to mine had an expression of dreamy, unfathomable -candour, if I dare say so. And if you wonder what I mean I can only -say that I have seen the sea wear such an expression on one or two -occasions shortly before sunrise on a calm, fresh day. She said as -if meditating aloud that she supposed the Fynes were not likely to -talk about that. She couldn't imagine any connection in which . . . -Why should they? - -As her tone had become interrogatory I assented. "To be sure. -There's no reason whatever--" thinking to myself that they would be -more likely indeed to keep quiet about it. They had other things to -talk of. And then remembering little Fyne stuck upstairs for an -unconscionable time, enough to blurt out everything he ever knew in -his life, I reflected that he would assume naturally that Captain -Anthony had nothing to learn from him about Flora de Barral. It had -been up to now my assumption too. I saw my mistake. The sincerest -of women will make no unnecessary confidences to a man. And this is -as it should be. - -"No--no!" I said reassuringly. "It's most unlikely. Are you much -concerned?" - -"Well, you see, when I came down," she said again in that precise -demure tone, "when I came down--into the garden Captain Anthony -misunderstood--" - -"Of course he would. Men are so conceited," I said. - -I saw it well enough that he must have thought she had come down to -him. What else could he have thought? And then he had been -"gentleness itself." A new experience for that poor, delicate, and -yet so resisting creature. Gentleness in passion! What could have -been more seductive to the scared, starved heart of that girl? -Perhaps had he been violent, she might have told him that what she -came down to keep was the tryst of death--not of love. It occurred -to me as I looked at her, young, fragile in aspect, and intensely -alive in her quietness, that perhaps she did not know herself then -what sort of tryst she was coming down to keep. - -She smiled faintly, almost awkwardly as if she were totally unused -to smiling, at my cheap jocularity. Then she said with that forced -precision, a sort of conscious primness: - -"I didn't want him to know." - -I approved heartily. Quite right. Much better. Let him ever -remain under his misapprehension which was so much more flattering -for him. - -I tried to keep it in the tone of comedy; but she was, I believe, -too simple to understand my intention. She went on, looking down. - -"Oh! You think so? When I saw you I didn't know why you were here. -I was glad when you spoke to me because this is exactly what I -wanted to ask you for. I wanted to ask you if you ever meet Captain -Anthony--by any chance--anywhere--you are a sailor too, are you -not?--that you would never mention--never--that--that you had seen -me over there." - -"My dear young lady," I cried, horror-struck at the supposition. -"Why should I? What makes you think I should dream of . . . " - -She had raised her head at my vehemence. She did not understand it. -The world had treated her so dishonourably that she had no notion -even of what mere decency of feeling is like. It was not her fault. -Indeed, I don't know why she should have put her trust in anybody's -promises. - -But I thought it would be better to promise. So I assured her that -she could depend on my absolute silence. - -"I am not likely to ever set eyes on Captain Anthony," I added with -conviction--as a further guarantee. - -She accepted my assurance in silence, without a sign. Her gravity -had in it something acute, perhaps because of that chin. While we -were still looking at each other she declared: - -"There's no deception in it really. I want you to believe that if I -am here, like this, to-day, it is not from fear. It is not!" - -"I quite understand," I said. But her firm yet self-conscious gaze -became doubtful. "I do," I insisted. "I understand perfectly that -it was not of death that you were afraid." - -She lowered her eyes slowly, and I went on: - -"As to life, that's another thing. And I don't know that one ought -to blame you very much--though it seemed rather an excessive step. -I wonder now if it isn't the ugliness rather than the pain of the -struggle which . . . " - -She shuddered visibly: "But I do blame myself," she exclaimed with -feeling. "I am ashamed." And, dropping her head, she looked in a -moment the very picture of remorse and shame. - -"Well, you will be going away from all its horrors," I said. "And -surely you are not afraid of the sea. You are a sailor's -granddaughter, I understand." - -She sighed deeply. She remembered her grandfather only a little. -He was a clean-shaven man with a ruddy complexion and long, -perfectly white hair. He used to take her on his knee, and putting -his face near hers, talk to her in loving whispers. If only he were -alive now . . . ! - -She remained silent for a while. - -"Aren't you anxious to see the ship?" I asked. - -She lowered her head still more so that I could not see anything of -her face. - -"I don't know," she murmured. - -I had already the suspicion that she did not know her own feelings. -All this work of the merest chance had been so unexpected, so -sudden. And she had nothing to fall back upon, no experience but -such as to shake her belief in every human being. She was -dreadfully and pitifully forlorn. It was almost in order to comfort -my own depression that I remarked cheerfully: - -"Well, I know of somebody who must be growing extremely anxious to -see you." - -"I am before my time," she confessed simply, rousing herself. "I -had nothing to do. So I came out." - -I had the sudden vision of a shabby, lonely little room at the other -end of the town. It had grown intolerable to her restlessness. The -mere thought of it oppressed her. Flora de Barral was looking -frankly at her chance confidant, - -"And I came this way," she went on. "I appointed the time myself -yesterday, but Captain Anthony would not have minded. He told me he -was going to look over some business papers till I came." - -The idea of the son of the poet, the rescuer of the most forlorn -damsel of modern times, the man of violence, gentleness and -generosity, sitting up to his neck in ship's accounts amused me. "I -am sure he would not have minded," I said, smiling. But the girl's -stare was sombre, her thin white face seemed pathetically careworn. - -"I can hardly believe yet," she murmured anxiously. - -"It's quite real. Never fear," I said encouragingly, but had to -change my tone at once. "You had better go down that way a little," -I directed her abruptly. - - -I had seen Fyne come striding out of the hotel door. The -intelligent girl, without staying to ask questions, walked away from -me quietly down one street while I hurried on to meet Fyne coming up -the other at his efficient pedestrian gait. My object was to stop -him getting as far as the corner. He must have been thinking too -hard to be aware of his surroundings. I put myself in his way, and -he nearly walked into me. - -"Hallo!" I said. - -His surprise was extreme. "You here! You don't mean to say you -have been waiting for me?" - -I said negligently that I had been detained by unexpected business -in the neighbourhood, and thus happened to catch sight of him coming -out. - -He stared at me with solemn distraction, obviously thinking of -something else. I suggested that he had better take the next city- -ward tramcar. He was inattentive, and I perceived that he was -profoundly perturbed. As Miss de Barral (she had moved out of -sight) could not possibly approach the hotel door as long as we -remained where we were I proposed that we should wait for the car on -the other side of the street. He obeyed rather the slight touch on -his arm than my words, and while we were crossing the wide roadway -in the midst of the lumbering wheeled traffic, he exclaimed in his -deep tone, "I don't know which of these two is more mad than the -other!" - -"Really!" I said, pulling him forward from under the noses of two -enormous sleepy-headed cart-horses. He skipped wildly out of the -way and up on the curbstone with a purely instinctive precision; his -mind had nothing to do with his movements. In the middle of his -leap, and while in the act of sailing gravely through the air, he -continued to relieve his outraged feelings. - -"You would never believe! They ARE mad!" - -I took care to place myself in such a position that to face me he -had to turn his back on the hotel across the road. I believe he was -glad I was there to talk to. But I thought there was some -misapprehension in the first statement he shot out at me without -loss of time, that Captain Anthony had been glad to see him. It was -indeed difficult to believe that, directly he opened the door, his -wife's "sailor-brother" had positively shouted: "Oh, it's you! The -very man I wanted to see." - -"I found him sitting there," went on Fyne impressively in his -effortless, grave chest voice, "drafting his will." - -This was unexpected, but I preserved a noncommittal attitude, -knowing full well that our actions in themselves are neither mad nor -sane. But I did not see what there was to be excited about. And -Fyne was distinctly excited. I understood it better when I learned -that the captain of the Ferndale wanted little Fyne to be one of the -trustees. He was leaving everything to his wife. Naturally, a -request which involved him into sanctioning in a way a proceeding -which he had been sent by his wife to oppose, must have appeared -sufficiently mad to Fyne. - -"Me! Me, of all people in the world!" he repeated portentously. -But I could see that he was frightened. Such want of tact! - -"He knew I came from his sister. You don't put a man into such an -awkward position," complained Fyne. "It made me speak much more -strongly against all this very painful business than I would have -had the heart to do otherwise." - -I pointed out to him concisely, and keeping my eyes on the door of -the hotel, that he and his wife were the only bond with the land -Captain Anthony had. Who else could he have asked? - -"I explained to him that he was breaking this bond," declared Fyne -solemnly. "Breaking it once for all. And for what--for what?" - -He glared at me. I could perhaps have given him an inkling for -what, but I said nothing. He started again: - -"My wife assures me that the girl does not love him a bit. She goes -by that letter she received from her. There is a passage in it -where she practically admits that she was quite unscrupulous in -accepting this offer of marriage, but says to my wife that she -supposes she, my wife, will not blame her--as it was in self- -defence. My wife has her own ideas, but this is an outrageous -misapprehension of her views. Outrageous." - -The good little man paused and then added weightily: - -"I didn't tell that to my brother-in-law--I mean, my wife's views." - -"No," I said. "What would have been the good?" - -"It's positive infatuation," agreed little Fyne, in the tone as -though he had made an awful discovery. "I have never seen anything -so hopeless and inexplicable in my life. I--I felt quite frightened -and sorry," he added, while I looked at him curiously asking myself -whether this excellent civil servant and notable pedestrian had felt -the breath of a great and fatal love-spell passing him by in the -room of that East-end hotel. He did look for a moment as though he -had seen a ghost, an other-world thing. But that look vanished -instantaneously, and he nodded at me with mere exasperation at -something quite of this world--whatever it was. "It's a bad -business. My brother-in-law knows nothing of women," he cried with -an air of profound, experienced wisdom. - -What he imagined he knew of women himself I can't tell. I did not -know anything of the opportunities he might have had. But this is a -subject which, if approached with undue solemnity, is apt to elude -one's grasp entirely. No doubt Fyne knew something of a woman who -was Captain Anthony's sister. But that, admittedly, had been a very -solemn study. I smiled at him gently, and as if encouraged or -provoked, he completed his thought rather explosively. - -"And that girl understands nothing . . . It's sheer lunacy." - -"I don't know," I said, "whether the circumstances of isolation at -sea would be any alleviation to the danger. But it's certain that -they shall have the opportunity to learn everything about each other -in a lonely tete-e-tete." - -"But dash it all," he cried in hollow accents which at the same time -had the tone of bitter irony--I had never before heard a sound so -quaintly ugly and almost horrible--"You forget Mr. Smith." - -"What Mr. Smith?" I asked innocently. - -Fyne made an extraordinary simiesque grimace. I believe it was -quite involuntary, but you know that a grave, much-lined, shaven -countenance when distorted in an unusual way is extremely apelike. -It was a surprising sight, and rendered me not only speechless but -stopped the progress of my thought completely. I must have -presented a remarkably imbecile appearance. - -"My brother-in-law considered it amusing to chaff me about us -introducing the girl as Miss Smith," said Fyne, going surly in a -moment. "He said that perhaps if he had heard her real name from -the first it might have restrained him. As it was, he made the -discovery too late. Asked me to tell Zoe this together with a lot -more nonsense." - -Fyne gave me the impression of having escaped from a man inspired by -a grimly playful ebullition of high spirits. It must have been most -distasteful to him; and his solemnity got damaged somehow in the -process, I perceived. There were holes in it through which I could -see a new, an unknown Fyne. - -"You wouldn't believe it," he went on, "but she looks upon her -father exclusively as a victim. I don't know," he burst out -suddenly through an enormous rent in his solemnity, "if she thinks -him absolutely a saint, but she certainly imagines him to be a -martyr." - -It is one of the advantages of that magnificent invention, the -prison, that you may forget people which are put there as though -they were dead. One needn't worry about them. Nothing can happen -to them that you can help. They can do nothing which might possibly -matter to anybody. They come out of it, though, but that seems -hardly an advantage to themselves or anyone else. I had completely -forgotten the financier de Barral. The girl for me was an orphan, -but now I perceived suddenly the force of Fyne's qualifying -statement, "to a certain extent." It would have been infinitely -more kind all round for the law to have shot, beheaded, strangled, -or otherwise destroyed this absurd de Barral, who was a danger to a -moral world inhabited by a credulous multitude not fit to take care -of itself. But I observed to Fyne that, however insane was the view -she held, one could not declare the girl mad on that account. - -"So she thinks of her father--does she? I suppose she would appear -to us saner if she thought only of herself." - -"I am positive," Fyne said earnestly, "that she went and made -desperate eyes at Anthony . . . " - -"Oh come!" I interrupted. "You haven't seen her make eyes. You -don't know the colour of her eyes." - -"Very well! It don't matter. But it could hardly have come to that -if she hadn't . . . It's all one, though. I tell you she has led -him on, or accepted him, if you like, simply because she was -thinking of her father. She doesn't care a bit about Anthony, I -believe. She cares for no one. Never cared for anyone. Ask Zoe. -For myself I don't blame her," added Fyne, giving me another view of -unsuspected things through the rags and tatters of his damaged -solemnity. "No! by heavens, I don't blame her--the poor devil." - -I agreed with him silently. I suppose affections are, in a sense, -to be learned. If there exists a native spark of love in all of us, -it must be fanned while we are young. Hers, if she ever had it, had -been drenched in as ugly a lot of corrosive liquid as could be -imagined. But I was surprised at Fyne obscurely feeling this. - -"She loves no one except that preposterous advertising shark," he -pursued venomously, but in a more deliberate manner. "And Anthony -knows it." - -"Does he?" I said doubtfully. - -"She's quite capable of having told him herself," affirmed Fyne, -with amazing insight. "But whether or no, I'VE told him." - -"You did? From Mrs. Fyne, of course." - -Fyne only blinked owlishly at this piece of my insight. - -"And how did Captain Anthony receive this interesting information?" -I asked further. - -"Most improperly," said Fyne, who really was in a state in which he -didn't mind what he blurted out. "He isn't himself. He begged me -to tell his sister that he offered no remarks on her conduct. Very -improper and inconsequent. He said . . . I was tired of this -wrangling. I told him I made allowances for the state of excitement -he was in." - -"You know, Fyne," I said, "a man in jail seems to me such an -incredible, cruel, nightmarish sort of thing that I can hardly -believe in his existence. Certainly not in relation to any other -existences." - -"But dash it all," cried Fyne, "he isn't shut up for life. They are -going to let him out. He's coming out! That's the whole trouble. -What is he coming out to, I want to know? It seems a more cruel -business than the shutting him up was. This has been the worry for -weeks. Do you see now?" - -I saw, all sorts of things! Immediately before me I saw the -excitement of little Fyne--mere food for wonder. Further off, in a -sort of gloom and beyond the light of day and the movement of the -street, I saw the figure of a man, stiff like a ramrod, moving with -small steps, a slight girlish figure by his side. And the gloom was -like the gloom of villainous slums, of misery, of wretchedness, of a -starved and degraded existence. It was a relief that I could see -only their shabby hopeless backs. He was an awful ghost. But -indeed to call him a ghost was only a refinement of polite speech, -and a manner of concealing one's terror of such things. Prisons are -wonderful contrivances. Shut--open. Very neat. Shut--open. And -out comes some sort of corpse, to wander awfully in a world in which -it has no possible connections and carrying with it the appalling -tainted atmosphere of its silent abode. Marvellous arrangement. It -works automatically, and, when you look at it, the perfection makes -you sick; which for a mere mechanism is no mean triumph. Sick and -scared. It had nearly scared that poor girl to her death. Fancy -having to take such a thing by the hand! Now I understood the -remorseful strain I had detected in her speeches. - -"By Jove!" I said. "They are about to let him out! I never thought -of that." - -Fyne was contemptuous either of me or of things at large. - -"You didn't suppose he was to be kept in jail for life?" - -At that moment I caught sight of Flora de Barral at the junction of -the two streets. Then some vehicles following each other in quick -succession hid from my sight the black slight figure with just a -touch of colour in her hat. She was walking slowly; and it might -have been caution or reluctance. While listening to Fyne I stared -hard past his shoulder trying to catch sight of her again. He was -going on with positive heat, the rags of his solemnity dropping off -him at every second sentence. - -That was just it. His wife and he had been perfectly aware of it. -Of course the girl never talked of her father with Mrs. Fyne. I -suppose with her theory of innocence she found it difficult. But -she must have been thinking of it day and night. What to do with -him? Where to go? How to keep body and soul together? He had -never made any friends. The only relations were the atrocious East- -end cousins. We know what they were. Nothing but wretchedness, -whichever way she turned in an unjust and prejudiced world. And to -look at him helplessly she felt would be too much for her. - -I won't say I was thinking these thoughts. It was not necessary. -This complete knowledge was in my head while I stared hard across -the wide road, so hard that I failed to hear little Fyne till he -raised his deep voice indignantly. - -"I don't blame the girl," he was saying. "He is infatuated with -her. Anybody can see that. Why she should have got such a hold on -him I can't understand. She said "Yes" to him only for the sake of -that fatuous, swindling father of hers. It's perfectly plain if one -thinks it over a moment. One needn't even think of it. We have it -under her own hand. In that letter to my wife she says she has -acted unscrupulously. She has owned up, then, for what else can it -mean, I should like to know. And so they are to be married before -that old idiot comes out . . . He will be surprised," commented Fyne -suddenly in a strangely malignant tone. "He shall be met at the -jail door by a Mrs. Anthony, a Mrs. Captain Anthony. Very pleasant -for Zoe. And for all I know, my brother-in-law means to turn up -dutifully too. A little family event. It's extremely pleasant to -think of. Delightful. A charming family party. We three against -the world--and all that sort of thing. And what for. For a girl -that doesn't care twopence for him." - -The demon of bitterness had entered into little Fyne. He amazed me -as though he had changed his skin from white to black. It was quite -as wonderful. And he kept it up, too. - -"Luckily there are some advantages in the--the profession of a -sailor. As long as they defy the world away at sea somewhere -eighteen thousand miles from here, I don't mind so much. I wonder -what that interesting old party will say. He will have another -surprise. They mean to drag him along with them on board the ship -straight away. Rescue work. Just think of Roderick Anthony, the -son of a gentleman, after all . . . " - -He gave me a little shock. I thought he was going to say the "son -of the poet" as usual; but his mind was not running on such vanities -now. His unspoken thought must have gone on "and uncle of my -girls." I suspect that he had been roughly handled by Captain -Anthony up there, and the resentment gave a tremendous fillip to the -slow play of his wits. Those men of sober fancy, when anything -rouses their imaginative faculty, are very thorough. "Just think!" -he cried. "The three of them crowded into a four-wheeler, and -Anthony sitting deferentially opposite that astonished old jail- -bird!" - -The good little man laughed. An improper sound it was to come from -his manly chest; and what made it worse was the thought that for the -least thing, by a mere hair's breadth, he might have taken this -affair sentimentally. But clearly Anthony was no diplomatist. His -brother-in-law must have appeared to him, to use the language of -shore people, a perfect philistine with a heart like a flint. What -Fyne precisely meant by "wrangling" I don't know, but I had no doubt -that these two had "wrangled" to a profoundly disturbing extent. -How much the other was affected I could not even imagine; but the -man before me was quite amazingly upset. - -"In a four-wheeler! Take him on board!" I muttered, startled by the -change in Fyne. - -"That's the plan--nothing less. If I am to believe what I have been -told, his feet will scarcely touch the ground between the prison- -gates and the deck of that ship." - -The transformed Fyne spoke in a forcibly lowered tone which I heard -without difficulty. The rumbling, composite noises of the street -were hushed for a moment, during one of these sudden breaks in the -traffic as if the stream of commerce had dried up at its source. -Having an unobstructed view past Fyne's shoulder, I was astonished -to see that the girl was still there. I thought she had gone up -long before. But there was her black slender figure, her white face -under the roses of her hat. She stood on the edge of the pavement -as people stand on the bank of a stream, very still, as if waiting-- -or as if unconscious of where she was. The three dismal, sodden -loafers (I could see them too; they hadn't budged an inch) seemed to -me to be watching her. Which was horrible. - -Meantime Fyne was telling me rather remarkable things--for him. He -declared first it was a mercy in a sense. Then he asked me if it -were not real madness, to saddle one's existence with such a -perpetual reminder. The daily existence. The isolated sea-bound -existence. To bring such an additional strain into the solitude -already trying enough for two people was the craziest thing. -Undesirable relations were bad enough on shore. One could cut them -or at least forget their existence now and then. He himself was -preparing to forget his brother-in-law's existence as much as -possible. - -That was the general sense of his remarks, not his exact words. I -thought that his wife's brother's existence had never been very -embarrassing to him but that now of course he would have to abstain -from his allusions to the "son of the poet--you know." I said "yes, -yes" in the pauses because I did not want him to turn round; and all -the time I was watching the girl intently. I thought I knew now -what she meant with her--"He was most generous." Yes. Generosity -of character may carry a man through any situation. But why didn't -she go then to her generous man? Why stand there as if clinging to -this solid earth which she surely hated as one must hate the place -where one has been tormented, hopeless, unhappy? Suddenly she -stirred. Was she going to cross over? No. She turned and began to -walk slowly close to the curbstone, reminding me of the time when I -discovered her walking near the edge of a ninety-foot sheer drop. -It was the same impression, the same carriage, straight, slim, with -rigid head and the two hands hanging lightly clasped in front--only -now a small sunshade was dangling from them. I saw something -fateful in that deliberate pacing towards the inconspicuous door -with the words HOTEL ENTRANCE on the glass panels. - -She was abreast of it now and I thought that she would stop again; -but no! She swerved rigidly--at the moment there was no one near -her; she had that bit of pavement to herself--with inanimate -slowness as if moved by something outside herself. - -"A confounded convict," Fyne burst out. - -With the sound of that word offending my ears I saw the girl extend -her arm, push the door open a little way and glide in. I saw -plainly that movement, the hand put out in advance with the gesture -of a sleep-walker. - -She had vanished, her black figure had melted in the darkness of the -open door. For some time Fyne said nothing; and I thought of the -girl going upstairs, appearing before the man. Were they looking at -each other in silence and feeling they were alone in the world as -lovers should at the moment of meeting? But that fine forgetfulness -was surely impossible to Anthony the seaman directly after the -wrangling interview with Fyne the emissary of an order of things -which stops at the edge of the sea. How much he was disturbed I -couldn't tell because I did not know what that impetuous lover had -had to listen to. - -"Going to take the old fellow to sea with them," I said. "Well I -really don't see what else they could have done with him. You told -your brother-in-law what you thought of it? I wonder how he took -it." - -"Very improperly," repeated Fyne. "His manner was offensive, -derisive, from the first. I don't mean he was actually rude in -words. Hang it all, I am not a contemptible ass. But he was -exulting at having got hold of a miserable girl." - -"It is pretty certain that she will be much less poor and -miserable," I murmured. - -It looked as if the exultation of Captain Anthony had got on Fyne's -nerves. "I told the fellow very plainly that he was abominably -selfish in this," he affirmed unexpectedly. - -"You did! Selfish!" I said rather taken aback. "But what if the -girl thought that, on the contrary, he was most generous." - -"What do you know about it," growled Fyne. The rents and slashes of -his solemnity were closing up gradually but it was going to be a -surly solemnity. "Generosity! I am disposed to give it another -name. No. Not folly," he shot out at me as though I had meant to -interrupt him. "Still another. Something worse. I need not tell -you what it is," he added with grim meaning. - -"Certainly. You needn't--unless you like," I said blankly. Little -Fyne had never interested me so much since the beginning of the de -Barral-Anthony affair when I first perceived possibilities in him. -The possibilities of dull men are exciting because when they happen -they suggest legendary cases of "possession," not exactly by the -devil but, anyhow, by a strange spirit. - -"I told him it was a shame," said Fyne. "Even if the girl did make -eyes at him--but I think with you that she did not. Yes! A shame -to take advantage of a girl's--a distresses girl that does not love -him in the least." - -"You think it's so bad as that?" I said. "Because you know I -don't." - -"What can you think about it," he retorted on me with a solemn -stare. "I go by her letter to my wife." - -"Ah! that famous letter. But you haven't actually read it," I said. - -"No, but my wife told me. Of course it was a most improper sort of -letter to write considering the circumstances. It pained Mrs. Fyne -to discover how thoroughly she had been misunderstood. But what is -written is not all. It's what my wife could read between the lines. -She says that the girl is really terrified at heart." - -"She had not much in life to give her any very special courage for -it, or any great confidence in mankind. That's very true. But this -seems an exaggeration." - -"I should like to know what reasons you have to say that," asked -Fyne with offended solemnity. "I really don't see any. But I had -sufficient authority to tell my brother-in-law that if he thought he -was going to do something chivalrous and fine he was mistaken. I -can see very well that he will do everything she asks him to do-- -but, all the same, it is rather a pitiless transaction." - -For a moment I felt it might be so. Fyne caught sight of an -approaching tram-car and stepped out on the road to meet it. "Have -you a more compassionate scheme ready?" I called after him. He made -no answer, clambered on to the rear platform, and only then looked -back. We exchanged a perfunctory wave of the hand. We also looked -at each other, he rather angrily, I fancy, and I with wonder. I may -also mention that it was for the last time. From that day I never -set eyes on the Fynes. As usual the unexpected happened to me. It -had nothing to do with Flora de Barral. The fact is that I went -away. My call was not like her call. Mine was not urged on me with -passionate vehemence or tender gentleness made all the finer and -more compelling by the allurements of generosity which is a virtue -as mysterious as any other but having a glamour of its own. No, it -was just a prosaic offer of employment on rather good terms which, -with a sudden sense of having wasted my time on shore long enough, I -accepted without misgivings. And once started out of my indolence I -went, as my habit was, very, very far away and for a long, long -time. Which is another proof of my indolence. How far Flora went I -can't say. But I will tell you my idea: my idea is that she went -as far as she was able--as far as she could bear it--as far as she -had to . . . " - - - - -PART II--THE KNIGHT - - - - -CHAPTER ONE--THE FERNDALE - - - -I have said that the story of Flora de Barral was imparted to me in -stages. At this stage I did not see Marlow for some time. At last, -one evening rather early, very soon after dinner, he turned up in my -rooms. - -I had been waiting for his call primed with a remark which had not -occurred to me till after he had gone away. - -"I say," I tackled him at once, "how can you be certain that Flora -de Barral ever went to sea? After all, the wife of the captain of -the Ferndale--" the lady that mustn't be disturbed "of the old ship- -keeper--may not have been Flora." - -"Well, I do know," he said, "if only because I have been keeping in -touch with Mr. Powell." - -"You have!" I cried. "This is the first I hear of it. And since -when?" - -"Why, since the first day. You went up to town leaving me in the -inn. I slept ashore. In the morning Mr. Powell came in for -breakfast; and after the first awkwardness of meeting a man you have -been yarning with over-night had worn off, we discovered a liking -for each other." - -As I had discovered the fact of their mutual liking before either of -them, I was not surprised. - -"And so you kept in touch," I said. - -"It was not so very difficult. As he was always knocking about the -river I hired Dingle's sloop-rigged three-tonner to be more on an -equality. Powell was friendly but elusive. I don't think he ever -wanted to avoid me. But it is a fact that he used to disappear out -of the river in a very mysterious manner sometimes. A man may land -anywhere and bolt inland--but what about his five-ton cutter? You -can't carry that in your hand like a suit-case. - -"Then as suddenly he would reappear in the river, after one had -given him up. I did not like to be beaten. That's why I hired -Dingle's decked boat. There was just the accommodation in her to -sleep a man and a dog. But I had no dog-friend to invite. Fyne's -dog who saved Flora de Barral's life is the last dog-friend I had. -I was rather lonely cruising about; but that, too, on the river has -its charm, sometimes. I chased the mystery of the vanishing Powell -dreamily, looking about me at the ships, thinking of the girl Flora, -of life's chances--and, do you know, it was very simple." - -"What was very simple?" I asked innocently. - -"The mystery." - -"They generally are that," I said. - -Marlow eyed me for a moment in a peculiar manner. - -"Well, I have discovered the mystery of Powell's disappearances. -The fellow used to run into one of these narrow tidal creeks on the -Essex shore. These creeks are so inconspicuous that till I had -studied the chart pretty carefully I did not know of their -existence. One afternoon, I made Powell's boat out, heading into -the shore. By the time I got close to the mud-flat his craft had -disappeared inland. But I could see the mouth of the creek by then. -The tide being on the turn I took the risk of getting stuck in the -mud suddenly and headed in. All I had to guide me was the top of -the roof of some sort of small building. I got in more by good luck -than by good management. The sun had set some time before; my boat -glided in a sort of winding ditch between two low grassy banks; on -both sides of me was the flatness of the Essex marsh, perfectly -still. All I saw moving was a heron; he was flying low, and -disappeared in the murk. Before I had gone half a mile, I was up -with the building the roof of which I had seen from the river. It -looked like a small barn. A row of piles driven into the soft bank -in front of it and supporting a few planks made a sort of wharf. -All this was black in the falling dusk, and I could just distinguish -the whitish ruts of a cart-track stretching over the marsh towards -the higher land, far away. Not a sound was to be heard. Against -the low streak of light in the sky I could see the mast of Powell's -cutter moored to the bank some twenty yards, no more, beyond that -black barn or whatever it was. I hailed him with a loud shout. Got -no answer. After making fast my boat just astern, I walked along -the bank to have a look at Powell's. Being so much bigger than mine -she was aground already. Her sails were furled; the slide of her -scuttle hatch was closed and padlocked. Powell was gone. He had -walked off into that dark, still marsh somewhere. I had not seen a -single house anywhere near; there did not seem to be any human -habitation for miles; and now as darkness fell denser over the land -I couldn't see the glimmer of a single light. However, I supposed -that there must be some village or hamlet not very far away; or only -one of these mysterious little inns one comes upon sometimes in most -unexpected and lonely places. - -"The stillness was oppressive. I went back to my boat, made some -coffee over a spirit-lamp, devoured a few biscuits, and stretched -myself aft, to smoke and gaze at the stars. The earth was a mere -shadow, formless and silent, and empty, till a bullock turned up -from somewhere, quite shadowy too. He came smartly to the very edge -of the bank as though he meant to step on board, stretched his -muzzle right over my boat, blew heavily once, and walked off -contemptuously into the darkness from which he had come. I had not -expected a call from a bullock, though a moment's thought would have -shown me that there must be lots of cattle and sheep on that marsh. -Then everything became still as before. I might have imagined -myself arrived on a desert island. In fact, as I reclined smoking a -sense of absolute loneliness grew on me. And just as it had become -intense, very abruptly and without any preliminary sound I heard -firm, quick footsteps on the little wharf. Somebody coming along -the cart-track had just stepped at a swinging gait on to the planks. -That somebody could only have been Mr. Powell. Suddenly he stopped -short, having made out that there were two masts alongside the bank -where he had left only one. Then he came on silent on the grass. -When I spoke to him he was astonished. - -"Who would have thought of seeing you here!" he exclaimed, after -returning my good evening. - -"I told him I had run in for company. It was rigorously true." - -"You knew I was here?" he exclaimed. - -"Of course," I said. "I tell you I came in for company." - -"He is a really good fellow," went on Marlow. "And his capacity for -astonishment is quickly exhausted, it seems. It was in the most -matter-of-fact manner that he said, 'Come on board of me, then; I -have here enough supper for two.' He was holding a bulky parcel in -the crook of his arm. I did not wait to be asked twice, as you may -guess. His cutter has a very neat little cabin, quite big enough -for two men not only to sleep but to sit and smoke in. We left the -scuttle wide open, of course. As to his provisions for supper, they -were not of a luxurious kind. He complained that the shops in the -village were miserable. There was a big village within a mile and a -half. It struck me he had been very long doing his shopping; but -naturally I made no remark. I didn't want to talk at all except for -the purpose of setting him going." - -"And did you set him going?" I asked. - -"I did," said Marlow, composing his features into an impenetrable -expression which somehow assured me of his success better than an -air of triumph could have done. - - -"You made him talk?" I said after a silence. - -"Yes, I made him . . . about himself." - -"And to the point?" - -"If you mean by this," said Marlow, "that it was about the voyage of -the Ferndale, then again, yes. I brought him to talk about that -voyage, which, by the by, was not the first voyage of Flora de -Barral. The man himself, as I told you, is simple, and his faculty -of wonder not very great. He's one of those people who form no -theories about facts. Straightforward people seldom do. Neither -have they much penetration. But in this case it did not matter. I- --we--have already the inner knowledge. We know the history of Flora -de Barral. We know something of Captain Anthony. We have the -secret of the situation. The man was intoxicated with the pity and -tenderness of his part. Oh yes! Intoxicated is not too strong a -word; for you know that love and desire take many disguises. I -believe that the girl had been frank with him, with the frankness of -women to whom perfect frankness is impossible, because so much of -their safety depends on judicious reticences. I am not indulging in -cheap sneers. There is necessity in these things. And moreover she -could not have spoken with a certain voice in the face of his -impetuosity, because she did not have time to understand either the -state of her feelings, or the precise nature of what she was doing. - -Had she spoken ever so clearly he was, I take it, too elated to hear -her distinctly. I don't mean to imply that he was a fool. Oh dear -no! But he had no training in the usual conventions, and we must -remember that he had no experience whatever of women. He could only -have an ideal conception of his position. An ideal is often but a -flaming vision of reality. - -To him enters Fyne, wound up, if I may express myself so -irreverently, wound up to a high pitch by his wife's interpretation -of the girl's letter. He enters with his talk of meanness and -cruelty, like a bucket of water on the flame. Clearly a shock. But -the effects of a bucket of water are diverse. They depend on the -kind of flame. A mere blaze of dry straw, of course . . . but there -can be no question of straw there. Anthony of the Ferndale was not, -could not have been, a straw-stuffed specimen of a man. There are -flames a bucket of water sends leaping sky-high. - -We may well wonder what happened when, after Fyne had left him, the -hesitating girl went up at last and opened the door of that room -where our man, I am certain, was not extinguished. Oh no! Nor -cold; whatever else he might have been. - -It is conceivable he might have cried at her in the first moment of -humiliation, of exasperation, "Oh, it's you! Why are you here? If -I am so odious to you that you must write to my sister to say so, I -give you back your word." But then, don't you see, it could not -have been that. I have the practical certitude that soon afterwards -they went together in a hansom to see the ship--as agreed. That was -my reason for saying that Flora de Barral did go to sea . . . " - -"Yes. It seems conclusive," I agreed. "But even without that--if, -as you seem to think, the very desolation of that girlish figure had -a sort of perversely seductive charm, making its way through his -compassion to his senses (and everything is possible)--then such -words could not have been spoken." - -"They might have escaped him involuntarily," observed Marlow. -"However, a plain fact settles it. They went off together to see -the ship." - -"Do you conclude from this that nothing whatever was said?" I -inquired. - -"I should have liked to see the first meeting of their glances -upstairs there," mused Marlow. "And perhaps nothing was said. But -no man comes out of such a 'wrangle' (as Fyne called it) without -showing some traces of it. And you may be sure that a girl so -bruised all over would feel the slightest touch of anything -resembling coldness. She was mistrustful; she could not be -otherwise; for the energy of evil is so much more forcible than the -energy of good that she could not help looking still upon her -abominable governess as an authority. How could one have expected -her to throw off the unholy prestige of that long domination? She -could not help believing what she had been told; that she was in -some mysterious way odious and unlovable. It was cruelly true--TO -HER. The oracle of so many years had spoken finally. Only other -people did not find her out at once . . . I would not go so far as -to say she believed it altogether. That would be hardly possible. -But then haven't the most flattered, the most conceited of us their -moments of doubt? Haven't they? Well, I don't know. There may be -lucky beings in this world unable to believe any evil of themselves. -For my own part I'll tell you that once, many years ago now, it came -to my knowledge that a fellow I had been mixed up with in a certain -transaction--a clever fellow whom I really despised--was going -around telling people that I was a consummate hypocrite. He could -know nothing of it. It suited his humour to say so. I had given -him no ground for that particular calumny. Yet to this day there -are moments when it comes into my mind, and involuntarily I ask -myself, 'What if it were true?' It's absurd, but it has on one or -two occasions nearly affected my conduct. And yet I was not an -impressionable ignorant young girl. I had taken the exact measure -of the fellow's utter worthlessness long before. He had never been -for me a person of prestige and power, like that awful governess to -Flora de Barral. See the might of suggestion? We live at the mercy -of a malevolent word. A sound, a mere disturbance of the air, sinks -into our very soul sometimes. Flora de Barral had been more -astounded than convinced by the first impetuosity of Roderick -Anthony. She let herself be carried along by a mysterious force -which her person had called into being, as her father had been -carried away out of his depth by the unexpected power of successful -advertising. - -They went on board that morning. The Ferndale had just come to her -loading berth. The only living creature on board was the ship- -keeper--whether the same who had been described to us by Mr. Powell, -or another, I don't know. Possibly some other man. He, looking -over the side, saw, in his own words, 'the captain come sailing -round the corner of the nearest cargo-shed, in company with a girl.' -He lowered the accommodation ladder down on to the jetty . . . " - -"How do you know all this?" I interrupted. - -Marlow interjected an impatient: - -"You shall see by and by . . . Flora went up first, got down on deck -and stood stock-still till the captain took her by the arm and led -her aft. The ship-keeper let them into the saloon. He had the keys -of all the cabins, and stumped in after them. The captain ordered -him to open all the doors, every blessed door; state-rooms, -passages, pantry, fore-cabin--and then sent him away. - -"The Ferndale had magnificent accommodation. At the end of a -passage leading from the quarter-deck there was a long saloon, its -sumptuosity slightly tarnished perhaps, but having a grand air of -roominess and comfort. The harbour carpets were down, the swinging -lamps hung, and everything in its place, even to the silver on the -sideboard. Two large stern cabins opened out of it, one on each -side of the rudder casing. These two cabins communicated through a -small bathroom between them, and one was fitted up as the captain's -state-room. The other was vacant, and furnished with arm-chairs and -a round table, more like a room on shore, except for the long curved -settee following the shape of the ship's stern. In a dim inclined -mirror, Flora caught sight down to the waist of a pale-faced girl in -a white straw hat trimmed with roses, distant, shadowy, as if -immersed in water, and was surprised to recognize herself in those -surroundings. They seemed to her arbitrary, bizarre, strange. -Captain Anthony moved on, and she followed him. He showed her the -other cabins. He talked all the time loudly in a voice she seemed -to have known extremely well for a long time; and yet, she -reflected, she had not heard it often in her life. What he was -saying she did not quite follow. He was speaking of comparatively -indifferent things in a rather moody tone, but she felt it round her -like a caress. And when he stopped she could hear, alarming in the -sudden silence, the precipitated beating of her heart. - -The ship-keeper dodged about the quarter-deck, out of hearing, and -trying to keep out of sight. At the same time, taking advantage of -the open doors with skill and prudence, he could see the captain and -"that girl" the captain had brought aboard. The captain was showing -her round very thoroughly. Through the whole length of the passage, -far away aft in the perspective of the saloon the ship-keeper had -interesting glimpses of them as they went in and out of the various -cabins, crossing from side to side, remaining invisible for a time -in one or another of the state-rooms, and then reappearing again in -the distance. The girl, always following the captain, had her -sunshade in her hands. Mostly she would hang her head, but now and -then she would look up. They had a lot to say to each other, and -seemed to forget they weren't alone in the ship. He saw the captain -put his hand on her shoulder, and was preparing himself with a -certain zest for what might follow, when the "old man" seemed to -recollect himself, and came striding down all the length of the -saloon. At this move the ship-keeper promptly dodged out of sight, -as you may believe, and heard the captain slam the inner door of the -passage. After that disappointment the ship-keeper waited -resentfully for them to clear out of the ship. It happened much -sooner than he had expected. The girl walked out on deck first. As -before she did not look round. She didn't look at anything; and she -seemed to be in such a hurry to get ashore that she made for the -gangway and started down the ladder without waiting for the captain. - -What struck the ship-keeper most was the absent, unseeing expression -of the captain, striding after the girl. He passed him, the ship- -keeper, without notice, without an order, without so much as a look. -The captain had never done so before. Always had a nod and a -pleasant word for a man. From this slight the ship-keeper drew a -conclusion unfavourable to the strange girl. He gave them time to -get down on the wharf before crossing the deck to steal one more -look at the pair over the rail. The captain took hold of the girl's -arm just before a couple of railway trucks drawn by a horse came -rolling along and hid them from the ship-keeper's sight for good. - -Next day, when the chief mate joined the ship, he told him the tale -of the visit, and expressed himself about the girl "who had got hold -of the captain" disparagingly. She didn't look healthy, he -explained. "Shabby clothes, too," he added spitefully. - -The mate was very much interested. He had been with Anthony for -several years, and had won for himself in the course of many long -voyages, a footing of familiarity, which was to be expected with a -man of Anthony's character. But in that slowly-grown intimacy of -the sea, which in its duration and solitude had its unguarded -moments, no words had passed, even of the most casual, to prepare -him for the vision of his captain associated with any kind of girl. -His impression had been that women did not exist for Captain -Anthony. Exhibiting himself with a girl! A girl! What did he want -with a girl? Bringing her on board and showing her round the cabin! -That was really a little bit too much. Captain Anthony ought to -have known better. - -Franklin (the chief mate's name was Franklin) felt disappointed; -almost disillusioned. Silly thing to do! Here was a confounded old -ship-keeper set talking. He snubbed the ship-keeper, and tried to -think of that insignificant bit of foolishness no more; for it -diminished Captain Anthony in his eyes of a jealously devoted -subordinate. - -Franklin was over forty; his mother was still alive. She stood in -the forefront of all women for him, just as Captain Anthony stood in -the forefront of all men. We may suppose that these groups were not -very large. He had gone to sea at a very early age. The feeling -which caused these two people to partly eclipse the rest of mankind -were of course not similar; though in time he had acquired the -conviction that he was "taking care" of them both. The "old lady" -of course had to be looked after as long as she lived. In regard to -Captain Anthony, he used to say that: why should he leave him? It -wasn't likely that he would come across a better sailor or a better -man or a more comfortable ship. As to trying to better himself in -the way of promotion, commands were not the sort of thing one picked -up in the streets, and when it came to that, Captain Anthony was as -likely to give him a lift on occasion as anyone in the world. - -From Mr. Powell's description Franklin was a short, thick black- -haired man, bald on the top. His head sunk between the shoulders, -his staring prominent eyes and a florid colour, gave him a rather -apoplectic appearance. In repose, his congested face had a -humorously melancholy expression. - -The ship-keeper having given him up all the keys and having been -chased forward with the admonition to mind his own business and not -to chatter about what did not concern him, Mr. Franklin went under -the poop. He opened one door after another; and, in the saloon, in -the captain's state-room and everywhere, he stared anxiously as if -expecting to see on the bulkheads, on the deck, in the air, -something unusual--sign, mark, emanation, shadow--he hardly knew -what--some subtle change wrought by the passage of a girl. But -there was nothing. He entered the unoccupied stern cabin and spent -some time there unscrewing the two stern ports. In the absence of -all material evidences his uneasiness was passing away. With a last -glance round he came out and found himself in the presence of his -captain advancing from the other end of the saloon. - -Franklin, at once, looked for the girl. She wasn't to be seen. The -captain came up quickly. 'Oh! you are here, Mr. Franklin.' And the -mate said, 'I was giving a little air to the place, sir.' Then the -captain, his hat pulled down over his eyes, laid his stick on the -table and asked in his kind way: 'How did you find your mother, -Franklin?'--'The old lady's first-rate, sir, thank you.' And then -they had nothing to say to each other. It was a strange and -disturbing feeling for Franklin. He, just back from leave, the ship -just come to her loading berth, the captain just come on board, and -apparently nothing to say! The several questions he had been -anxious to ask as to various things which had to be done had slipped -out of his mind. He, too, felt as though he had nothing to say. - -The captain, picking up his stick off the table, marched into his -state-room and shut the door after him. Franklin remained still for -a moment and then started slowly to go on deck. But before he had -time to reach the other end of the saloon he heard himself called by -name. He turned round. The captain was staring from the doorway of -his state-room. Franklin said, "Yes, sir." But the captain, -silent, leaned a little forward grasping the door handle. So he, -Franklin, walked aft keeping his eyes on him. When he had come up -quite close he said again, "Yes, sir?" interrogatively. Still -silence. The mate didn't like to be stared at in that manner, a -manner quite new in his captain, with a defiant and self-conscious -stare, like a man who feels ill and dares you to notice it. -Franklin gazed at his captain, felt that there was something wrong, -and in his simplicity voiced his feelings by asking point-blank: - -"What's wrong, sir?" - -The captain gave a slight start, and the character of his stare -changed to a sort of sinister surprise. Franklin grew very -uncomfortable, but the captain asked negligently: - -"What makes you think that there's something wrong?" - -"I can't say exactly. You don't look quite yourself, sir," Franklin -owned up. - -"You seem to have a confoundedly piercing eye," said the captain in -such an aggressive tone that Franklin was moved to defend himself. - -"We have been together now over six years, sir, so I suppose I know -you a bit by this time. I could see there was something wrong -directly you came on board." - -"Mr. Franklin," said the captain, "we have been more than six years -together, it is true, but I didn't know you for a reader of faces. -You are not a correct reader though. It's very far from being -wrong. You understand? As far from being wrong as it can very well -be. It ought to teach you not to make rash surmises. You should -leave that to the shore people. They are great hands at spying out -something wrong. I dare say they know what they have made of the -world. A dam' poor job of it and that's plain. It's a confoundedly -ugly place, Mr. Franklin. You don't know anything of it? Well--no, -we sailors don't. Only now and then one of us runs against -something cruel or underhand, enough to make your hair stand on end. -And when you do see a piece of their wickedness you find that to set -it right is not so easy as it looks . . . Oh! I called you back to -tell you that there will be a lot of workmen, joiners and all that -sent down on board first thing to-morrow morning to start making -alterations in the cabin. You will see to it that they don't loaf. -There isn't much time." - -Franklin was impressed by this unexpected lecture upon the -wickedness of the solid world surrounded by the salt, uncorruptible -waters on which he and his captain had dwelt all their lives in -happy innocence. What he could not understand was why it should -have been delivered, and what connection it could have with such a -matter as the alterations to be carried out in the cabin. The work -did not seem to him to be called for in such a hurry. What was the -use of altering anything? It was a very good accommodation, -spacious, well-distributed, on a rather old-fashioned plan, and with -its decorations somewhat tarnished. But a dab of varnish, a touch -of gilding here and there, was all that was necessary. As to -comfort, it could not be improved by any alterations. He resented -the notion of change; but he said dutifully that he would keep his -eye on the workmen if the captain would only let him know what was -the nature of the work he had ordered to be done. - -"You'll find a note of it on this table. I'll leave it for you as I -go ashore," said Captain Anthony hastily. Franklin thought there -was no more to hear, and made a movement to leave the saloon. But -the captain continued after a slight pause, "You will be surprised, -no doubt, when you look at it. There'll be a good many alterations. -It's on account of a lady coming with us. I am going to get -married, Mr. Franklin!" - - - -CHAPTER TWO--YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS - - - -"You remember," went on Marlow, "how I feared that Mr. Powell's want -of experience would stand in his way of appreciating the unusual. -The unusual I had in my mind was something of a very subtle sort: -the unusual in marital relations. I may well have doubted the -capacity of a young man too much concerned with the creditable -performance of his professional duties to observe what in the nature -of things is not easily observable in itself, and still less so -under the special circumstances. In the majority of ships a second -officer has not many points of contact with the captain's wife. He -sits at the same table with her at meals, generally speaking; he may -now and then be addressed more or less kindly on insignificant -matters, and have the opportunity to show her some small attentions -on deck. And that is all. Under such conditions, signs can be seen -only by a sharp and practised eye. I am alluding now to troubles -which are subtle often to the extent of not being understood by the -very hearts they devastate or uplift. - -Yes, Mr. Powell, whom the chance of his name had thrown upon the -floating stage of that tragicomedy would have been perfectly useless -for my purpose if the unusual of an obvious kind had not aroused his -attention from the first. - -We know how he joined that ship so suddenly offered to his anxious -desire to make a real start in his profession. He had come on board -breathless with the hurried winding up of his shore affairs, -accompanied by two horrible night-birds, escorted by a dock -policeman on the make, received by an asthmatic shadow of a ship- -keeper, warned not to make a noise in the darkness of the passage -because the captain and his wife were already on board. That in -itself was already somewhat unusual. Captains and their wives do -not, as a rule, join a moment sooner than is necessary. They prefer -to spend the last moments with their friends and relations. A ship -in one of London's older docks with their restrictions as to lights -and so on is not the place for a happy evening. Still, as the tide -served at six in the morning, one could understand them coming on -board the evening before. - -Just then young Powell felt as if anybody ought to be glad enough to -be quit of the shore. We know he was an orphan from a very early -age, without brothers or sisters--no near relations of any kind, I -believe, except that aunt who had quarrelled with his father. No -affection stood in the way of the quiet satisfaction with which he -thought that now all the worries were over, that there was nothing -before him but duties, that he knew what he would have to do as soon -as the dawn broke and for a long succession of days. A most -soothing certitude. He enjoyed it in the dark, stretched out in his -bunk with his new blankets pulled over him. Some clock ashore -beyond the dock-gates struck two. And then he heard nothing more, -because he went off into a light sleep from which he woke up with a -start. He had not taken his clothes off, it was hardly worth while. -He jumped up and went on deck. - -The morning was clear, colourless, grey overhead; the dock like a -sheet of darkling glass crowded with upside-down reflections of -warehouses, of hulls and masts of silent ships. Rare figures moved -here and there on the distant quays. A knot of men stood alongside -with clothes-bags and wooden chests at their feet. Others were -coming down the lane between tall, blind walls, surrounding a hand- -cart loaded with more bags and boxes. It was the crew of the -Ferndale. They began to come on board. He scanned their faces as -they passed forward filling the roomy deck with the shuffle of their -footsteps and the murmur of voices, like the awakening to life of a -world about to be launched into space. - -Far away down the clear glassy stretch in the middle of the long -dock Mr. Powell watched the tugs coming in quietly through the open -gates. A subdued firm voice behind him interrupted this -contemplation. It was Franklin, the thick chief mate, who was -addressing him with a watchful appraising stare of his prominent -black eyes: "You'd better take a couple of these chaps with you and -look out for her aft. We are going to cast off." - -"Yes, sir," Powell said with proper alacrity; but for a moment they -remained looking at each other fixedly. Something like a faint -smile altered the set of the chief mate's lips just before he moved -off forward with his brisk step. - -Mr. Powell, getting up on the poop, touched his cap to Captain -Anthony, who was there alone. He tells me that it was only then -that he saw his captain for the first time. The day before, in the -shipping office, what with the bad light and his excitement at this -berth obtained as if by a brusque and unscrupulous miracle, did not -count. He had then seemed to him much older and heavier. He was -surprised at the lithe figure, broad of shoulder, narrow at the -hips, the fire of the deep-set eyes, the springiness of the walk. -The captain gave him a steady stare, nodded slightly, and went on -pacing the poop with an air of not being aware of what was going on, -his head rigid, his movements rapid. - -Powell stole several glances at him with a curiosity very natural -under the circumstances. He wore a short grey jacket and a grey -cap. In the light of the dawn, growing more limpid rather than -brighter, Powell noticed the slightly sunken cheeks under the -trimmed beard, the perpendicular fold on the forehead, something -hard and set about the mouth. - -It was too early yet for the work to have begun in the dock. The -water gleamed placidly, no movement anywhere on the long straight -lines of the quays, no one about to be seen except the few dock -hands busy alongside the Ferndale, knowing their work, mostly silent -or exchanging a few words in low tones as if they, too, had been -aware of that lady 'who mustn't be disturbed.' The Ferndale was the -only ship to leave that tide. The others seemed still asleep, -without a sound, and only here and there a figure, coming up on the -forecastle, leaned on the rail to watch the proceedings idly. -Without trouble and fuss and almost without a sound was the Ferndale -leaving the land, as if stealing away. Even the tugs, now with -their engines stopped, were approaching her without a ripple, the -burly-looking paddle-boat sheering forward, while the other, a -screw, smaller and of slender shape, made for her quarter so gently -that she did not divide the smooth water, but seemed to glide on its -surface as if on a sheet of plate-glass, a man in her bow, the -master at the wheel visible only from the waist upwards above the -white screen of the bridge, both of them so still-eyed as to -fascinate young Powell into curious self-forgetfulness and -immobility. He was steeped, sunk in the general quietness, -remembering the statement 'she's a lady that mustn't be disturbed,' -and repeating to himself idly: 'No. She won't be disturbed. She -won't be disturbed.' Then the first loud words of that morning -breaking that strange hush of departure with a sharp hail: 'Look -out for that line there,' made him start. The line whizzed past his -head, one of the sailors aft caught it, and there was an end to the -fascination, to the quietness of spirit which had stolen on him at -the very moment of departure. From that moment till two hours -afterwards, when the ship was brought up in one of the lower reaches -of the Thames off an apparently uninhabited shore, near some sort of -inlet where nothing but two anchored barges flying a red flag could -be seen, Powell was too busy to think of the lady 'that mustn't be -disturbed,' or of his captain--or of anything else unconnected with -his immediate duties. In fact, he had no occasion to go on the -poop, or even look that way much; but while the ship was about to -anchor, casting his eyes in that direction, he received an absurd -impression that his captain (he was up there, of course) was sitting -on both sides of the aftermost skylight at once. He was too -occupied to reflect on this curious delusion, this phenomenon of -seeing double as though he had had a drop too much. He only smiled -at himself. - -As often happens after a grey daybreak the sun had risen in a warm -and glorious splendour above the smooth immense gleam of the -enlarged estuary. Wisps of mist floated like trails of luminous -dust, and in the dazzling reflections of water and vapour, the -shores had the murky semi-transparent darkness of shadows cast -mysteriously from below. Powell, who had sailed out of London all -his young sea-man's life, told me that it was then, in a moment of -entranced vision an hour or so after sunrise, that the river was -revealed to him for all time, like a fair face often seen before, -which is suddenly perceived to be the expression of an inner and -unsuspected beauty, of that something unique and only its own which -rouses a passion of wonder and fidelity and an unappeasable memory -of its charm. The hull of the Ferndale, swung head to the eastward, -caught the light, her tall spars and rigging steeped in a bath of -red-gold, from the water-line full of glitter to the trucks slight -and gleaming against the delicate expanse of the blue. - -"Time we had a mouthful to eat," said a voice at his side. It was -Mr. Franklin, the chief mate, with his head sunk between his -shoulders, and melancholy eyes. "Let the men have their breakfast, -bo'sun," he went on, "and have the fire out in the galley in half an -hour at the latest, so that we can call these barges of explosives -alongside. Come along, young man. I don't know your name. Haven't -seen the captain, to speak to, since yesterday afternoon when he -rushed off to pick up a second mate somewhere. How did he get you?" - -Young Powell, a little shy notwithstanding the friendly disposition -of the other, answered him smilingly, aware somehow that there was -something marked in this inquisitiveness, natural, after all-- -something anxious. His name was Powell, and he was put in the way -of this berth by Mr. Powell, the shipping master. He blushed. - -"Ah, I see. Well, you have been smart in getting ready. The ship- -keeper, before he went away, told me you joined at one o'clock. I -didn't sleep on board last night. Not I. There was a time when I -never cared to leave this ship for more than a couple of hours in -the evening, even while in London, but now, since--" - -He checked himself with a roll of his prominent eyes towards that -youngster, that stranger. Meantime, he was leading the way across -the quarter-deck under the poop into the long passage with the door -of the saloon at the far end. It was shut. But Mr. Franklin did -not go so far. After passing the pantry he opened suddenly a door -on the left of the passage, to Powell's great surprise. - -"Our mess-room," he said, entering a small cabin painted white, -bare, lighted from part of the foremost skylight, and furnished only -with a table and two settees with movable backs. "That surprises -you? Well, it isn't usual. And it wasn't so in this ship either, -before. It's only since--" - -He checked himself again. "Yes. Here we shall feed, you and I, -facing each other for the next twelve months or more--God knows how -much more! The bo'sun keeps the deck at meal-times in fine -weather." - -He talked not exactly wheezing, but like a man whose breath is -somewhat short, and the spirit (young Powell could not help -thinking) embittered by some mysterious grievance. - -There was enough of the unusual there to be recognized even by -Powell's inexperience. The officers kept out of the cabin against -the custom of the service, and then this sort of accent in the -mate's talk. Franklin did not seem to expect conversational ease -from the new second mate. He made several remarks about the old, -deploring the accident. Awkward. Very awkward this thing to happen -on the very eve of sailing. - -"Collar-bone and arm broken," he sighed. "Sad, very sad. Did you -notice if the captain was at all affected? Eh? Must have been." - -Before this congested face, these globular eyes turned yearningly -upon him, young Powell (one must keep in mind he was but a youngster -then) who could not remember any signs of visible grief, confessed -with an embarrassed laugh that, owing to the suddenness of this -lucky chance coming to him, he was not in a condition to notice the -state of other people. - -"I was so pleased to get a ship at last," he murmured, further -disconcerted by the sort of pent-up gravity in Mr. Franklin's -aspect. - -"One man's food another man's poison," the mate remarked. "That -holds true beyond mere victuals. I suppose it didn't occur to you -that it was a dam' poor way for a good man to be knocked out." - -Mr. Powell admitted openly that he had not thought of that. He was -ready to admit that it was very reprehensible of him. But Franklin -had no intention apparently to moralize. He did not fall silent -either. His further remarks were to the effect that there had been -a time when Captain Anthony would have showed more than enough -concern for the least thing happening to one of his officers. Yes, -there had been a time! - -"And mind," he went on, laying down suddenly a half-consumed piece -of bread and butter and raising his voice, "poor Mathews was the -second man the longest on board. I was the first. He joined a -month later--about the same time as the steward by a few days. The -bo'sun and the carpenter came the voyage after. Steady men. Still -here. No good man need ever have thought of leaving the Ferndale -unless he were a fool. Some good men are fools. Don't know when -they are well off. I mean the best of good men; men that you would -do anything for. They go on for years, then all of a sudden--" - -Our young friend listened to the mate with a queer sense of -discomfort growing on him. For it was as though Mr. Franklin were -thinking aloud, and putting him into the delicate position of an -unwilling eavesdropper. But there was in the mess-room another -listener. It was the steward, who had come in carrying a tin -coffee-pot with a long handle, and stood quietly by: a man with a -middle-aged, sallow face, long features, heavy eyelids, a soldierly -grey moustache. His body encased in a short black jacket with -narrow sleeves, his long legs in very tight trousers, made up an -agile, youthful, slender figure. He moved forward suddenly, and -interrupted the mate's monologue. - -"More coffee, Mr. Franklin? Nice fresh lot. Piping hot. I am -going to give breakfast to the saloon directly, and the cook is -raking his fire out. Now's your chance." - -The mate who, on account of his peculiar build, could not turn his -head freely, twisted his thick trunk slightly, and ran his black -eyes in the corners towards the steward. - -"And is the precious pair of them out?" he growled. - -The steward, pouring out the coffee into the mate's cup, muttered -moodily but distinctly: "The lady wasn't when I was laying the -table." - -Powell's ears were fine enough to detect something hostile in this -reference to the captain's wife. For of what other person could -they be speaking? The steward added with a gloomy sort of fairness: -"But she will be before I bring the dishes in. She never gives that -sort of trouble. That she doesn't." - -"No. Not in that way," Mr. Franklin agreed, and then both he and -the steward, after glancing at Powell--the stranger to the ship-- -said nothing more. - -But this had been enough to rouse his curiosity. Curiosity is -natural to man. Of course it was not a malevolent curiosity which, -if not exactly natural, is to be met fairly frequently in men and -perhaps more frequently in women--especially if a woman be in -question; and that woman under a cloud, in a manner of speaking. -For under a cloud Flora de Barral was fated to be even at sea. Yes. -Even that sort of darkness which attends a woman for whom there is -no clear place in the world hung over her. Yes. Even at sea! - - -And this is the pathos of being a woman. A man can struggle to get -a place for himself or perish. But a woman's part is passive, say -what you like, and shuffle the facts of the world as you may, -hinting at lack of energy, of wisdom, of courage. As a matter of -fact, almost all women have all that--of their own kind. But they -are not made for attack. Wait they must. I am speaking here of -women who are really women. And it's no use talking of -opportunities, either. I know that some of them do talk of it. But -not the genuine women. Those know better. Nothing can beat a true -woman for a clear vision of reality; I would say a cynical vision if -I were not afraid of wounding your chivalrous feelings--for which, -by the by, women are not so grateful as you may think, to fellows of -your kind . . . - -"Upon my word, Marlow," I cried, "what are you flying out at me for -like this? I wouldn't use an ill-sounding word about women, but -what right have you to imagine that I am looking for gratitude?" - -Marlow raised a soothing hand. - -"There! There! I take back the ill-sounding word, with the remark, -though, that cynicism seems to me a word invented by hypocrites. -But let that pass. As to women, they know that the clamour for -opportunities for them to become something which they cannot be is -as reasonable as if mankind at large started asking for -opportunities of winning immortality in this world, in which death -is the very condition of life. You must understand that I am not -talking here of material existence. That naturally is implied; but -you won't maintain that a woman who, say, enlisted, for instance -(there have been cases) has conquered her place in the world. She -has only got her living in it--which is quite meritorious, but not -quite the same thing. - -All these reflections which arise from my picking up the thread of -Flora de Barral's existence did not, I am certain, present -themselves to Mr. Powell--not the Mr. Powell we know taking solitary -week-end cruises in the estuary of the Thames (with mysterious -dashes into lonely creeks) but to the young Mr. Powell, the chance -second officer of the ship Ferndale, commanded (and for the most -part owned) by Roderick Anthony, the son of the poet--you know. A -Mr. Powell, much slenderer than our robust friend is now, with the -bloom of innocence not quite rubbed off his smooth cheeks, and apt -not only to be interested but also to be surprised by the experience -life was holding in store for him. This would account for his -remembering so much of it with considerable vividness. For -instance, the impressions attending his first breakfast on board the -Ferndale, both visual and mental, were as fresh to him as if -received yesterday. - -The surprise, it is easy to understand, would arise from the -inability to interpret aright the signs which experience (a thing -mysterious in itself) makes to our understanding and emotions. For -it is never more than that. Our experience never gets into our -blood and bones. It always remains outside of us. That's why we -look with wonder at the past. And this persists even when from -practice and through growing callousness of fibre we come to the -point when nothing that we meet in that rapid blinking stumble -across a flick of sunshine--which our life is--nothing, I say, which -we run against surprises us any more. Not at the time, I mean. If, -later on, we recover the faculty with some such exclamation: 'Well! -Well! I'll be hanged if I ever, . . . ' it is probably because this -very thing that there should be a past to look back upon, other -people's, is very astounding in itself when one has the time, a -fleeting and immense instant to think of it . . . " - -I was on the point of interrupting Marlow when he stopped of -himself, his eyes fixed on vacancy, or--perhaps--(I wouldn't be too -hard on him) on a vision. He has the habit, or, say, the fault, of -defective mantelpiece clocks, of suddenly stopping in the very -fulness of the tick. If you have ever lived with a clock afflicted -with that perversity, you know how vexing it is--such a stoppage. I -was vexed with Marlow. He was smiling faintly while I waited. He -even laughed a little. And then I said acidly: - -"Am I to understand that you have ferreted out something comic in -the history of Flora de Barral?" - -"Comic!" he exclaimed. "No! What makes you say? . . . Oh, I -laughed--did I? But don't you know that people laugh at absurdities -that are very far from being comic? Didn't you read the latest -books about laughter written by philosophers, psychologists? There -is a lot of them . . . " - -"I dare say there has been a lot of nonsense written about laughter- --and tears, too, for that matter," I said impatiently. - -"They say," pursued the unabashed Marlow, "that we laugh from a -sense of superiority. Therefore, observe, simplicity, honesty, -warmth of feeling, delicacy of heart and of conduct, self- -confidence, magnanimity are laughed at, because the presence of -these traits in a man's character often puts him into difficult, -cruel or absurd situations, and makes us, the majority who are -fairly free as a rule from these peculiarities, feel pleasantly -superior." - -"Speak for yourself," I said. "But have you discovered all these -fine things in the story; or has Mr. Powell discovered them to you -in his artless talk? Have you two been having good healthy laughs -together? Come! Are your sides aching yet, Marlow?" - -Marlow took no offence at my banter. He was quite serious. - -"I should not like to say off-hand how much of that there was," he -pursued with amusing caution. "But there was a situation, tense -enough for the signs of it to give many surprises to Mr. Powell-- -neither of them shocking in itself, but with a cumulative effect -which made the whole unforgettable in the detail of its progress. -And the first surprise came very soon, when the explosives (to which -he owed his sudden chance of engagement)--dynamite in cases and -blasting powder in barrels--taken on board, main hatch battened for -sea, cook restored to his functions in the galley, anchor fished and -the tug ahead, rounding the South Foreland, and with the sun sinking -clear and red down the purple vista of the channel, he went on the -poop, on duty, it is true, but with time to take the first freer -breath in the busy day of departure. The pilot was still on board, -who gave him first a silent glance, and then passed an insignificant -remark before resuming his lounging to and fro between the steering -wheel and the binnacle. Powell took his station modestly at the -break of the poop. He had noticed across the skylight a head in a -grey cap. But when, after a time, he crossed over to the other side -of the deck he discovered that it was not the captain's head at all. -He became aware of grey hairs curling over the nape of the neck. -How could he have made that mistake? But on board ship away from -the land one does not expect to come upon a stranger. - -Powell walked past the man. A thin, somewhat sunken face, with a -tightly closed mouth, stared at the distant French coast, vague like -a suggestion of solid darkness, lying abeam beyond the evening light -reflected from the level waters, themselves growing more sombre than -the sky; a stare, across which Powell had to pass and did pass with -a quick side glance, noting its immovable stillness. His passage -disturbed those eyes no more than if he had been as immaterial as a -ghost. And this failure of his person in producing an impression -affected him strangely. Who could that old man be? - -He was so curious that he even ventured to ask the pilot in a low -voice. The pilot turned out to be a good-natured specimen of his -kind, condescending, sententious. He had been down to his meals in -the main cabin, and had something to impart. - -"That? Queer fish--eh? Mrs. Anthony's father. I've been -introduced to him in the cabin at breakfast time. Name of Smith. -Wonder if he has all his wits about him. They take him about with -them, it seems. Don't look very happy--eh?" - -Then, changing his tone abruptly, he desired Powell to get all hands -on deck and make sail on the ship. "I shall be leaving you in half -an hour. You'll have plenty of time to find out all about the old -gent," he added with a thick laugh. - - -In the secret emotion of giving his first order as a fully -responsible officer, young Powell forgot the very existence of that -old man in a moment. The following days, in the interest of getting -in touch with the ship, with the men in her, with his duties, in the -rather anxious period of settling down, his curiosity slumbered; for -of course the pilot's few words had not extinguished it. - -This settling down was made easy for him by the friendly character -of his immediate superior--the chief. Powell could not defend -himself from some sympathy for that thick, bald man, comically -shaped, with his crimson complexion and something pathetic in the -rolling of his very movable black eyes in an apparently immovable -head, who was so tactfully ready to take his competency for granted. - -There can be nothing more reassuring to a young man tackling his -life's work for the first time. Mr. Powell, his mind at ease about -himself, had time to observe the people around with friendly -interest. Very early in the beginning of the passage, he had -discovered with some amusement that the marriage of Captain Anthony -was resented by those to whom Powell (conscious of being looked upon -as something of an outsider) referred in his mind as 'the old lot.' - -They had the funny, regretful glances, intonations, nods of men who -had seen other, better times. What difference it could have made to -the bo'sun and the carpenter Powell could not very well understand. -Yet these two pulled long faces and even gave hostile glances to the -poop. The cook and the steward might have been more directly -concerned. But the steward used to remark on occasion, 'Oh, she -gives no extra trouble,' with scrupulous fairness of the most gloomy -kind. He was rather a silent man with a great sense of his personal -worth which made his speeches guarded. The cook, a neat man with -fair side whiskers, who had been only three years in the ship, -seemed the least concerned. He was even known to have inquired once -or twice as to the success of some of his dishes with the captain's -wife. This was considered a sort of disloyal falling away from the -ruling feeling. - -The mate's annoyance was yet the easiest to understand. As he let -it out to Powell before the first week of the passage was over: -'You can't expect me to be pleased at being chucked out of the -saloon as if I weren't good enough to sit down to meat with that -woman.' But he hastened to add: 'Don't you think I'm blaming the -captain. He isn't a man to be found fault with. You, Mr. Powell, -are too young yet to understand such matters.' - -Some considerable time afterwards, at the end of a conversation of -that aggrieved sort, he enlarged a little more by repeating: 'Yes! -You are too young to understand these things. I don't say you -haven't plenty of sense. You are doing very well here. Jolly sight -better than I expected, though I liked your looks from the first.' - -It was in the trade-winds, at night, under a velvety, bespangled -sky; a great multitude of stars watching the shadows of the sea -gleaming mysteriously in the wake of the ship; while the leisurely -swishing of the water to leeward was like a drowsy comment on her -progress. Mr. Powell expressed his satisfaction by a half-bashful -laugh. The mate mused on: 'And of course you haven't known the -ship as she used to be. She was more than a home to a man. She was -not like any other ship; and Captain Anthony was not like any other -master to sail with. Neither is she now. But before one never had -a care in the world as to her--and as to him, too. No, indeed, -there was never anything to worry about.' - -Young Powell couldn't see what there was to worry about even then. -The serenity of the peaceful night seemed as vast as all space, and -as enduring as eternity itself. It's true the sea is an uncertain -element, but no sailor remembers this in the presence of its -bewitching power any more than a lover ever thinks of the proverbial -inconstancy of women. And Mr. Powell, being young, thought naively -that the captain being married, there could be no occasion for -anxiety as to his condition. I suppose that to him life, perhaps -not so much his own as that of others, was something still in the -nature of a fairy-tale with a 'they lived happy ever after' -termination. We are the creatures of our light literature much more -than is generally suspected in a world which prides itself on being -scientific and practical, and in possession of incontrovertible -theories. Powell felt in that way the more because the captain of a -ship at sea is a remote, inaccessible creature, something like a -prince of a fairy-tale, alone of his kind, depending on nobody, not -to be called to account except by powers practically invisible and -so distant, that they might well be looked upon as supernatural for -all that the rest of the crew knows of them, as a rule. - -So he did not understand the aggrieved attitude of the mate--or -rather he understood it obscurely as a result of simple causes which -did not seem to him adequate. He would have dismissed all this out -of his mind with a contemptuous: 'What the devil do I care?' if the -captain's wife herself had not been so young. To see her the first -time had been something of a shock to him. He had some preconceived -ideas as to captain's wives which, while he did not believe the -testimony of his eyes, made him open them very wide. He had stared -till the captain's wife noticed it plainly and turned her face away. -Captain's wife! That girl covered with rugs in a long chair. -Captain's . . . ! He gasped mentally. It had never occurred to him -that a captain's wife could be anything but a woman to be described -as stout or thin, as jolly or crabbed, but always mature, and even, -in comparison with his own years, frankly old. But this! It was a -sort of moral upset as though he had discovered a case of abduction -or something as surprising as that. You understand that nothing is -more disturbing than the upsetting of a preconceived idea. Each of -us arranges the world according to his own notion of the fitness of -things. To behold a girl where your average mediocre imagination -had placed a comparatively old woman may easily become one of the -strongest shocks . . . " - -Marlow paused, smiling to himself. - -"Powell remained impressed after all these years by the very -recollection," he continued in a voice, amused perhaps but not -mocking. "He said to me only the other day with something like the -first awe of that discovery lingering in his tone--he said to me: -"Why, she seemed so young, so girlish, that I looked round for some -woman which would be the captain's wife, though of course I knew -there was no other woman on board that voyage." The voyage before, -it seems, there had been the steward's wife to act as maid to Mrs. -Anthony; but she was not taken that time for some reason he didn't -know. Mrs. Anthony . . . ! If it hadn't been the captain's wife he -would have referred to her mentally as a kid, he said. I suppose -there must be a sort of divinity hedging in a captain's wife -(however incredible) which prevented him applying to her that -contemptuous definition in the secret of his thoughts. - -I asked him when this had happened; and he told me that it was three -days after parting from the tug, just outside the channel--to be -precise. A head wind had set in with unpleasant damp weather. He -had come up to leeward of the poop, still feeling very much of a -stranger, and an untried officer, at six in the evening to take his -watch. To see her was quite as unexpected as seeing a vision. When -she turned away her head he recollected himself and dropped his -eyes. What he could see then was only, close to the long chair on -which she reclined, a pair of long, thin legs ending in black cloth -boots tucked in close to the skylight seat. Whence he concluded -that the 'old gentleman,' who wore a grey cap like the captain's, -was sitting by her--his daughter. In his first astonishment he had -stopped dead short, with the consequence that now he felt very much -abashed at having betrayed his surprise. But he couldn't very well -turn tail and bolt off the poop. He had come there on duty. So, -still with downcast eyes, he made his way past them. Only when he -got as far as the wheel-grating did he look up. She was hidden from -him by the back of her deck-chair; but he had the view of the owner -of the thin, aged legs seated on the skylight, his clean-shaved -cheek, his thin compressed mouth with a hollow in each corner, the -sparse grey locks escaping from under the tweed cap, and curling -slightly on the collar of the coat. He leaned forward a little over -Mrs. Anthony, but they were not talking. Captain Anthony, walking -with a springy hurried gait on the other side of the poop from end -to end, gazed straight before him. Young Powell might have thought -that his captain was not aware of his presence either. However, he -knew better, and for that reason spent a most uncomfortable hour -motionless by the compass before his captain stopped in his swift -pacing and with an almost visible effort made some remark to him -about the weather in a low voice. Before Powell, who was startled, -could find a word of answer, the captain swung off again on his -endless tramp with a fixed gaze. And till the supper bell rang -silence dwelt over that poop like an evil spell. The captain walked -up and down looking straight before him, the helmsman steered, -looking upwards at the sails, the old gent on the skylight looked -down on his daughter--and Mr. Powell confessed to me that he didn't -know where to look, feeling as though he had blundered in where he -had no business--which was absurd. At last he fastened his eyes on -the compass card, took refuge, in spirit, inside the binnacle. He -felt chilled more than he should have been by the chilly dusk -falling on the muddy green sea of the soundings from a smoothly -clouded sky. A fitful wind swept the cheerless waste, and the ship, -hauled up so close as to check her way, seemed to progress by -languid fits and starts against the short seas which swept along her -sides with a snarling sound. - -Young Powell thought that this was the dreariest evening aspect of -the sea he had ever seen. He was glad when the other occupants of -the poop left it at the sound of the bell. The captain first, with -a sudden swerve in his walk towards the companion, and not even -looking once towards his wife and his wife's father. Those two got -up and moved towards the companion, the old gent very erect, his -thin locks stirring gently about the nape of his neck, and carrying -the rugs over his arm. The girl who was Mrs. Anthony went down -first. The murky twilight had settled in deep shadow on her face. -She looked at Mr. Powell in passing. He thought that she was very -pale. Cold perhaps. The old gent stopped a moment, thin and stiff, -before the young man, and in a voice which was low but distinct -enough, and without any particular accent--not even of inquiry--he -said: - -"You are the new second officer, I believe." - -Mr. Powell answered in the affirmative, wondering if this were a -friendly overture. He had noticed that Mr. Smith's eyes had a sort -of inward look as though he had disliked or disdained his -surroundings. The captain's wife had disappeared then down the -companion stairs. Mr. Smith said 'Ah!' and waited a little longer -to put another question in his incurious voice. - -"And did you know the man who was here before you?" - -"No," said young Powell, "I didn't know anybody belonging to this -ship before I joined." - -"He was much older than you. Twice your age. Perhaps more. His -hair was iron grey. Yes. Certainly more." - -The low, repressed voice paused, but the old man did not move away. -He added: "Isn't it unusual?" - -Mr. Powell was surprised not only by being engaged in conversation, -but also by its character. It might have been the suggestion of the -word uttered by this old man, but it was distinctly at that moment -that he became aware of something unusual not only in this encounter -but generally around him, about everybody, in the atmosphere. The -very sea, with short flashes of foam bursting out here and there in -the gloomy distances, the unchangeable, safe sea sheltering a man -from all passions, except its own anger, seemed queer to the quick -glance he threw to windward where the already effaced horizon traced -no reassuring limit to the eye. In the expiring, diffused twilight, -and before the clouded night dropped its mysterious veil, it was the -immensity of space made visible--almost palpable. Young Powell felt -it. He felt it in the sudden sense of his isolation; the -trustworthy, powerful ship of his first acquaintance reduced to a -speck, to something almost undistinguishable, the mere support for -the soles of his two feet before that unexpected old man becoming so -suddenly articulate in a darkening universe. - -It took him a moment or so to seize the drift of the question. He -repeated slowly: 'Unusual . . . Oh, you mean for an elderly man to -be the second of a ship. I don't know. There are a good many of us -who don't get on. He didn't get on, I suppose.' - -The other, his head bowed a little, had the air of listening with -acute attention. - -"And now he has been taken to the hospital," he said. - -"I believe so. Yes. I remember Captain Anthony saying so in the -shipping office." - -"Possibly about to die," went on the old man, in his careful -deliberate tone. "And perhaps glad enough to die." - -Mr. Powell was young enough to be startled at the suggestion, which -sounded confidential and blood-curdling in the dusk. He said -sharply that it was not very likely, as if defending the absent -victim of the accident from an unkind aspersion. He felt, in fact, -indignant. The other emitted a short stifled laugh of a -conciliatory nature. The second bell rang under the poop. He made -a movement at the sound, but lingered. - -"What I said was not meant seriously," he murmured, with that -strange air of fearing to be overheard. "Not in this case. I know -the man." - -The occasion, or rather the want of occasion, for this conversation, -had sharpened the perceptions of the unsophisticated second officer -of the Ferndale. He was alive to the slightest shade of tone, and -felt as if this "I know the man" should have been followed by a "he -was no friend of mine." But after the shortest possible break the -old gentleman continued to murmur distinctly and evenly: - -"Whereas you have never seen him. Nevertheless, when you have gone -through as many years as I have, you will understand how an event -putting an end to one's existence may not be altogether unwelcome. -Of course there are stupid accidents. And even then one needn't be -very angry. What is it to be deprived of life? It's soon done. -But what would you think of the feelings of a man who should have -had his life stolen from him? Cheated out of it, I say!" - -He ceased abruptly, and remained still long enough for the -astonished Powell to stammer out an indistinct: "What do you mean? -I don't understand." Then, with a low 'Good-night' glided a few -steps, and sank through the shadow of the companion into the -lamplight below which did not reach higher than the turn of the -staircase. - -The strange words, the cautious tone, the whole person left a strong -uneasiness in the mind of Mr. Powell. He started walking the poop -in great mental confusion. He felt all adrift. This was funny talk -and no mistake. And this cautious low tone as though he were -watched by someone was more than funny. The young second officer -hesitated to break the established rule of every ship's discipline; -but at last could not resist the temptation of getting hold of some -other human being, and spoke to the man at the wheel. - -"Did you hear what this gentleman was saying to me?" - -"No, sir," answered the sailor quietly. Then, encouraged by this -evidence of laxity in his officer, made bold to add, "A queer fish, -sir." This was tentative, and Mr. Powell, busy with his own view, -not saying anything, he ventured further. "They are more like -passengers. One sees some queer passengers." - -"Who are like passengers?" asked Powell gruffly. - -"Why, these two, sir." - - - -CHAPTER THREE--DEVOTED SERVANTS--AND THE LIGHT OF A FLARE - - - -Young Powell thought to himself: "The men, too, are noticing it." -Indeed, the captain's behaviour to his wife and to his wife's father -was noticeable enough. It was as if they had been a pair of not -very congenial passengers. But perhaps it was not always like that. -The captain might have been put out by something. - -When the aggrieved Franklin came on deck Mr. Powell made a remark to -that effect. For his curiosity was aroused. - -The mate grumbled "Seems to you? . . . Putout? . . . eh?" He -buttoned his thick jacket up to the throat, and only then added a -gloomy "Aye, likely enough," which discouraged further conversation. -But no encouragement would have induced the newly-joined second mate -to enter the way of confidences. His was an instinctive prudence. -Powell did not know why it was he had resolved to keep his own -counsel as to his colloquy with Mr. Smith. But his curiosity did -not slumber. Some time afterwards, again at the relief of watches, -in the course of a little talk, he mentioned Mrs. Anthony's father -quite casually, and tried to find out from the mate who he was. - -"It would take a clever man to find that out, as things are on board -now," Mr. Franklin said, unexpectedly communicative. "The first I -saw of him was when she brought him alongside in a four-wheeler one -morning about half-past eleven. The captain had come on board -early, and was down in the cabin that had been fitted out for him. -Did I tell you that if you want the captain for anything you must -stamp on the port side of the deck? That's so. This ship is not -only unlike what she used to be, but she is like no other ship, -anyhow. Did you ever hear of the captain's room being on the port -side? Both of them stern cabins have been fitted up afresh like a -blessed palace. A gang of people from some tip-top West-End house -were fussing here on board with hangings and furniture for a -fortnight, as if the Queen were coming with us. Of course the -starboard cabin is the bedroom one, but the poor captain hangs out -to port on a couch, so that in case we want him on deck at night, -Mrs. Anthony should not be startled. Nervous! Phoo! A woman who -marries a sailor and makes up her mind to come to sea should have no -blamed jumpiness about her, I say. But never mind. Directly the -old cab pointed round the corner of the warehouse I called out to -the captain that his lady was coming aboard. He answered me, but as -I didn't see him coming, I went down the gangway myself to help her -alight. She jumps out excitedly without touching my arm, or as much -as saying "thank you" or "good morning" or anything, turns back to -the cab, and then that old joker comes out slowly. I hadn't noticed -him inside. I hadn't expected to see anybody. It gave me a start. -She says: "My father--Mr. Franklin." He was staring at me like an -owl. "How do you do, sir?" says I. Both of them looked funny. It -was as if something had happened to them on the way. Neither of -them moved, and I stood by waiting. The captain showed himself on -the poop; and I saw him at the side looking over, and then he -disappeared; on the way to meet them on shore, I expected. But he -just went down below again. So, not seeing him, I said: "Let me -help you on board, sir." "On board!" says he in a silly fashion. -"On board!" "It's not a very good ladder, but it's quite firm," -says I, as he seemed to be afraid of it. And he didn't look a -broken-down old man, either. You can see yourself what he is. -Straight as a poker, and life enough in him yet. But he made no -move, and I began to feel foolish. Then she comes forward. "Oh! -Thank you, Mr. Franklin. I'll help my father up." Flabbergasted -me--to be choked off like this. Pushed in between him and me -without as much as a look my way. So of course I dropped it. What -do you think? I fell back. I would have gone up on board at once -and left them on the quay to come up or stay there till next week, -only they were blocking the way. I couldn't very well shove them on -one side. Devil only knows what was up between them. There she -was, pale as death, talking to him very fast. He got as red as a -turkey-cock--dash me if he didn't. A bad-tempered old bloke, I can -tell you. And a bad lot, too. Never mind. I couldn't hear what -she was saying to him, but she put force enough into it to shake -her. It seemed--it seemed, mind!--that he didn't want to go on -board. Of course it couldn't have been that. I know better. Well, -she took him by the arm, above the elbow, as if to lead him, or push -him rather. I was standing not quite ten feet off. Why should I -have gone away? I was anxious to get back on board as soon as they -would let me. I didn't want to overhear her blamed whispering -either. But I couldn't stay there for ever, so I made a move to get -past them if I could. And that's how I heard a few words. It was -the old chap--something nasty about being "under the heel" of -somebody or other. Then he says, "I don't want this sacrifice." -What it meant I can't tell. It was a quarrel--of that I am certain. -She looks over her shoulder, and sees me pretty close to them. I -don't know what she found to say into his ear, but he gave way -suddenly. He looked round at me too, and they went up together so -quickly then that when I got on the quarter-deck I was only in time -to see the inner door of the passage close after them. Queer--eh? -But if it were only queerness one wouldn't mind. Some luggage in -new trunks came on board in the afternoon. We undocked at midnight. -And may I be hanged if I know who or what he was or is. I haven't -been able to find out. No, I don't know. He may have been -anything. All I know is that once, years ago when I went to see the -Derby with a friend, I saw a pea-and-thimble chap who looked just -like that old mystery father out of a cab." - -All this the goggle-eyed mate had said in a resentful and melancholy -voice, with pauses, to the gentle murmur of the sea. It was for him -a bitter sort of pleasure to have a fresh pair of ears, a newcomer, -to whom he could repeat all these matters of grief and suspicion -talked over endlessly by the band of Captain Anthony's faithful -subordinates. It was evidently so refreshing to his worried spirit -that it made him forget the advisability of a little caution with a -complete stranger. But really with Mr. Powell there was no danger. -Amused, at first, at these plaints, he provoked them for fun. -Afterwards, turning them over in his mind, he became impressed, and -as the impression grew stronger with the days his resolution to keep -it to himself grew stronger too. - - -What made it all the easier to keep--I mean the resolution--was that -Powell's sentiment of amused surprise at what struck him at first as -mere absurdity was not unmingled with indignation. And his years -were too few, his position too novel, his reliance on his own -opinion not yet firm enough to allow him to express it with any -effect. And then--what would have been the use, anyhow--and where -was the necessity? - -But this thing, familiar and mysterious at the same time, occupied -his imagination. The solitude of the sea intensifies the thoughts -and the facts of one's experience which seems to lie at the very -centre of the world, as the ship which carries one always remains -the centre figure of the round horizon. He viewed the apoplectic, -goggle-eyed mate and the saturnine, heavy-eyed steward as the -victims of a peculiar and secret form of lunacy which poisoned their -lives. But he did not give them his sympathy on that account. No. -That strange affliction awakened in him a sort of suspicious wonder. - -Once--and it was at night again; for the officers of the Ferndale -keeping watch and watch as was customary in those days, had but few -occasions for intercourse--once, I say, the thick Mr. Franklin, a -quaintly bulky figure under the stars, the usual witnesses of his -outpourings, asked him with an abruptness which was not callous, but -in his simple way: - -"I believe you have no parents living?" - -Mr. Powell said that he had lost his father and mother at a very -early age. - -"My mother is still alive," declared Mr. Franklin in a tone which -suggested that he was gratified by the fact. "The old lady is -lasting well. Of course she's got to be made comfortable. A woman -must be looked after, and, if it comes to that, I say, give me a -mother. I dare say if she had not lasted it out so well I might -have gone and got married. I don't know, though. We sailors -haven't got much time to look about us to any purpose. Anyhow, as -the old lady was there I haven't, I may say, looked at a girl in all -my life. Not that I wasn't partial to female society in my time," -he added with a pathetic intonation, while the whites of his goggle -eyes gleamed amorously under the clear night sky. "Very partial, I -may say." - -Mr. Powell was amused; and as these communications took place only -when the mate was relieved off duty he had no serious objection to -them. The mate's presence made the first half-hour and sometimes -even more of his watch on deck pass away. If his senior did not -mind losing some of his rest it was not Mr. Powell's affair. -Franklin was a decent fellow. His intention was not to boast of his -filial piety. - -"Of course I mean respectable female society," he explained. "The -other sort is neither here nor there. I blame no man's conduct, but -a well-brought-up young fellow like you knows that there's precious -little fun to be got out of it." He fetched a deep sigh. "I wish -Captain Anthony's mother had been a lasting sort like my old lady. -He would have had to look after her and he would have done it well. -Captain Anthony is a proper man. And it would have saved him from -the most foolish--" - -He did not finish the phrase which certainly was turning bitter in -his mouth. Mr. Powell thought to himself: "There he goes again." -He laughed a little. - -"I don't understand why you are so hard on the captain, Mr. -Franklin. I thought you were a great friend of his." - -Mr. Franklin exclaimed at this. He was not hard on the captain. -Nothing was further from his thoughts. Friend! Of course he was a -good friend and a faithful servant. He begged Powell to understand -that if Captain Anthony chose to strike a bargain with Old Nick to- -morrow, and Old Nick were good to the captain, he (Franklin) would -find it in his heart to love Old Nick for the captain's sake. That -was so. On the other hand, if a saint, an angel with white wings -came along and--" - -He broke off short again as if his own vehemence had frightened him. -Then in his strained pathetic voice (which he had never raised) he -observed that it was no use talking. Anybody could see that the man -was changed. - -"As to that," said young Powell, "it is impossible for me to judge." - -"Good Lord!" whispered the mate. "An educated, clever young fellow -like you with a pair of eyes on him and some sense too! Is that how -a happy man looks? Eh? Young you may be, but you aren't a kid; and -I dare you to say 'Yes!'" - -Mr. Powell did not take up the challenge. He did not know what to -think of the mate's view. Still, it seemed as if it had opened his -understanding in a measure. He conceded that the captain did not -look very well. - -"Not very well," repeated the mate mournfully. "Do you think a man -with a face like that can hope to live his life out? You haven't -knocked about long in this world yet, but you are a sailor, you have -been in three or four ships, you say. Well, have you ever seen a -shipmaster walking his own deck as if he did not know what he had -underfoot? Have you? Dam'me if I don't think that he forgets where -he is. Of course he can be no other than a prime seaman; but it's -lucky, all the same, he has me on board. I know by this time what -he wants done without being told. Do you know that I have had no -order given me since we left port? Do you know that he has never -once opened his lips to me unless I spoke to him first? I? His -chief officer; his shipmate for full six years, with whom he had no -cross word--not once in all that time. Aye. Not a cross look even. -True that when I do make him speak to me, there is his dear old -self, the quick eye, the kind voice. Could hardly be other to his -old Franklin. But what's the good? Eyes, voice, everything's miles -away. And for all that I take good care never to address him when -the poop isn't clear. Yes! Only we two and nothing but the sea -with us. You think it would be all right; the only chief mate he -ever had--Mr. Franklin here and Mr. Franklin there--when anything -went wrong the first word you would hear about the decks was -'Franklin!'--I am thirteen years older than he is--you would think -it would be all right, wouldn't you? Only we two on this poop on -which we saw each other first--he a young master--told me that he -thought I would suit him very well--we two, and thirty-one days out -at sea, and it's no good! It's like talking to a man standing on -shore. I can't get him back. I can't get at him. I feel sometimes -as if I must shake him by the arm: "Wake up! Wake up! You are -wanted, sir . . . !" - -Young Powell recognized the expression of a true sentiment, a thing -so rare in this world where there are so many mutes and so many -excellent reasons even at sea for an articulate man not to give -himself away, that he felt something like respect for this outburst. -It was not loud. The grotesque squat shape, with the knob of the -head as if rammed down between the square shoulders by a blow from a -club, moved vaguely in a circumscribed space limited by the two -harness-casks lashed to the front rail of the poop, without -gestures, hands in the pockets of the jacket, elbows pressed closely -to its side; and the voice without resonance, passed from anger to -dismay and back again without a single louder word in the hurried -delivery, interrupted only by slight gasps for air as if the speaker -were being choked by the suppressed passion of his grief. - -Mr. Powell, though moved to a certain extent, was by no means -carried away. And just as he thought that it was all over, the -other, fidgeting in the darkness, was heard again explosive, -bewildered but not very loud in the silence of the ship and the -great empty peace of the sea. - -"They have done something to him! What is it? What can it be? -Can't you guess? Don't you know?" - -"Good heavens!" Young Powell was astounded on discovering that this -was an appeal addressed to him. "How on earth can I know?" - -"You do talk to that white-faced, black-eyed . . . I've seen you -talking to her more than a dozen times." - -Young Powell, his sympathy suddenly chilled, remarked in a -disdainful tone that Mrs. Anthony's eyes were not black. - -"I wish to God she had never set them on the captain, whatever -colour they are," retorted Franklin. "She and that old chap with -the scraped jaws who sits over her and stares down at her dead-white -face with his yellow eyes--confound them! Perhaps you will tell us -that his eyes are not yellow?" - -Powell, not interested in the colour of Mr. Smith's eyes, made a -vague gesture. Yellow or not yellow, it was all one to him. - -The mate murmured to himself. "No. He can't know. No! No more -than a baby. It would take an older head." - -"I don't even understand what you mean," observed Mr. Powell coldly. - -"And even the best head would be puzzled by such devil-work," the -mate continued, muttering. "Well, I have heard tell of women doing -for a man in one way or another when they got him fairly ashore. -But to bring their devilry to sea and fasten on such a man! . . . -It's something I can't understand. But I can watch. Let them look -out--I say!" - -His short figure, unable to stoop, without flexibility, could not -express dejection. He was very tired suddenly; he dragged his feet -going off the poop. Before he left it with nearly an hour of his -watch below sacrificed, he addressed himself once more to our young -man who stood abreast of the mizzen rigging in an unreceptive mood -expressed by silence and immobility. He did not regret, he said, -having spoken openly on this very serious matter. - -"I don't know about its seriousness, sir," was Mr. Powell's frank -answer. "But if you think you have been telling me something very -new you are mistaken. You can't keep that matter out of your -speeches. It's the sort of thing I've been hearing more or less -ever since I came on board." - -Mr. Powell, speaking truthfully, did not mean to speak offensively. -He had instincts of wisdom; he felt that this was a serious affair, -for it had nothing to do with reason. He did not want to raise an -enemy for himself in the mate. And Mr. Franklin did not take -offence. To Mr. Powell's truthful statement he answered with equal -truth and simplicity that it was very likely, very likely. With a -thing like that (next door to witchcraft almost) weighing on his -mind, the wonder was that he could think of anything else. The poor -man must have found in the restlessness of his thoughts the illusion -of being engaged in an active contest with some power of evil; for -his last words as he went lingeringly down the poop ladder expressed -the quaint hope that he would get him, Powell, "on our side yet." - -Mr. Powell--just imagine a straightforward youngster assailed in -this fashion on the high seas--answered merely by an embarrassed and -uneasy laugh which reflected exactly the state of his innocent soul. -The apoplectic mate, already half-way down, went up again three -steps of the poop ladder. Why, yes. A proper young fellow, the -mate expected, wouldn't stand by and see a man, a good sailor and -his own skipper, in trouble without taking his part against a couple -of shore people who--Mr. Powell interrupted him impatiently, asking -what was the trouble? - -"What is it you are hinting at?" he cried with an inexplicable -irritation. - -"I don't like to think of him all alone down there with these two," -Franklin whispered impressively. "Upon my word I don't. God only -knows what may be going on there . . . Don't laugh . . . It was bad -enough last voyage when Mrs. Brown had a cabin aft; but now it's -worse. It frightens me. I can't sleep sometimes for thinking of -him all alone there, shut off from us all." - -Mrs. Brown was the steward's wife. You must understand that shortly -after his visit to the Fyne cottage (with all its consequences), -Anthony had got an offer to go to the Western Islands, and bring -home the cargo of some ship which, damaged in a collision or a -stranding, took refuge in St. Michael, and was condemned there. -Roderick Anthony had connections which would put such paying jobs in -his way. So Flora de Barral had but a five months' voyage, a mere -excursion, for her first trial of sea-life. And Anthony, dearly -trying to be most attentive, had induced this Mrs. Brown, the wife -of his faithful steward, to come along as maid to his bride. But -for some reason or other this arrangement was not continued. And -the mate, tormented by indefinite alarms and forebodings, regretted -it. He regretted that Jane Brown was no longer on board--as a sort -of representative of Captain Anthony's faithful servants, to watch -quietly what went on in that part of the ship this fatal marriage -had closed to their vigilance. That had been excellent. For she -was a dependable woman. - -Powell did not detect any particular excellence in what seemed a -spying employment. But in his simplicity he said that he should -have thought Mrs. Anthony would have been glad anyhow to have -another woman on board. He was thinking of the white-faced girlish -personality which it seemed to him ought to have been cared for. -The innocent young man always looked upon the girl as immature; -something of a child yet. - -"She! glad! Why it was she who had her fired out. She didn't want -anybody around the cabin. Mrs. Brown is certain of it. She told -her husband so. You ask the steward and hear what he has to say -about it. That's why I don't like it. A capable woman who knew her -place. But no. Out she must go. For no fault, mind you. The -captain was ashamed to send her away. But that wife of his--aye the -precious pair of them have got hold of him. I can't speak to him -for a minute on the poop without that thimble-rigging coon coming -gliding up. I'll tell you what. I overheard once--God knows I -didn't try to--only he forgot I was on the other side of the -skylight with my sextant--I overheard him--you know how he sits -hanging over her chair and talking away without properly opening his -mouth--yes I caught the word right enough. He was alluding to the -captain as "the jailer." The jail . . . !" - -Franklin broke off with a profane execration. A silence reigned for -a long time and the slight, very gentle rolling of the ship slipping -before the N.E. trade-wind seemed to be a soothing device for -lulling to sleep the suspicions of men who trust themselves to the -sea. - -A deep sigh was heard followed by the mate's voice asking dismally -if that was the way one would speak of a man to whom one wished -well? No better proof of something wrong was needed. Therefore he -hoped, as he vanished at last, that Mr. Powell would be on their -side. And this time Mr. Powell did not answer this hope with an -embarrassed laugh. - -That young officer was more and more surprised at the nature of the -incongruous revelations coming to him in the surroundings and in the -atmosphere of the open sea. It is difficult for us to understand -the extent, the completeness, the comprehensiveness of his -inexperience, for us who didn't go to sea out of a small private -school at the age of fourteen years and nine months. Leaning on his -elbow in the mizzen rigging and so still that the helmsman over -there at the other end of the poop might have (and he probably did) -suspect him of being criminally asleep on duty, he tried to "get -hold of that thing" by some side which would fit in with his simple -notions of psychology. "What the deuce are they worrying about?" he -asked himself in a dazed and contemptuous impatience. But all the -same "jailer" was a funny name to give a man; unkind, unfriendly, -nasty. He was sorry that Mr. Smith was guilty in that matter -because, the truth must be told, he had been to a certain extent -sensible of having been noticed in a quiet manner by the father of -Mrs. Anthony. Youth appreciates that sort of recognition which is -the subtlest form of flattery age can offer. Mr. Smith seized -opportunities to approach him on deck. His remarks were sometimes -weird and enigmatical. - -He was doubtless an eccentric old gent. But from that to calling -his son-in-law (whom he never approached on deck) nasty names behind -his back was a long step. - -And Mr. Powell marvelled . . . " - -"While he was telling me all this,"--Marlow changed his tone--"I -marvelled even more. It was as if misfortune marked its victims on -the forehead for the dislike of the crowd. I am not thinking here -of numbers. Two men may behave like a crowd, three certainly will -when their emotions are engaged. It was as if the forehead of Flora -de Barral were marked. Was the girl born to be a victim; to be -always disliked and crushed as if she were too fine for this world? -Or too luckless--since that also is often counted as sin. - -Yes, I marvelled more since I knew more of the girl than Mr. Powell- --if only her true name; and more of Captain Anthony--if only the -fact that he was the son of a delicate erotic poet of a markedly -refined and autocratic temperament. Yes, I knew their joint stories -which Mr. Powell did not know. The chapter in it he was opening to -me, the sea-chapter, with such new personages as the sentimental and -apoplectic chief-mate and the morose steward, however astounding to -him in its detached condition was much more so to me as a member of -a series, following the chapter outside the Eastern Hotel in which I -myself had played my part. In view of her declarations and my sage -remarks it was very unexpected. She had meant well, and I had -certainly meant well too. Captain Anthony--as far as I could gather -from little Fyne--had meant well. As far as such lofty words may be -applied to the obscure personages of this story we were all filled -with the noblest sentiments and intentions. The sea was there to -give them the shelter of its solitude free from the earth's petty -suggestions. I could well marvel in myself, as to what had -happened. - -I hope that if he saw it, Mr. Powell forgave me the smile of which I -was guilty at that moment. The light in the cabin of his little -cutter was dim. And the smile was dim too. Dim and fleeting. The -girl's life had presented itself to me as a tragi-comical adventure, -the saddest thing on earth, slipping between frank laughter and -unabashed tears. Yes, the saddest facts and the most common, and, -being common perhaps the most worthy of our unreserved pity. - -The purely human reality is capable of lyrism but not of -abstraction. Nothing will serve for its understanding but the -evidence of rational linking up of characters and facts. And -beginning with Flora de Barral, in the light of my memories I was -certain that she at least must have been passive; for that is of -necessity the part of women, this waiting on fate which some of -them, and not the most intelligent, cover up by the vain appearances -of agitation. Flora de Barral was not exceptionally intelligent but -she was thoroughly feminine. She would be passive (and that does -not mean inanimate) in the circumstances, where the mere fact of -being a woman was enough to give her an occult and supreme -significance. And she would be enduring which is the essence of -woman's visible, tangible power. Of that I was certain. Had she -not endured already? Yet it is so true that the germ of destruction -lies in wait for us mortals, even at the very source of our -strength, that one may die of too much endurance as well as of too -little of it. - -Such was my train of thought. And I was mindful also of my first -view of her--toying or perhaps communing in earnest with the -possibilities of a precipice. But I did not ask Mr. Powell -anxiously what had happened to Mrs. Anthony in the end. I let him -go on in his own way feeling that no matter what strange facts he -would have to disclose, I was certain to know much more of them than -he ever did know or could possibly guess . . . " - -Marlow paused for quite a long time. He seemed uncertain as though -he had advanced something beyond my grasp. Purposely I made no -sign. "You understand?" he asked. - -"Perfectly," I said. "You are the expert in the psychological -wilderness. This is like one of those Red-skin stories where the -noble savages carry off a girl and the honest backwoodsman with his -incomparable knowledge follows the track and reads the signs of her -fate in a footprint here, a broken twig there, a trinket dropped by -the way. I have always liked such stories. Go on." - -Marlow smiled indulgently at my jesting. "It is not exactly a story -for boys," he said. "I go on then. The sign, as you call it, was -not very plentiful but very much to the purpose, and when Mr. Powell -heard (at a certain moment I felt bound to tell him) when he heard -that I had known Mrs. Anthony before her marriage, that, to a -certain extent, I was her confidant . . . For you can't deny that to -a certain extent . . . Well let us say that I had a look in . . . A -young girl, you know, is something like a temple. You pass by and -wonder what mysterious rites are going on in there, what prayers, -what visions? The privileged men, the lover, the husband, who are -given the key of the sanctuary do not always know how to use it. -For myself, without claim, without merit, simply by chance I had -been allowed to look through the half-opened door and I had seen the -saddest possible desecration, the withered brightness of youth, a -spirit neither made cringing nor yet dulled but as if bewildered in -quivering hopelessness by gratuitous cruelty; self-confidence -destroyed and, instead, a resigned recklessness, a mournful -callousness (and all this simple, almost naive)--before the material -and moral difficulties of the situation. The passive anguish of the -luckless! - -I asked myself: wasn't that ill-luck exhausted yet? Ill-luck which -is like the hate of invisible powers interpreted, made sensible and -injurious by the actions of men? - -Mr. Powell as you may well imagine had opened his eyes at my -statement. But he was full of his recalled experiences on board the -Ferndale, and the strangeness of being mixed up in what went on -aboard, simply because his name was also the name of a shipping- -master, kept him in a state of wonder which made other coincidences, -however unlikely, not so very surprising after all. - -This astonishing occurrence was so present to his mind that he -always felt as though he were there under false pretences. And this -feeling was so uncomfortable that it nerved him to break through the -awe-inspiring aloofness of his captain. He wanted to make a clean -breast of it. I imagine that his youth stood in good stead to Mr. -Powell. Oh, yes. Youth is a power. Even Captain Anthony had to -take some notice of it, as if it refreshed him to see something -untouched, unscarred, unhardened by suffering. Or perhaps the very -novelty of that face, on board a ship where he had seen the same -faces for years, attracted his attention. - -Whether one day he dropped a word to his new second officer or only -looked at him I don't know; but Mr. Powell seized the opportunity -whatever it was. The captain who had started and stopped in his -everlasting rapid walk smoothed his brow very soon, heard him to the -end and then laughed a little. - -"Ah! That's the story. And you felt you must put me right as to -this." - -"Yes, sir." - -"It doesn't matter how you came on board," said Anthony. And then -showing that perhaps he was not so utterly absent from his ship as -Franklin supposed: "That's all right. You seem to be getting on -very well with everybody," he said in his curt hurried tone, as if -talking hurt him, and his eyes already straying over the sea as -usual. - -"Yes, sir." - -Powell tells me that looking then at the strong face to which that -haggard expression was returning, he had the impulse, from some -confused friendly feeling, to add: "I am very happy on board here, -sir." - -The quickly returning glance, its steadiness, abashed Mr. Powell and -made him even step back a little. The captain looked as though he -had forgotten the meaning of the word. - -"You--what? Oh yes . . . You . . . of course . . . Happy. Why -not?" - -This was merely muttered; and next moment Anthony was off on his -headlong tramp his eyes turned to the sea away from his ship. - -A sailor indeed looks generally into the great distances, but in -Captain Anthony's case there was--as Powell expressed it--something -particular, something purposeful like the avoidance of pain or -temptation. It was very marked once one had become aware of it. -Before, one felt only a pronounced strangeness. Not that the -captain--Powell was careful to explain--didn't see things as a ship- -master should. The proof of it was that on that very occasion he -desired him suddenly after a period of silent pacing, to have all -the staysails sheets eased off, and he was going on with some other -remarks on the subject of these staysails when Mrs. Anthony followed -by her father emerged from the companion. She established herself -in her chair to leeward of the skylight as usual. Thereupon the -captain cut short whatever he was going to say, and in a little -while went down below. - -I asked Mr. Powell whether the captain and his wife never conversed -on deck. He said no--or at any rate they never exchanged more than -a couple of words. There was some constraint between them. For -instance, on that very occasion, when Mrs. Anthony came out they did -look at each other; the captain's eyes indeed followed her till she -sat down; but he did not speak to her; he did not approach her; and -afterwards left the deck without turning his head her way after this -first silent exchange of glances. - -I asked Mr. Powell what did he do then, the captain being out of the -way. "I went over and talked to Mrs. Anthony. I was thinking that -it must be very dull for her. She seemed to be such a stranger to -the ship." - -"The father was there of course?" - -"Always," said Powell. "He was always there sitting on the -skylight, as if he were keeping watch over her. And I think," he -added, "that he was worrying her. Not that she showed it in any -way. Mrs. Anthony was always very quiet and always ready to look -one straight in the face." - -"You talked together a lot?" I pursued my inquiries. "She mostly -let me talk to her," confessed Mr. Powell. "I don't know that she -was very much interested--but still she let me. She never cut me -short." - -All the sympathies of Mr. Powell were for Flora Anthony nee de -Barral. She was the only human being younger than himself on board -that ship since the Ferndale carried no boys and was manned by a -full crew of able seamen. Yes! their youth had created a sort of -bond between them. Mr. Powell's open countenance must have appeared -to her distinctly pleasing amongst the mature, rough, crabbed or -even inimical faces she saw around her. With the warm generosity of -his age young Powell was on her side, as it were, even before he -knew that there were sides to be taken on board that ship, and what -this taking sides was about. There was a girl. A nice girl. He -asked himself no questions. Flora de Barral was not so much younger -in years than himself; but for some reason, perhaps by contrast with -the accepted idea of a captain's wife, he could not regard her -otherwise but as an extremely youthful creature. At the same time, -apart from her exalted position, she exercised over him the -supremacy a woman's earlier maturity gives her over a young man of -her own age. As a matter of fact we can see that, without ever -having more than a half an hour's consecutive conversation together, -and the distances duly preserved, these two were becoming friends-- -under the eye of the old man, I suppose. - -How he first got in touch with his captain's wife Powell relates in -this way. It was long before his memorable conversation with the -mate and shortly after getting clear of the channel. It was gloomy -weather; dead head wind, blowing quite half a gale; the Ferndale -under reduced sail was stretching close-hauled across the track of -the homeward bound ships, just moving through the water and no more, -since there was no object in pressing her and the weather looked -threatening. About ten o'clock at night he was alone on the poop, -in charge, keeping well aft by the weather rail and staring to -windward, when amongst the white, breaking seas, under the black -sky, he made out the lights of a ship. He watched them for some -time. She was running dead before the wind of course. She will -pass jolly close--he said to himself; and then suddenly he felt a -great mistrust of that approaching ship. She's heading straight for -us--he thought. It was not his business to get out of the way. On -the contrary. And his uneasiness grew by the recollection of the -forty tons of dynamite in the body of the Ferndale; not the sort of -cargo one thinks of with equanimity in connection with a threatened -collision. He gazed at the two small lights in the dark immensity -filled with the angry noise of the seas. They fascinated him till -their plainness to his sight gave him a conviction that there was -danger there. He knew in his mind what to do in the emergency, but -very properly he felt that he must call the captain out at once. - -He crossed the deck in one bound. By the immemorial custom and -usage of the sea the captain's room is on the starboard side. You -would just as soon expect your captain to have his nose at the back -of his head as to have his stateroom on the port side of the ship. -Powell forgot all about the direction on that point given him by the -chief. He flew over as I said, stamped with his foot and then -putting his face to the cowl of the big ventilator shouted down -there: "Please come on deck, sir," in a voice which was not -trembling or scared but which we may call fairly expressive. There -could not be a mistake as to the urgence of the call. But instead -of the expected alert "All right!" and the sound of a rush down -there, he heard only a faint exclamation--then silence. - -Think of his astonishment! He remained there, his ear in the cowl -of the ventilator, his eyes fastened on those menacing sidelights -dancing on the gusts of wind which swept the angry darkness of the -sea. It was as though he had waited an hour but it was something -much less than a minute before he fairly bellowed into the wide tube -"Captain Anthony!" An agitated "What is it?" was what he heard down -there in Mrs. Anthony's voice, light rapid footsteps . . . Why -didn't she try to wake him up! "I want the captain," he shouted, -then gave it up, making a dash at the companion where a blue light -was kept, resolved to act for himself. - -On the way he glanced at the helmsman whose face lighted up by the -binnacle lamps was calm. He said rapidly to him: "Stand by to spin -that helm up at the first word." The answer "Aye, aye, sir," was -delivered in a steady voice. Then Mr. Powell after a shout for the -watch on deck to "lay aft," ran to the ship's side and struck the -blue light on the rail. - -A sort of nasty little spitting of sparks was all that came. The -light (perhaps affected by damp) had failed to ignite. The time of -all these various acts must be counted in seconds. Powell confessed -to me that at this failure he experienced a paralysis of thought, of -voice, of limbs. The unexpectedness of this misfire positively -overcame his faculties. It was the only thing for which his -imagination was not prepared. It was knocked clean over. When it -got up it was with the suggestion that he must do something at once -or there would be a broadside smash accompanied by the explosion of -dynamite, in which both ships would be blown up and every soul on -board of them would vanish off the earth in an enormous flame and -uproar. - -He saw the catastrophe happening and at the same moment, before he -could open his mouth or stir a limb to ward off the vision, a voice -very near his ear, the measured voice of Captain Anthony said: -"Wouldn't light--eh? Throw it down! Jump for the flare-up." - -The spring of activity in Mr. Powell was released with great force. -He jumped. The flare-up was kept inside the companion with a box of -matches ready to hand. Almost before he knew he had moved he was -diving under the companion slide. He got hold of the can in the -dark and tried to strike a light. But he had to press the flare- -holder to his breast with one arm, his fingers were damp and stiff, -his hands trembled a little. One match broke. Another went out. -In its flame he saw the colourless face of Mrs. Anthony a little -below him, standing on the cabin stairs. Her eyes which were very -close to his (he was in a crouching posture on the top step) seemed -to burn darkly in the vanishing light. On deck the captain's voice -was heard sudden and unexpectedly sardonic: "You had better look -sharp, if you want to be in time." - -"Let me have the box," said Mrs. Anthony in a hurried and familiar -whisper which sounded amused as if they had been a couple of -children up to some lark behind a wall. He was glad of the offer -which seemed to him very natural, and without ceremony - - -"Here you are. Catch hold." - -Their hands touched in the dark and she took the box while he held -the paraffin soaked torch in its iron holder. He thought of warning -her: "Look out for yourself." But before he had the time to finish -the sentence the flare blazed up violently between them and he saw -her throw herself back with an arm across her face. "Hallo," he -exclaimed; only he could not stop a moment to ask if she was hurt. -He bolted out of the companion straight into his captain who took -the flare from him and held it high above his head. - -The fierce flame fluttered like a silk flag, throwing an angry -swaying glare mingled with moving shadows over the poop, lighting up -the concave surfaces of the sails, gleaming on the wet paint of the -white rails. And young Powell turned his eyes to windward with a -catch in his breath. - -The strange ship, a darker shape in the night, did not seem to be -moving onwards but only to grow more distinct right abeam, staring -at the Ferndale with one green and one red eye which swayed and -tossed as if they belonged to the restless head of some invisible -monster ambushed in the night amongst the waves. A moment, long -like eternity, elapsed, and, suddenly, the monster which seemed to -take to itself the shape of a mountain shut its green eye without as -much as a preparatory wink. - -Mr. Powell drew a free breath. "All right now," said Captain -Anthony in a quiet undertone. He gave the blazing flare to Powell -and walked aft to watch the passing of that menace of destruction -coming blindly with its parti-coloured stare out of a blind night on -the wings of a sweeping wind. Her very form could be distinguished -now black and elongated amongst the hissing patches of foam bursting -along her path. - -As is always the case with a ship running before wind and sea she -did not seem to an onlooker to move very fast; but to be progressing -indolently in long leisurely bounds and pauses in the midst of the -overtaking waves. It was only when actually passing the stern -within easy hail of the Ferndale, that her headlong speed became -apparent to the eye. With the red light shut off and soaring like -an immense shadow on the crest of a wave she was lost to view in one -great, forward swing, melting into the lightless space. - -"Close shave," said Captain Anthony in an indifferent voice just -raised enough to be heard in the wind. "A blind lot on board that -ship. Put out the flare now." - -Silently Mr. Powell inverted the holder, smothering the flame in the -can, bringing about by the mere turn of his wrist the fall of -darkness upon the poop. And at the same time vanished out of his -mind's eye the vision of another flame enormous and fierce shooting -violently from a white churned patch of the sea, lighting up the -very clouds and carrying upwards in its volcanic rush flying spars, -corpses, the fragments of two destroyed ships. It vanished and -there was an immense relief. He told me he did not know how scared -he had been, not generally but of that very thing his imagination -had conjured, till it was all over. He measured it (for fear is a -great tension) by the feeling of slack weariness which came over him -all at once. - -He walked to the companion and stooping low to put the flare in its -usual place saw in the darkness the motionless pale oval of Mrs. -Anthony's face. She whispered quietly: - -"Is anything going to happen? What is it?" - -"It's all over now," he whispered back. - -He remained bent low, his head inside the cover staring at that -white ghostly oval. He wondered she had not rushed out on deck. -She had remained quietly there. This was pluck. Wonderful self- -restraint. And it was not stupidity on her part. She knew there -was imminent danger and probably had some notion of its nature. - -"You stayed here waiting for what would come," he murmured -admiringly. - -"Wasn't that the best thing to do?" she asked. - -He didn't know. Perhaps. He confessed he could not have done it. -Not he. His flesh and blood could not have stood it. He would have -felt he must see what was coming. Then he remembered that the flare -might have scorched her face, and expressed his concern. - -"A bit. Nothing to hurt. Smell the singed hair?" - -There was a sort of gaiety in her tone. She might have been -frightened but she certainly was not overcome and suffered from no -reaction. This confirmed and augmented if possible Mr. Powell's -good opinion of her as a "jolly girl," though it seemed to him -positively monstrous to refer in such terms to one's captain's wife. -"But she doesn't look it," he thought in extenuation and was going -to say something more to her about the lighting of that flare when -another voice was heard in the companion, saying some indistinct -words. Its tone was contemptuous; it came from below, from the -bottom of the stairs. It was a voice in the cabin. And the only -other voice which could be heard in the main cabin at this time of -the evening was the voice of Mrs. Anthony's father. The indistinct -white oval sank from Mr. Powell's sight so swiftly as to take him by -surprise. For a moment he hung at the opening of the companion and -now that her slight form was no longer obstructing the narrow and -winding staircase the voices came up louder but the words were still -indistinct. The old gentleman was excited about something and Mrs. -Anthony was "managing him" as Powell expressed it. They moved away -from the bottom of the stairs and Powell went away from the -companion. Yet he fancied he had heard the words "Lost to me" -before he withdrew his head. They had been uttered by Mr. Smith. - -Captain Anthony had not moved away from the taffrail. He remained -in the very position he took up to watch the other ship go by -rolling and swinging all shadowy in the uproar of the following -seas. He stirred not; and Powell keeping near by did not dare speak -to him, so enigmatical in its contemplation of the night did his -figure appear to his young eyes: indistinct--and in its immobility -staring into gloom, the prey of some incomprehensible grief, longing -or regret. - -Why is it that the stillness of a human being is often so -impressive, so suggestive of evil--as if our proper fate were a -ceaseless agitation? The stillness of Captain Anthony became almost -intolerable to his second officer. Mr. Powell loitering about the -skylight wanted his captain off the deck now. "Why doesn't he go -below?" he asked himself impatiently. He ventured a cough. - -Whether the effect of the cough or not Captain Anthony spoke. He -did not move the least bit. With his back remaining turned to the -whole length of the ship he asked Mr. Powell with some brusqueness -if the chief mate had neglected to instruct him that the captain was -to be found on the port side. - -"Yes, sir," said Mr. Powell approaching his back. "The mate told me -to stamp on the port side when I wanted you; but I didn't remember -at the moment." - -"You should remember," the captain uttered with an effort. Then -added mumbling "I don't want Mrs. Anthony frightened. Don't you -see? . . ." - -"She wasn't this time," Powell said innocently: "She lighted the -flare-up for me, sir." - -"This time," Captain Anthony exclaimed and turned round. "Mrs. -Anthony lighted the flare? Mrs. Anthony! . . . " Powell explained -that she was in the companion all the time. - -"All the time," repeated the captain. It seemed queer to Powell -that instead of going himself to see the captain should ask him: - -"Is she there now?" - -Powell said that she had gone below after the ship had passed clear -of the Ferndale. Captain Anthony made a movement towards the -companion himself, when Powell added the information. "Mr. Smith -called to Mrs. Anthony from the saloon, sir. I believe they are -talking there now." - -He was surprised to see the captain give up the idea of going below -after all. - -He began to walk the poop instead regardless of the cold, of the -damp wind and of the sprays. And yet he had nothing on but his -sleeping suit and slippers. Powell placing himself on the break of -the poop kept a look-out. When after some time he turned his head -to steal a glance at his eccentric captain he could not see his -active and shadowy figure swinging to and fro. The second mate of -the Ferndale walked aft peering about and addressed the seaman who -steered. - -"Captain gone below?" - -"Yes, sir," said the fellow who with a quid of tobacco bulging out -his left cheek kept his eyes on the compass card. "This minute. He -laughed." - -"Laughed," repeated Powell incredulously. "Do you mean the captain -did? You must be mistaken. What would he want to laugh for?" - -"Don't know, sir." - -The elderly sailor displayed a profound indifference towards human -emotions. However, after a longish pause he conceded a few words -more to the second officer's weakness. "Yes. He was walking the -deck as usual when suddenly he laughed a little and made for the -companion. Thought of something funny all at once." - -Something funny! That Mr. Powell could not believe. He did not ask -himself why, at the time. Funny thoughts come to men, though, in -all sorts of situations; they come to all sorts of men. -Nevertheless Mr. Powell was shocked to learn that Captain Anthony -had laughed without visible cause on a certain night. The -impression for some reason was disagreeable. And it was then, while -finishing his watch, with the chilly gusts of wind sweeping at him -out of the darkness where the short sea of the soundings growled -spitefully all round the ship, that it occurred to his -unsophisticated mind that perhaps things are not what they are -confidently expected to be; that it was possible that Captain -Anthony was not a happy man . . . In so far you will perceive he was -to a certain extent prepared for the apoplectic and sensitive -Franklin's lamentations about his captain. And though he treated -them with a contempt which was in a great measure sincere, yet he -admitted to me that deep down within him an inexplicable and uneasy -suspicion that all was not well in that cabin, so unusually cut off -from the rest of the ship, came into being and grew against his -will. - - - -CHAPTER FOUR--ANTHONY AND FLORA - - - -Marlow emerged out of the shadow of the book-case to get himself a -cigar from a box which stood on a little table by my side. In the -full light of the room I saw in his eyes that slightly mocking -expression with which he habitually covers up his sympathetic -impulses of mirth and pity before the unreasonable complications the -idealism of mankind puts into the simple but poignant problem of -conduct on this earth. - -He selected and lit the cigar with affected care, then turned upon -me, I had been looking at him silently. - -"I suppose," he said, the mockery of his eyes giving a pellucid -quality to his tone, "that you think it's high time I told you -something definite. I mean something about that psychological cabin -mystery of discomfort (for it's obvious that it must be -psychological) which affected so profoundly Mr. Franklin the chief -mate, and had even disturbed the serene innocence of Mr. Powell, the -second of the ship Ferndale, commanded by Roderick Anthony--the son -of the poet, you know." - -"You are going to confess now that you have failed to find it out," -I said in pretended indignation. - -"It would serve you right if I told you that I have. But I won't. -I haven't failed. I own though that for a time, I was puzzled. -However, I have now seen our Powell many times under the most -favourable conditions--and besides I came upon a most unexpected -source of information . . . But never mind that. The means don't -concern you except in so far as they belong to the story. I'll -admit that for some time the old-maiden-lady-like occupation of -putting two and two together failed to procure a coherent theory. I -am speaking now as an investigator--a man of deductions. With what -we know of Roderick Anthony and Flora de Barral I could not deduct -an ordinary marital quarrel beautifully matured in less than a year- --could I? If you ask me what is an ordinary marital quarrel I will -tell you, that it is a difference about nothing; I mean, these -nothings which, as Mr. Powell told us when we first met him, shore -people are so prone to start a row about, and nurse into hatred from -an idle sense of wrong, from perverted ambition, for spectacular -reasons too. There are on earth no actors too humble and obscure -not to have a gallery; that gallery which envenoms the play by -stealthy jeers, counsels of anger, amused comments or words of -perfidious compassion. However, the Anthonys were free from all -demoralizing influences. At sea, you know, there is no gallery. -You hear no tormenting echoes of your own littleness there, where -either a great elemental voice roars defiantly under the sky or else -an elemental silence seems to be part of the infinite stillness of -the universe. - -Remembering Flora de Barral in the depths of moral misery, and -Roderick Anthony carried away by a gust of tempestuous tenderness, I -asked myself, Is it all forgotten already? What could they have -found to estrange them from each other with this rapidity and this -thoroughness so far from all temptations, in the peace of the sea -and in an isolation so complete that if it had not been the jealous -devotion of the sentimental Franklin stimulating the attention of -Powell, there would have been no record, no evidence of it at all. - -I must confess at once that it was Flora de Barral whom I suspected. -In this world as at present organized women are the suspected half -of the population. There are good reasons for that. These reasons -are so discoverable with a little reflection that it is not worth my -while to set them out for you. I will only mention this: that the -part falling to women's share being all "influence" has an air of -occult and mysterious action, something not altogether trustworthy -like all natural forces which, for us, work in the dark because of -our imperfect comprehension. - -If women were not a force of nature, blind in its strength and -capricious in its power, they would not be mistrusted. As it is one -can't help it. You will say that this force having been in the -person of Flora de Barral captured by Anthony . . . Why yes. He had -dealt with her masterfully. But man has captured electricity too. -It lights him on his way, it warms his home, it will even cook his -dinner for him--very much like a woman. But what sort of conquest -would you call it? He knows nothing of it. He has got to be mighty -careful what he is about with his captive. And the greater the -demand he makes on it in the exultation of his pride the more likely -it is to turn on him and burn him to a cinder . . . " - -"A far-fetched enough parallel," I observed coldly to Marlow. He -had returned to the arm-chair in the shadow of the bookcase. "But -accepting the meaning you have in your mind it reduces itself to the -knowledge of how to use it. And if you mean that this ravenous -Anthony--" - -"Ravenous is good," interrupted Marlow. "He was a-hungering and a- -thirsting for femininity to enter his life in a way no mere feminist -could have the slightest conception of. I reckon that this accounts -for much of Fyne's disgust with him. Good little Fyne. You have no -idea what infernal mischief he had worked during his call at the -hotel. But then who could have suspected Anthony of being a heroic -creature. There are several kinds of heroism and one of them at -least is idiotic. It is the one which wears the aspect of sublime -delicacy. It is apparently the one of which the son of the delicate -poet was capable. - -He certainly resembled his father, who, by the way, wore out two -women without any satisfaction to himself, because they did not come -up to his supra-refined standard of the delicacy which is so -perceptible in his verses. That's your poet. He demands too much -from others. The inarticulate son had set up a standard for himself -with that need for embodying in his conduct the dreams, the passion, -the impulses the poet puts into arrangements of verses, which are -dearer to him than his own self--and may make his own self appear -sublime in the eyes of other people, and even in his own eyes. - -Did Anthony wish to appear sublime in his own eyes? I should not -like to make that charge; though indeed there are other, less noble, -ambitions at which the world does not dare to smile. But I don't -think so; I do not even think that there was in what he did a -conscious and lofty confidence in himself, a particularly pronounced -sense of power which leads men so often into impossible or equivocal -situations. Looked at abstractedly (the way in which truth is often -seen in its real shape) his life had been a life of solitude and -silence--and desire. - -Chance had thrown that girl in his way; and if we may smile at his -violent conquest of Flora de Barral we must admit also that this -eager appropriation was truly the act of a man of solitude and -desire; a man also, who, unless a complete imbecile, must have been -a man of long and ardent reveries wherein the faculty of sincere -passion matures slowly in the unexplored recesses of the heart. And -I know also that a passion, dominating or tyrannical, invading the -whole man and subjugating all his faculties to its own unique end, -may conduct him whom it spurs and drives, into all sorts of -adventures, to the brink of unfathomable dangers, to the limits of -folly, and madness, and death. - -To the man then of a silence made only more impressive by the -inarticulate thunders and mutters of the great seas, an utter -stranger to the clatter of tongues, there comes the muscular little -Fyne, the most marked representative of that mankind whose voice is -so strange to him, the husband of his sister, a personality standing -out from the misty and remote multitude. He comes and throws at him -more talk than he had ever heard boomed out in an hour, and -certainly touching the deepest things Anthony had ever discovered in -himself, and flings words like "unfair" whose very sound is -abhorrent to him. Unfair! Undue advantage! He! Unfair to that -girl? Cruel to her! - -No scorn could stand against the impression of such charges advanced -with heat and conviction. They shook him. They were yet vibrating -in the air of that stuffy hotel-room, terrific, disturbing, -impossible to get rid of, when the door opened and Flora de Barral -entered. - -He did not even notice that she was late. He was sitting on a sofa -plunged in gloom. Was it true? Having himself always said exactly -what he meant he imagined that people (unless they were liars, which -of course his brother-in-law could not be) never said more than they -meant. The deep chest voice of little Fyne was still in his ear. -"He knows," Anthony said to himself. He thought he had better go -away and never see her again. But she stood there before him -accusing and appealing. How could he abandon her? That was out of -the question. She had no one. Or rather she had someone. That -father. Anthony was willing to take him at her valuation. This -father may have been the victim of the most atrocious injustice. -But what could a man coming out of jail do? An old man too. And -then--what sort of man? What would become of them both? Anthony -shuddered slightly and the faint smile with which Flora had entered -the room faded on her lips. She was used to his impetuous -tenderness. She was no longer afraid of it. But she had never seen -him look like this before, and she suspected at once some new -cruelty of life. He got up with his usual ardour but as if sobered -by a momentous resolve and said: - -"No. I can't let you out of my sight. I have seen you. You have -told me your story. You are honest. You have never told me you -loved me." - -She waited, saying to herself that he had never given her time, that -he had never asked her! And that, in truth, she did not know! - -I am inclined to believe that she did not. As abundance of -experience is not precisely her lot in life, a woman is seldom an -expert in matters of sentiment. It is the man who can and generally -does "see himself" pretty well inside and out. Women's self- -possession is an outward thing; inwardly they flutter, perhaps -because they are, or they feel themselves to be, engaged. All this -speaking generally. In Flora de Barral's particular case ever since -Anthony had suddenly broken his way into her hopeless and cruel -existence she lived like a person liberated from a condemned cell by -a natural cataclysm, a tempest, an earthquake; not absolutely -terrified, because nothing can be worse than the eve of execution, -but stunned, bewildered--abandoning herself passively. She did not -want to make a sound, to move a limb. She hadn't the strength. -What was the good? And deep down, almost unconsciously she was -seduced by the feeling of being supported by this violence. A -sensation she had never experienced before in her life. - -She felt as if this whirlwind were calming down somehow! As if this -feeling of support, which was tempting her to close her eyes -deliciously and let herself be carried on and on into the unknown -undefiled by vile experiences, were less certain, had wavered -threateningly. She tried to read something in his face, in that -energetic kindly face to which she had become accustomed so soon. -But she was not yet capable of understanding its expression. -Scared, discouraged on the threshold of adolescence, plunged in -moral misery of the bitterest kind, she had not learned to read--not -that sort of language. - -If Anthony's love had been as egoistic as love generally is, it -would have been greater than the egoism of his vanity--or of his -generosity, if you like--and all this could not have happened. He -would not have hit upon that renunciation at which one does not know -whether to grin or shudder. It is true too that then his love would -not have fastened itself upon the unhappy daughter of de Barral. -But it was a love born of that rare pity which is not akin to -contempt because rooted in an overwhelmingly strong capacity for -tenderness--the tenderness of the fiery kind--the tenderness of -silent solitary men, the voluntary, passionate outcasts of their -kind. At the time I am forced to think that his vanity must have -been enormous. - -"What big eyes she has," he said to himself amazed. No wonder. She -was staring at him with all the might of her soul awakening slowly -from a poisoned sleep, in which it could only quiver with pain but -could neither expand nor move. He plunged into them breathless and -tense, deep, deep, like a mad sailor taking a desperate dive from -the masthead into the blue unfathomable sea so many men have -execrated and loved at the same time. And his vanity was immense. -It had been touched to the quick by that muscular little feminist, -Fyne. "I! I! Take advantage of her helplessness. I! Unfair to -that creature--that wisp of mist, that white shadow homeless in an -ugly dirty world. I could blow her away with a breath," he was -saying to himself with horror. "Never!" All the supremely refined -delicacy of tenderness, expressed in so many fine lines of verse by -Carleon Anthony, grew to the size of a passion filling with inward -sobs the big frame of the man who had never in his life read a -single one of those famous sonnets singing of the most highly -civilized, chivalrous love, of those sonnets which . . . You know -there's a volume of them. My edition has the portrait of the author -at thirty, and when I showed it to Mr. Powell the other day he -exclaimed: "Wonderful! One would think this the portrait of -Captain Anthony himself if . . ." I wanted to know what that if -was. But Powell could not say. There was something--a difference. -No doubt there was--in fineness perhaps. The father, fastidious, -cerebral, morbidly shrinking from all contacts, could only sing in -harmonious numbers of what the son felt with a dumb and reckless -sincerity. - - -Possessed by most strong men's touching illusion as to the frailness -of women and their spiritual fragility, it seemed to Anthony that he -would be destroying, breaking something very precious inside that -being. In fact nothing less than partly murdering her. This seems -a very extreme effect to flow from Fyne's words. But Anthony, -unaccustomed to the chatter of the firm earth, never stayed to ask -himself what value these words could have in Fyne's mouth. And -indeed the mere dark sound of them was utterly abhorrent to his -native rectitude, sea-salted, hardened in the winds of wide -horizons, open as the day. - -He wished to blurt out his indignation but she regarded him with an -expectant air which checked him. His visible discomfort made her -uneasy. He could only repeat "Oh yes. You are perfectly honest. -You might have, but I dare say you are right. At any rate you have -never said anything to me which you didn't mean." - -"Never," she whispered after a pause. - -He seemed distracted, choking with an emotion she could not -understand because it resembled embarrassment, a state of mind -inconceivable in that man. - -She wondered what it was she had said; remembering that in very -truth she had hardly spoken to him except when giving him the bare -outline of her story which he seemed to have hardly had the patience -to hear, waving it perpetually aside with exclamations of horror and -anger, with fiercely sombre mutters "Enough! Enough!" and with -alarming starts from a forced stillness, as though he meant to rush -out at once and take vengeance on somebody. She was saying to -herself that he caught her words in the air, never letting her -finish her thought. Honest. Honest. Yes certainly she had been -that. Her letter to Mrs. Fyne had been prompted by honesty. But -she reflected sadly that she had never known what to say to him. -That perhaps she had nothing to say. - -"But you'll find out that I can be honest too," he burst out in a -menacing tone, she had learned to appreciate with an amused thrill. - -She waited for what was coming. But he hung in the wind. He looked -round the room with disgust as if he could see traces on the walls -of all the casual tenants that had ever passed through it. People -had quarrelled in that room; they had been ill in it, there had been -misery in that room, wickedness, crime perhaps--death most likely. -This was not a fit place. He snatched up his hat. He had made up -his mind. The ship--the ship he had known ever since she came off -the stocks, his home--her shelter--the uncontaminated, honest ship, -was the place. - -"Let us go on board. We'll talk there," he said. "And you will -have to listen to me. For whatever happens, no matter what they -say, I cannot let you go." - -You can't say that (misgivings or no misgivings) she could have done -anything else but go on board. It was the appointed business of -that morning. During the drive he was silent. Anthony was the last -man to condemn conventionally any human being, to scorn and despise -even deserved misfortune. He was ready to take old de Barral--the -convict--on his daughter's valuation without the slightest reserve. -But love like his, though it may drive one into risky folly by the -proud consciousness of its own strength, has a sagacity of its own. -And now, as if lifted up into a higher and serene region by its -purpose of renunciation, it gave him leisure to reflect for the -first time in these last few days. He said to himself: "I don't -know that man. She does not know him either. She was barely -sixteen when they locked him up. She was a child. What will he -say? What will he do? No, he concluded, I cannot leave her behind -with that man who would come into the world as if out of a grave. - -They went on board in silence, and it was after showing her round -and when they had returned to the saloon that he assailed her in his -fiery, masterful fashion. At first she did not understand. Then -when she understood that he was giving her her liberty she went -stiff all over, her hand resting on the edge of the table, her face -set like a carving of white marble. It was all over. It was as -that abominable governess had said. She was insignificant, -contemptible. Nobody could love her. Humiliation clung to her like -a cold shroud--never to be shaken off, unwarmed by this madness of -generosity. - -"Yes. Here. Your home. I can't give it to you and go away, but it -is big enough for us two. You need not be afraid. If you say so I -shall not even look at you. Remember that grey head of which you -have been thinking night and day. Where is it going to rest? Where -else if not here, where nothing evil can touch it. Don't you -understand that I won't let you buy shelter from me at the cost of -your very soul. I won't. You are too much part of me. I have -found myself since I came upon you and I would rather sell my own -soul to the devil than let you go out of my keeping. But I must -have the right." - -He went away brusquely to shut the door leading on deck and came -back the whole length of the cabin repeating: - -"I must have the legal right. Are you ashamed of letting people -think you are my wife?" - -He opened his arms as if to clasp her to his breast but mastered the -impulse and shook his clenched hands at her, repeating: "I must -have the right if only for your father's sake. I must have the -right. Where would you take him? To that infernal cardboard box- -maker. I don't know what keeps me from hunting him up in his -virtuous home and bashing his head in. I can't bear the thought. -Listen to me, Flora! Do you hear what I am saying to you? You are -not so proud that you can't understand that I as a man have my pride -too?" - -He saw a tear glide down her white cheek from under each lowered -eyelid. Then, abruptly, she walked out of the cabin. He stood for -a moment, concentrated, reckoning his own strength, interrogating -his heart, before he followed her hastily. Already she had reached -the wharf. - -At the sound of his pursuing footsteps her strength failed her. -Where could she escape from this? From this new perfidy of life -taking upon itself the form of magnanimity. His very voice was -changed. The sustaining whirlwind had let her down, to stumble on -again, weakened by the fresh stab, bereft of moral support which is -wanted in life more than all the charities of material help. She -had never had it. Never. Not from the Fynes. But where to go? Oh -yes, this dock--a placid sheet of water close at hand. But there -was that old man with whom she had walked hand in hand on the parade -by the sea. She seemed to see him coming to meet her, pitiful, a -little greyer, with an appealing look and an extended, tremulous -arm. It was for her now to take the hand of that wronged man more -helpless than a child. But where could she lead him? Where? And -what was she to say to him? What words of cheer, of courage and of -hope? There were none. Heaven and earth were mute, unconcerned at -their meeting. But this other man was coming up behind her. He was -very close now. His fiery person seemed to radiate heat, a tingling -vibration into the atmosphere. She was exhausted, careless, afraid -to stumble, ready to fall. She fancied she could hear his -breathing. A wave of languid warmth overtook her, she seemed to -lose touch with the ground under her feet; and when she felt him -slip his hand under her arm she made no attempt to disengage herself -from that grasp which closed upon her limb, insinuating and firm. - -He conducted her through the dangers of the quayside. Her sight was -dim. A moving truck was like a mountain gliding by. Men passed by -as if in a mist; and the buildings, the sheds, the unexpected open -spaces, the ships, had strange, distorted, dangerous shapes. She -said to herself that it was good not to be bothered with what all -these things meant in the scheme of creation (if indeed anything had -a meaning), or were just piled-up matter without any sense. She -felt how she had always been unrelated to this world. She was -hanging on to it merely by that one arm grasped firmly just above -the elbow. It was a captivity. So be it. Till they got out into -the street and saw the hansom waiting outside the gates Anthony -spoke only once, beginning brusquely but in a much gentler tone than -she had ever heard from his lips. - -"Of course I ought to have known that you could not care for a man -like me, a stranger. Silence gives consent. Yes? Eh? I don't -want any of that sort of consent. And unless some day you find you -can speak . . . No! No! I shall never ask you. For all the sign I -will give you you may go to your grave with sealed lips. But what I -have said you must do!" - -He bent his head over her with tender care. At the same time she -felt her arm pressed and shaken inconspicuously, but in an -undeniable manner. "You must do it." A little shake that no -passer-by could notice; and this was going on in a deserted part of -the dock. "It must be done. You are listening to me--eh? or would -you go again to my sister?" - -His ironic tone, perhaps from want of use, had an awful grating -ferocity. - -"Would you go to her?" he pursued in the same strange voice. "Your -best friend! And say nicely--I am sorry. Would you? No! You -couldn't. There are things that even you, poor dear lost girl, -couldn't stand. Eh? Die rather. That's it. Of course. Or can -you be thinking of taking your father to that infernal cousin's -house. No! Don't speak. I can't bear to think of it. I would -follow you there and smash the door!" - -The catch in his voice astonished her by its resemblance to a sob. -It frightened her too. The thought that came to her head was: "He -mustn't." He was putting her into the hansom. "Oh! He mustn't, he -mustn't." She was still more frightened by the discovery that he -was shaking all over. Bewildered, shrinking into the far off -corner, avoiding his eyes, she yet saw the quivering of his mouth -and made a wild attempt at a smile, which broke the rigidity of her -lips and set her teeth chattering suddenly. - -"I am not coming with you," he was saying. "I'll tell the man . . . -I can't. Better not. What is it? Are you cold? Come! What is -it? Only to go to a confounded stuffy room, a hole of an office. -Not a quarter of an hour. I'll come for you--in ten days. Don't -think of it too much. Think of no man, woman or child of all that -silly crowd cumbering the ground. Don't think of me either. Think -of yourself. Ha! Nothing will be able to touch you then--at last. -Say nothing. Don't move. I'll have everything arranged; and as -long as you don't hate the sight of me--and you don't--there's -nothing to be frightened about. One of their silly offices with a -couple of ink-slingers of no consequence; poor, scribbling devils." - -The hansom drove away with Flora de Barral inside, without movement, -without thought, only too glad to rest, to be alone and still moving -away without effort, in solitude and silence. - -Anthony roamed the streets for hours without being able to remember -in the evening where he had been--in the manner of a happy and -exulting lover. But nobody could have thought so from his face, -which bore no signs of blissful anticipation. Exulting indeed he -was but it was a special sort of exultation which seemed to take him -by the throat like an enemy. - -Anthony's last words to Flora referred to the registry office where -they were married ten days later. During that time Anthony saw no -one or anything, though he went about restlessly, here and there, -amongst men and things. This special state is peculiar to common -lovers, who are known to have no eyes for anything except for the -contemplation, actual or inward, of one human form which for them -contains the soul of the whole world in all its beauty, perfection, -variety and infinity. It must be extremely pleasant. But felicity -was denied to Roderick Anthony's contemplation. He was not a common -sort of lover; and he was punished for it as if Nature (which it is -said abhors a vacuum) were so very conventional as to abhor every -sort of exceptional conduct. Roderick Anthony had begun already to -suffer. That is why perhaps he was so industrious in going about -amongst his fellowmen who would have been surprised and humiliated, -had they known how little solidity and even existence they had in -his eyes. But they could not suspect anything so queer. They saw -nothing extraordinary in him during that fortnight. The proof of -this is that they were willing to transact business with him. -Obviously they were; since it is then that the offer of chartering -his ship for the special purpose of proceeding to the Western -Islands was put in his way by a firm of shipbrokers who had no doubt -of his sanity. - -He probably looked sane enough for all the practical purposes of -commercial life. But I am not so certain that he really was quite -sane at that time. - -However, he jumped at the offer. Providence itself was offering him -this opportunity to accustom the girl to sea-life by a comparatively -short trip. This was the time when everything that happened, -everything he heard, casual words, unrelated phrases, seemed a -provocation or an encouragement, confirmed him in his resolution. -And indeed to be busy with material affairs is the best preservative -against reflection, fears, doubts--all these things which stand in -the way of achievement. I suppose a fellow proposing to cut his -throat would experience a sort of relief while occupied in stropping -his razor carefully. - -And Anthony was extremely careful in preparing for himself and for -the luckless Flora, an impossible existence. He went about it with -no more tremors than if he had been stuffed with rags or made of -iron instead of flesh and blood. An existence, mind you, which, on -shore, in the thick of mankind, of varied interests, of -distractions, of infinite opportunities to preserve your distance -from each other, is hardly conceivable; but on board ship, at sea, -en tete-e-tete for days and weeks and months together, could mean -nothing but mental torture, an exquisite absurdity of torment. He -was a simple soul. His hopelessly masculine ingenuousness is -displayed in a touching way by his care to procure some woman to -attend on Flora. The condition of guaranteed perfect respectability -gave him moments of anxious thought. When he remembered suddenly -his steward's wife he must have exclaimed eureka with particular -exultation. One does not like to call Anthony an ass. But really -to put any woman within scenting distance of such a secret and -suppose that she would not track it out! - -No woman, however simple, could be as ingenuous as that. I don't -know how Flora de Barral qualified him in her thoughts when he told -her of having done this amongst other things intended to make her -comfortable. I should think that, for all HER simplicity, she must -have been appalled. He stood before her on the appointed day -outwardly calmer than she had ever seen him before. And this very -calmness, that scrupulous attitude which he felt bound in honour to -assume then and for ever, unless she would condescend to make a sign -at some future time, added to the heaviness of her heart innocent of -the most pardonable guile. - -The night before she had slept better than she had done for the past -ten nights. Both youth and weariness will assert themselves in the -end against the tyranny of nerve-racking stress. She had slept but -she woke up with her eyes full of tears. There were no traces of -them when she met him in the shabby little parlour downstairs. She -had swallowed them up. She was not going to let him see. She felt -bound in honour to accept the situation for ever and ever unless . . -. Ah, unless . . . She dissembled all her sentiments but it was not -duplicity on her part. All she wanted was to get at the truth; to -see what would come of it. - -She beat him at his own honourable game and the thoroughness of her -serenity disconcerted Anthony a bit. It was he who stammered when -it came to talking. The suppressed fierceness of his character -carried him on after the first word or two masterfully enough. But -it was as if they both had taken a bite of the same bitter fruit. -He was thinking with mournful regret not unmixed with surprise: -"That fellow Fyne has been telling me the truth. She does not care -for me a bit." It humiliated him and also increased his compassion -for the girl who in this darkness of life, buffeted and despairing, -had fallen into the grip of his stronger will, abandoning herself to -his arms as on a night of shipwreck. Flora on her side with partial -insight (for women are never blind with the complete masculine -blindness) looked on him with some pity; and she felt pity for -herself too. It was a rejection, a casting out; nothing new to her. -But she who supposed all her sensibility dead by this time, -discovered in herself a resentment of this ultimate betrayal. She -had no resignation for this one. With a sort of mental sullenness -she said to herself: "Well, I am here. I am here without any -nonsense. It is not my fault that I am a mere worthless object of -pity." - -And these things which she could tell herself with a clear -conscience served her better than the passionate obstinacy of -purpose could serve Roderick Anthony. She was much more sure of -herself than he was. Such are the advantages of mere rectitude over -the most exalted generosity. - -And so they went out to get married, the people of the house where -she lodged having no suspicion of anything of the sort. They were -only excited at a "gentleman friend" (a very fine man too) calling -on Miss Smith for the first time since she had come to live in the -house. When she returned, for she did come back alone, there were -allusions made to that outing. She had to take her meals with these -rather vulgar people. The woman of the house, a scraggy, genteel -person, tried even to provoke confidences. Flora's white face with -the deep blue eyes did not strike their hearts as it did the heart -of Captain Anthony, as the very face of the suffering world. Her -pained reserve had no power to awe them into decency. - -Well, she returned alone--as in fact might have been expected. -After leaving the Registry Office Flora de Barral and Roderick -Anthony had gone for a walk in a park. It must have been an East- -End park but I am not sure. Anyway that's what they did. It was a -sunny day. He said to her: "Everything I have in the world belongs -to you. I have seen to that without troubling my brother-in-law. -They have no call to interfere." - -She walked with her hand resting lightly on his arm. He had offered -it to her on coming out of the Registry Office, and she had accepted -it silently. Her head drooped, she seemed to be turning matters -over in her mind. She said, alluding to the Fynes: "They have been -very good to me." At that he exclaimed: - -"They have never understood you. Well, not properly. My sister is -not a bad woman, but . . . " - -Flora didn't protest; asking herself whether he imagined that he -himself understood her so much better. Anthony dismissing his -family out of his thoughts went on: "Yes. Everything is yours. I -have kept nothing back. As to the piece of paper we have just got -from that miserable quill-driver if it wasn't for the law, I -wouldn't mind if you tore it up here, now, on this spot. But don't -you do it. Unless you should some day feel that--" - -He choked, unexpectedly. She, reflective, hesitated a moment then -making up her mind bravely. - -"Neither am I keeping anything back from you." - -She had said it! But he in his blind generosity assumed that she -was alluding to her deplorable history and hastened to mutter: - -"Of course! Of course! Say no more. I have been lying awake -thinking of it all no end of times." - -He made a movement with his other arm as if restraining himself from -shaking an indignant fist at the universe; and she never even -attempted to look at him. His voice sounded strangely, incredibly -lifeless in comparison with these tempestuous accents that in the -broad fields, in the dark garden had seemed to shake the very earth -under her weary and hopeless feet. - -She regretted them. Hearing the sigh which escaped her Anthony -instead of shaking his fist at the universe began to pat her hand -resting on his arm and then desisted, suddenly, as though he had -burnt himself. Then after a silence: - -"You will have to go by yourself to-morrow. I . . . No, I think I -mustn't come. Better not. What you two will have to say to each -other--" - -She interrupted him quickly: - -"Father is an innocent man. He was cruelly wronged." - -"Yes. That's why," Anthony insisted earnestly. "And you are the -only human being that can make it up to him. You alone must -reconcile him with the world if anything can. But of course you -shall. You'll have to find words. Oh you'll know. And then the -sight of you, alone, would soothe--" - -"He's the gentlest of men," she interrupted again. - -Anthony shook his head. "It would take no end of generosity, no end -of gentleness to forgive such a dead set. For my part I would have -liked better to have been killed and done with at once. It could -not have been worse for you--and I suppose it was of you that he was -thinking most while those infernal lawyers were badgering him in -court. Of you. And now I think of it perhaps the sight of you may -bring it all back to him. All these years, all these years--and you -his child left alone in the world. I would have gone crazy. For -even if he had done wrong--" - -"But he hasn't," insisted Flora de Barral with a quite unexpected -fierceness. "You mustn't even suppose it. Haven't you read the -accounts of the trial?" - -"I am not supposing anything," Anthony defended himself. He just -remembered hearing of the trial. He assured her that he was away -from England, the second voyage of the Ferndale. He was crossing -the Pacific from Australia at the time and didn't see any papers for -weeks and weeks. He interrupted himself to suggest: - -"You had better tell him at once that you are happy." - -He had stammered a little, and Flora de Barral uttered a deliberate -and concise "Yes." - -A short silence ensued. She withdrew her hand from his arm. They -stopped. Anthony looked as if a totally unexpected catastrophe had -happened. - -"Ah," he said. "You mind . . . " - -"No! I think I had better," she murmured. - -"I dare say. I dare say. Bring him along straight on board to- -morrow. Stop nowhere." - -She had a movement of vague gratitude, a momentary feeling of peace -which she referred to the man before her. She looked up at Anthony. -His face was sombre. He was miles away and muttered as if to -himself: - -"Where could he want to stop though?" - -"There's not a single being on earth that I would want to look at -his dear face now, to whom I would willingly take him," she said -extending her hand frankly and with a slight break in her voice, -"but you--Roderick." - -He took that hand, felt it very small and delicate in his broad -palm. - -"That's right. That's right," he said with a conscious and hasty -heartiness and, as if suddenly ashamed of the sound of his voice, -turned half round and absolutely walked away from the motionless -girl. He even resisted the temptation to look back till it was too -late. The gravel path lay empty to the very gate of the park. She -was gone--vanished. He had an impression that he had missed some -sort of chance. He felt sad. That excited sense of his own conduct -which had kept him up for the last ten days buoyed him no more. He -had succeeded! - -He strolled on aimlessly a prey to gentle melancholy. He walked and -walked. There were but few people about in this breathing space of -a poor neighbourhood. Under certain conditions of life there is -precious little time left for mere breathing. But still a few here -and there were indulging in that luxury; yet few as they were -Captain Anthony, though the least exclusive of men, resented their -presence. Solitude had been his best friend. He wanted some place -where he could sit down and be alone. And in his need his thoughts -turned to the sea which had given him so much of that congenial -solitude. There, if always with his ship (but that was an integral -part of him) he could always be as solitary as he chose. Yes. Get -out to sea! - -The night of the town with its strings of lights, rigid, and crossed -like a net of flames, thrown over the sombre immensity of walls, -closed round him, with its artificial brilliance overhung by an -emphatic blackness, its unnatural animation of a restless, -overdriven humanity. His thoughts which somehow were inclined to -pity every passing figure, every single person glimpsed under a -street lamp, fixed themselves at last upon a figure which certainly -could not have been seen under the lamps on that particular night. -A figure unknown to him. A figure shut up within high unscaleable -walls of stone or bricks till next morning . . . The figure of Flora -de Barral's father. De Barral the financier--the convict. - -There is something in that word with its suggestions of guilt and -retribution which arrests the thought. We feel ourselves in the -presence of the power of organized society--a thing mysterious in -itself and still more mysterious in its effect. Whether guilty or -innocent, it was as if old de Barral had been down to the Nether -Regions. Impossible to imagine what he would bring out from there -to the light of this world of uncondemned men. What would he think? -What would he have to say? And what was one to say to him? - -Anthony, a little awed, as one is by a range of feelings stretching -beyond one's grasp, comforted himself by the thought that probably -the old fellow would have little to say. He wouldn't want to talk -about it. No man would. It must have been a real hell to him. - -And then Anthony, at the end of the day in which he had gone through -a marriage ceremony with Flora de Barral, ceased to think of Flora's -father except, as in some sort, the captive of his triumph. He -turned to the mental contemplation of the white, delicate and -appealing face with great blue eyes which he had seen weep and -wonder and look profoundly at him, sometimes with incredulity, -sometimes with doubt and pain, but always irresistible in the power -to find their way right into his breast, to stir there a deep -response which was something more than love--he said to himself,--as -men understand it. More? Or was it only something other? Yes. It -was something other. More or less. Something as incredible as the -fulfilment of an amazing and startling dream in which he could take -the world in his arms--all the suffering world--not to possess its -pathetic fairness but to console and cherish its sorrow. - -Anthony walked slowly to the ship and that night slept without -dreams. - - - -CHAPTER FIVE--THE GREAT DE BARRAL - - - -Renovated certainly the saloon of the Ferndale was to receive the -"strange woman." The mellowness of its old-fashioned, tarnished -decoration was gone. And Anthony looking round saw the glitter, the -gleams, the colour of new things, untried, unused, very bright--too -bright. The workmen had gone only last night; and the last piece of -work they did was the hanging of the heavy curtains which looped -midway the length of the saloon--divided it in two if released, -cutting off the after end with its companion-way leading direct on -the poop, from the forepart with its outlet on the deck; making a -privacy within a privacy, as though Captain Anthony could not place -obstacles enough between his new happiness and the men who shared -his life at sea. He inspected that arrangement with an approving -eye then made a particular visitation of the whole, ending by -opening a door which led into a large stateroom made of two knocked -into one. It was very well furnished and had, instead of the usual -bedplace of such cabins, an elaborate swinging cot of the latest -pattern. Anthony tilted it a little by way of trial. "The old man -will be very comfortable in here," he said to himself, and stepped -back into the saloon closing the door gently. Then another thought -occurred to him obvious under the circumstances but strangely enough -presenting itself for the first time. "Jove! Won't he get a -shock," thought Roderick Anthony. - -He went hastily on deck. "Mr. Franklin, Mr. Franklin." The mate -was not very far. "Oh! Here you are. Miss . . . Mrs. Anthony'll -be coming on board presently. Just give me a call when you see the -cab." - -Then, without noticing the gloominess of the mate's countenance he -went in again. Not a friendly word, not a professional remark, or a -small joke, not as much as a simple and inane "fine day." Nothing. -Just turned about and went in. - -We know that, when the moment came, he thought better of it and -decided to meet Flora's father in that privacy of the main cabin -which he had been so careful to arrange. Why Anthony appeared to -shrink from the contact, he who was sufficiently self-confident not -only to face but to absolutely create a situation almost insane in -its audacious generosity, is difficult to explain. Perhaps when he -came on the poop for a glance he found that man so different -outwardly from what he expected that he decided to meet him for the -first time out of everybody's sight. Possibly the general secrecy -of his relation to the girl might have influenced him. Truly he may -well have been dismayed. That man's coming brought him face to face -with the necessity to speak and act a lie; to appear what he was not -and what he could never be, unless, unless - - -In short, we'll say if you like that for various reasons, all having -to do with the delicate rectitude of his nature, Roderick Anthony (a -man of whom his chief mate used to say: he doesn't know what fear -is) was frightened. There is a Nemesis which overtakes generosity -too, like all the other imprudences of men who dare to be lawless -and proud . . . " - -"Why do you say this?" I inquired, for Marlow had stopped abruptly -and kept silent in the shadow of the bookcase. - -"I say this because that man whom chance had thrown in Flora's way -was both: lawless and proud. Whether he knew anything about it or -not it does not matter. Very likely not. One may fling a glove in -the face of nature and in the face of one's own moral endurance -quite innocently, with a simplicity which wears the aspect of -perfectly Satanic conceit. However, as I have said it does not -matter. It's a transgression all the same and has got to be paid -for in the usual way. But never mind that. I paused because, like -Anthony, I find a difficulty, a sort of dread in coming to grips -with old de Barral. - -You remember I had a glimpse of him once. He was not an imposing -personality: tall, thin, straight, stiff, faded, moving with short -steps and with a gliding motion, speaking in an even low voice. -When the sea was rough he wasn't much seen on deck--at least not -walking. He caught hold of things then and dragged himself along as -far as the after skylight where he would sit for hours. Our, then -young, friend offered once to assist him and this service was the -first beginning of a sort of friendship. He clung hard to one-- -Powell says, with no figurative intention. Powell was always on the -lookout to assist, and to assist mainly Mrs. Anthony, because he -clung so jolly hard to her that Powell was afraid of her being -dragged down notwithstanding that she very soon became very sure- -footed in all sorts of weather. And Powell was the only one ready -to assist at hand because Anthony (by that time) seemed to be afraid -to come near them; the unforgiving Franklin always looked wrathfully -the other way; the boatswain, if up there, acted likewise but -sheepishly; and any hands that happened to be on the poop (a feeling -spreads mysteriously all over a ship) shunned him as though he had -been the devil. - -We know how he arrived on board. For my part I know so little of -prisons that I haven't the faintest notion how one leaves them. It -seems as abominable an operation as the other, the shutting up with -its mental suggestions of bang, snap, crash and the empty silence -outside--where an instant before you were--you WERE--and now no -longer are. Perfectly devilish. And the release! I don't know -which is worse. How do they do it? Pull the string, door flies -open, man flies through: Out you go! Adios! And in the space -where a second before you were not, in the silent space there is a -figure going away, limping. Why limping? I don't know. That's how -I see it. One has a notion of a maiming, crippling process; of the -individual coming back damaged in some subtle way. I admit it is a -fantastic hallucination, but I can't help it. Of course I know that -the proceedings of the best machine-made humanity are employed with -judicious care and so on. I am absurd, no doubt, but still . . . Oh -yes it's idiotic. When I pass one of these places . . . did you -notice that there is something infernal about the aspect of every -individual stone or brick of them, something malicious as if matter -were enjoying its revenge of the contemptuous spirit of man. Did -you notice? You didn't? Eh? Well I am perhaps a little mad on -that point. When I pass one of these places I must avert my eyes. -I couldn't have gone to meet de Barral. I should have shrunk from -the ordeal. You'll notice that it looks as if Anthony (a brave man -indubitably) had shirked it too. Little Fyne's flight of fancy -picturing three people in the fatal four wheeler--you remember?-- -went wide of the truth. There were only two people in the four -wheeler. Flora did not shrink. Women can stand anything. The dear -creatures have no imagination when it comes to solid facts of life. -In sentimental regions--I won't say. It's another thing altogether. -There they shrink from or rush to embrace ghosts of their own -creation just the same as any fool-man would. - -No. I suppose the girl Flora went on that errand reasonably. And -then, why! This was the moment for which she had lived. It was her -only point of contact with existence. Oh yes. She had been -assisted by the Fynes. And kindly. Certainly. Kindly. But that's -not enough. There is a kind way of assisting our fellow-creatures -which is enough to break their hearts while it saves their outer -envelope. How cold, how infernally cold she must have felt--unless -when she was made to burn with indignation or shame. Man, we know, -cannot live by bread alone but hang me if I don't believe that some -women could live by love alone. If there be a flame in human beings -fed by varied ingredients earthly and spiritual which tinge it in -different hues, then I seem to see the colour of theirs. It is -azure . . . What the devil are you laughing at . . . " - -Marlow jumped up and strode out of the shadow as if lifted by -indignation but there was the flicker of a smile on his lips. "You -say I don't know women. Maybe. It's just as well not to come too -close to the shrine. But I have a clear notion of WOMAN. In all of -them, termagant, flirt, crank, washerwoman, blue-stocking, outcast -and even in the ordinary fool of the ordinary commerce there is -something left, if only a spark. And when there is a spark there -can always be a flame . . . " - -He went back into the shadow and sat down again. - -"I don't mean to say that Flora de Barral was one of the sort that -could live by love alone. In fact she had managed to live without. -But still, in the distrust of herself and of others she looked for -love, any kind of love, as women will. And that confounded jail was -the only spot where she could see it--for she had no reason to -distrust her father. - -She was there in good time. I see her gazing across the road at -these walls which are, properly speaking, awful. You do indeed seem -to feel along the very lines and angles of the unholy bulk, the fall -of time, drop by drop, hour by hour, leaf by leaf, with a gentle and -implacable slowness. And a voiceless melancholy comes over one, -invading, overpowering like a dream, penetrating and mortal like -poison. - -When de Barral came out she experienced a sort of shock to see that -he was exactly as she remembered him. Perhaps a little smaller. -Otherwise unchanged. You come out in the same clothes, you know. I -can't tell whether he was looking for her. No doubt he was. -Whether he recognized her? Very likely. She crossed the road and -at once there was reproduced at a distance of years, as if by some -mocking witchcraft, the sight so familiar on the Parade at Brighton -of the financier de Barral walking with his only daughter. One -comes out of prison in the same clothes one wore on the day of -condemnation, no matter how long one has been put away there. Oh, -they last! They last! But there is something which is preserved by -prison life even better than one's discarded clothing. It is the -force, the vividness of one's sentiments. A monastery will do that -too; but in the unholy claustration of a jail you are thrown back -wholly upon yourself--for God and Faith are not there. The people -outside disperse their affections, you hoard yours, you nurse them -into intensity. What they let slip, what they forget in the -movement and changes of free life, you hold on to, amplify, -exaggerate into a rank growth of memories. They can look with a -smile at the troubles and pains of the past; but you can't. Old -pains keep on gnawing at your heart, old desires, old deceptions, -old dreams, assailing you in the dead stillness of your present -where nothing moves except the irrecoverable minutes of your life. - -De Barral was out and, for a time speechless, being led away almost -before he had taken possession of the free world, by his daughter. -Flora controlled herself well. They walked along quickly for some -distance. The cab had been left round the corner--round several -corners for all I know. He was flustered, out of breath, when she -helped him in and followed herself. Inside that rolling box, -turning towards that recovered presence with her heart too full for -words she felt the desire of tears she had managed to keep down -abandon her suddenly, her half-mournful, half-triumphant exultation -subside, every fibre of her body, relaxed in tenderness, go stiff in -the close look she took at his face. He WAS different. There was -something. Yes, there was something between them, something hard -and impalpable, the ghost of these high walls. - -How old he was, how unlike! - -She shook off this impression, amazed and frightened by it of -course. And remorseful too. Naturally. She threw her arms round -his neck. He returned that hug awkwardly, as if not in perfect -control of his arms, with a fumbling and uncertain pressure. She -hid her face on his breast. It was as though she were pressing it -against a stone. They released each other and presently the cab was -rolling along at a jog-trot to the docks with those two people as -far apart as they could get from each other, in opposite corners. - -After a silence given up to mutual examination he uttered his first -coherent sentence outside the walls of the prison. - -"What has done for me was envy. Envy. There was a lot of them just -bursting with it every time they looked my way. I was doing too -well. So they went to the Public Prosecutor--" - -She said hastily "Yes! Yes! I know," and he glared as if resentful -that the child had turned into a young woman without waiting for him -to come out. "What do you know about it?" he asked. "You were too -young." His speech was soft. The old voice, the old voice! It -gave her a thrill. She recognized its pointless gentleness always -the same no matter what he had to say. And she remembered that he -never had much to say when he came down to see her. It was she who -chattered, chattered, on their walks, while stiff and with a -rigidly-carried head, he dropped a gentle word now and then. - -Moved by these recollections waking up within her, she explained to -him that within the last year she had read and studied the report of -the trial. - -"I went through the files of several papers, papa." - -He looked at her suspiciously. The reports were probably very -incomplete. No doubt the reporters had garbled his evidence. They -were determined to give him no chance either in court or before the -public opinion. It was a conspiracy . . . "My counsel was a fool -too," he added. "Did you notice? A perfect fool." - -She laid her hand on his arm soothingly. "Is it worth while talking -about that awful time? It is so far away now." She shuddered -slightly at the thought of all the horrible years which had passed -over her young head; never guessing that for him the time was but -yesterday. He folded his arms on his breast, leaned back in his -corner and bowed his head. But in a little while he made her jump -by asking suddenly: - -"Who has got hold of the Lone Valley Railway? That's what they were -after mainly. Somebody has got it. Parfitts and Co. grabbed it-- -eh? Or was it that fellow Warner . . . " - -"I--I don't know," she said quite scared by the twitching of his -lips. - -"Don't know!" he exclaimed softly. Hadn't her cousin told her? Oh -yes. She had left them--of course. Why did she? It was his first -question about herself but she did not answer it. She did not want -to talk of these horrors. They were impossible to describe. She -perceived though that he had not expected an answer, because she -heard him muttering to himself that: "There was half a million's -worth of work done and material accumulated there." - -"You mustn't think of these things, papa," she said firmly. And he -asked her with that invariable gentleness, in which she seemed now -to detect some rather ugly shades, what else had he to think about? -Another year or two, if they had only left him alone, he and -everybody else would have been all right, rolling in money; and she, -his daughter, could have married anybody--anybody. A lord. - -All this was to him like yesterday, a long yesterday, a yesterday -gone over innumerable times, analysed, meditated upon for years. It -had a vividness and force for that old man of which his daughter who -had not been shut out of the world could have no idea. She was to -him the only living figure out of that past, and it was perhaps in -perfect good faith that he added, coldly, inexpressive and thin- -lipped: "I lived only for you, I may say. I suppose you understand -that. There were only you and me." - -Moved by this declaration, wondering that it did not warm her heart -more, she murmured a few endearing words while the uppermost thought -in her mind was that she must tell him now of the situation. She -had expected to be questioned anxiously about herself--and while she -desired it she shrank from the answers she would have to make. But -her father seemed strangely, unnaturally incurious. It looked as if -there would be no questions. Still this was an opening. This -seemed to be the time for her to begin. And she began. She began -by saying that she had always felt like that. There were two of -them, to live for each other. And if he only knew what she had gone -through! - -Ensconced in his corner, with his arms folded, he stared out of the -cab window at the street. How little he was changed after all. It -was the unmovable expression, the faded stare she used to see on the -esplanade whenever walking by his side hand in hand she raised her -eyes to his face--while she chattered, chattered. It was the same -stiff, silent figure which at a word from her would turn rigidly -into a shop and buy her anything it occurred to her that she would -like to have. Flora de Barral's voice faltered. He bent on her -that well-remembered glance in which she had never read anything as -a child, except the consciousness of her existence. And that was -enough for a child who had never known demonstrative affection. But -she had lived a life so starved of all feeling that this was no -longer enough for her. What was the good of telling him the story -of all these miseries now past and gone, of all those bewildering -difficulties and humiliations? What she must tell him was difficult -enough to say. She approached it by remarking cheerfully: - -"You haven't even asked me where I am taking you." He started like -a somnambulist awakened suddenly, and there was now some meaning in -his stare; a sort of alarmed speculation. He opened his mouth -slowly. Flora struck in with forced gaiety. "You would never, -guess." - -He waited, still more startled and suspicious. "Guess! Why don't -you tell me?" - -He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward towards her. She got hold -of one of his hands. "You must know first . . . " She paused, made -an effort: "I am married, papa." - -For a moment they kept perfectly still in that cab rolling on at a -steady jog-trot through a narrow city street full of bustle. -Whatever she expected she did not expect to feel his hand snatched -away from her grasp as if from a burn or a contamination. De Barral -fresh from the stagnant torment of the prison (where nothing -happens) had not expected that sort of news. It seemed to stick in -his throat. In strangled low tones he cried out, "You--married? -You, Flora! When? Married! What for? Who to? Married!" - -His eyes which were blue like hers, only faded, without depth, -seemed to start out of their orbits. He did really look as if he -were choking. He even put his hand to his collar . . . " - - -"You know," continued Marlow out of the shadow of the bookcase and -nearly invisible in the depths of the arm-chair, "the only time I -saw him he had given me the impression of absolute rigidity, as -though he had swallowed a poker. But it seems that he could -collapse. I can hardly picture this to myself. I understand that -he did collapse to a certain extent in his corner of the cab. The -unexpected had crumpled him up. She regarded him perplexed, -pitying, a little disillusioned, and nodded at him gravely: Yes. -Married. What she did not like was to see him smile in a manner far -from encouraging to the devotion of a daughter. There was something -unintentionally savage in it. Old de Barral could not quite command -his muscles, as yet. But he had recovered command of his gentle -voice. - -"You were just saying that in this wide world there we were, only -you and I, to stick to each other." - -She was dimly aware of the scathing intention lurking in these soft -low tones, in these words which appealed to her poignantly. She -defended herself. Never, never for a single moment had she ceased -to think of him. Neither did he cease to think of her, he said, -with as much sinister emphasis as he was capable of. - -"But, papa," she cried, "I haven't been shut up like you." She -didn't mind speaking of it because he was innocent. He hadn't been -understood. It was a misfortune of the most cruel kind but no more -disgraceful than an illness, a maiming accident or some other -visitation of blind fate. "I wish I had been too. But I was alone -out in the world, the horrid world, that very world which had used -you so badly." - -"And you couldn't go about in it without finding somebody to fall in -love with?" he said. A jealous rage affected his brain like the -fumes of wine, rising from some secret depths of his being so long -deprived of all emotions. The hollows at the corners of his lips -became more pronounced in the puffy roundness of his cheeks. -Images, visions, obsess with particular force, men withdrawn from -the sights and sounds of active life. "And I did nothing but think -of you!" he exclaimed under his breath, contemptuously. "Think of -you! You haunted me, I tell you." - -Flora said to herself that there was a being who loved her. "Then -we have been haunting each other," she declared with a pang of -remorse. For indeed he had haunted her nearly out of the world, -into a final and irremediable desertion. "Some day I shall tell you -. . . No. I don't think I can ever tell you. There was a time when -I was mad. But what's the good? It's all over now. We shall -forget all this. There shall be nothing to remind us." - -De Barral moved his shoulders. - -"I should think you were mad to tie yourself to . . . How long is it -since you are married?" - -She answered "Not long" that being the only answer she dared to -make. Everything was so different from what she imagined it would -be. He wanted to know why she had said nothing of it in any of her -letters; in her last letter. She said: - -"It was after." - -"So recently!" he wondered. "Couldn't you wait at least till I came -out? You could have told me; asked me; consulted me! Let me see--" - -She shook her head negatively. And he was appalled. He thought to -himself: Who can he be? Some miserable, silly youth without a -penny. Or perhaps some scoundrel? Without making any expressive -movement he wrung his loosely-clasped hands till the joints cracked. -He looked at her. She was pretty. Some low scoundrel who will cast -her off. Some plausible vagabond . . . "You couldn't wait--eh?" - -Again she made a slight negative sign. - -"Why not? What was the hurry?" She cast down her eyes. "It had to -be. Yes. It was sudden, but it had to be." - -He leaned towards her, his mouth open, his eyes wild with virtuous -anger, but meeting the absolute candour of her raised glance threw -himself back into his corner again. - -"So tremendously in love with each other--was that it? Couldn't let -a father have his daughter all to himself even for a day after-- -after such a separation. And you know I never had anyone, I had no -friends. What did I want with those people one meets in the City. -The best of them are ready to cut your throat. Yes! Business men, -gentlemen, any sort of men and women--out of spite, or to get -something. Oh yes, they can talk fair enough if they think there's -something to be got out of you . . . " His voice was a mere breath -yet every word came to Flora as distinctly as if charged with all -the moving power of passion . . . "My girl, I looked at them making -up to me and I would say to myself: What do I care for all that! I -am a business man. I am the great Mr. de Barral (yes, yes, some of -them twisted their mouths at it, but I WAS the great Mr. de Barral) -and I have my little girl. I wanted nobody and I have never had -anybody." - -A true emotion had unsealed his lips but the words that came out of -them were no louder than the murmur of a light wind. It died away. - -"That's just it," said Flora de Barral under her breath. Without -removing his eyes from her he took off his hat. It was a tall hat. -The hat of the trial. The hat of the thumb-nail sketches in the -illustrated papers. One comes out in the same clothes, but -seclusion counts! It is well known that lurid visions haunt -secluded men, monks, hermits--then why not prisoners? De Barral the -convict took off the silk hat of the financier de Barral and -deposited it on the front seat of the cab. Then he blew out his -cheeks. He was red in the face. - -"And then what happens?" he began again in his contained voice. -"Here I am, overthrown, broken by envy, malice and all -uncharitableness. I come out--and what do I find? I find that my -girl Flora has gone and married some man or other, perhaps a fool, -how do I know; or perhaps--anyway not good enough." - -"Stop, papa." - -"A silly love affair as likely as not," he continued monotonously, -his thin lips writhing between the ill-omened sunk corners. "And a -very suspicious thing it is too, on the part of a loving daughter." - -She tried to interrupt him but he went on till she actually clapped -her hand on his mouth. He rolled his eyes a bit but when she took -her hand away he remained silent. - -"Wait. I must tell you . . . And first of all, papa, understand -this, for everything's in that: he is the most generous man in the -world. He is . . . " - -De Barral very still in his corner uttered with an effort "You are -in love with him." - -"Papa! He came to me. I was thinking of you. I had no eyes for -anybody. I could no longer bear to think of you. It was then that -he came. Only then. At that time when--when I was going to give -up." - -She gazed into his faded blue eyes as if yearning to be understood, -to be given encouragement, peace--a word of sympathy. He declared -without animation "I would like to break his neck." - -She had the mental exclamation of the overburdened. - -"Oh my God!" and watched him with frightened eyes. But he did not -appear insane or in any other way formidable. This comforted her. -The silence lasted for some little time. Then suddenly he asked: - -"What's your name then?" - -For a moment in the profound trouble of the task before her she did -not understand what the question meant. Then, her face faintly -flushing, she whispered: "Anthony." - -Her father, a red spot on each cheek, leaned his head back wearily -in the corner of the cab. - -"Anthony. What is he? Where did he spring from?" - -"Papa, it was in the country, on a road--" - -He groaned, "On a road," and closed his eyes. - -"It's too long to explain to you now. We shall have lots of time. -There are things I could not tell you now. But some day. Some day. -For now nothing can part us. Nothing. We are safe as long as we -live--nothing can ever come between us." - -"You are infatuated with the fellow," he remarked, without opening -his eyes. And she said: "I believe in him," in a low voice. "You -and I must believe in him." - -"Who the devil is he?" - -"He's the brother of the lady--you know Mrs. Fyne, she knew mother-- -who was so kind to me. I was staying in the country, in a cottage, -with Mr. and Mrs. Fyne. It was there that we met. He came on a -visit. He noticed me. I--well--we are married now." - -She was thankful that his eyes were shut. It made it easier to talk -of the future she had arranged, which now was an unalterable thing. -She did not enter on the path of confidences. That was impossible. -She felt he would not understand her. She felt also that he -suffered. Now and then a great anxiety gripped her heart with a -mysterious sense of guilt--as though she had betrayed him into the -hands of an enemy. With his eyes shut he had an air of weary and -pious meditation. She was a little afraid of it. Next moment a -great pity for him filled her heart. And in the background there -was remorse. His face twitched now and then just perceptibly. He -managed to keep his eyelids down till he heard that the 'husband' -was a sailor and that he, the father, was being taken straight on -board ship ready to sail away from this abominable world of -treacheries, and scorns and envies and lies, away, away over the -blue sea, the sure, the inaccessible, the uncontaminated and -spacious refuge for wounded souls. - -Something like that. Not the very words perhaps but such was the -general sense of her overwhelming argument--the argument of refuge. - -I don't think she gave a thought to material conditions. But as -part of that argument set forth breathlessly, as if she were afraid -that if she stopped for a moment she could never go on again, she -mentioned that generosity of a stormy type, which had come to her -from the sea, had caught her up on the brink of unmentionable -failure, had whirled her away in its first ardent gust and could be -trusted now, implicitly trusted, to carry them both, side by side, -into absolute safety. - -She believed it, she affirmed it. He understood thoroughly at last, -and at once the interior of that cab, of an aspect so pacific in the -eyes of the people on the pavements, became the scene of a great -agitation. The generosity of Roderick Anthony--the son of the poet- --affected the ex-financier de Barral in a manner which must have -brought home to Flora de Barral the extreme arduousness of the -business of being a woman. Being a woman is a terribly difficult -trade since it consists principally of dealings with men. This man- --the man inside the cab--cast oft his stiff placidity and behaved -like an animal. I don't mean it in an offensive sense. What he did -was to give way to an instinctive panic. Like some wild creature -scared by the first touch of a net falling on its back, old de -Barral began to struggle, lank and angular, against the empty air-- -as much of it as there was in the cab--with staring eyes and gasping -mouth from which his daughter shrank as far as she could in the -confined space. - -"Stop the cab. Stop him I tell you. Let me get out!" were the -strangled exclamations she heard. Why? What for? To do what? He -would hear nothing. She cried to him "Papa! Papa! What do you -want to do?" And all she got from him was: "Stop. I must get out. -I want to think. I must get out to think." - -It was a mercy that he didn't attempt to open the door at once. He -only stuck his head and shoulders out of the window crying to the -cabman. She saw the consequences, the cab stopping, a crowd -collecting around a raving old gentleman . . . In this terrible -business of being a woman so full of fine shades, of delicate -perplexities (and very small rewards) you can never know what rough -work you may have to do, at any moment. Without hesitation Flora -seized her father round the body and pulled back--being astonished -at the ease with which she managed to make him drop into his seat -again. She kept him there resolutely with one hand pressed against -his breast, and leaning across him, she, in her turn put her head -and shoulders out of the window. By then the cab had drawn up to -the curbstone and was stopped. "No! I've changed my mind. Go on -please where you were told first. To the docks." - -She wondered at the steadiness of her own voice. She heard a grunt -from the driver and the cab began to roll again. Only then she sank -into her place keeping a watchful eye on her companion. He was -hardly anything more by this time. Except for her childhood's -impressions he was just--a man. Almost a stranger. How was one to -deal with him? And there was the other too. Also almost a -stranger. The trade of being a woman was very difficult. Too -difficult. Flora closed her eyes saying to herself: "If I think -too much about it I shall go mad." And then opening them she asked -her father if the prospect of living always with his daughter and -being taken care of by her affection away from the world, which had -no honour to give to his grey hairs, was such an awful prospect. - -"Tell me, is it so bad as that?" - -She put that question sadly, without bitterness. The famous--or -notorious--de Barral had lost his rigidity now. He was bent. -Nothing more deplorably futile than a bent poker. He said nothing. -She added gently, suppressing an uneasy remorseful sigh: - -"And it might have been worse. You might have found no one, no one -in all this town, no one in all the world, not even me! Poor papa!" - -She made a conscience-stricken movement towards him thinking: "Oh! -I am horrible, I am horrible." And old de Barral, scared, tired, -bewildered by the extraordinary shocks of his liberation, swayed -over and actually leaned his head on her shoulder, as if sorrowing -over his regained freedom. - -The movement by itself was touching. Flora supporting him lightly -imagined that he was crying; and at the thought that had she smashed -in a quarry that shoulder, together with some other of her bones, -this grey and pitiful head would have had nowhere to rest, she too -gave way to tears. They flowed quietly, easing her overstrained -nerves. Suddenly he pushed her away from him so that her head -struck the side of the cab, pushing himself away too from her as if -something had stung him. - -All the warmth went out of her emotion. The very last tears turned -cold on her cheek. But their work was done. She had found courage, -resolution, as women do, in a good cry. With his hand covering the -upper part of his face whether to conceal his eyes or to shut out an -unbearable sight, he was stiffening up in his corner to his usual -poker-like consistency. She regarded him in silence. His thin -obstinate lips moved. He uttered the name of the cousin--the man, -you remember, who did not approve of the Fynes, and whom rightly or -wrongly little Fyne suspected of interested motives, in view of de -Barral having possibly put away some plunder, somewhere before the -smash. - -I may just as well tell you at once that I don't know anything more -of him. But de Barral was of the opinion, speaking in his low voice -from under his hand, that this relation would have been only too -glad to have secured his guidance. - -"Of course I could not come forward in my own name, or person. But -the advice of a man of my experience is as good as a fortune to -anybody wishing to venture into finance. The same sort of thing can -be done again." - -He shuffled his feet a little, let fall his hand; and turning -carefully toward his daughter his puffy round cheeks, his round chin -resting on his collar, he bent on her the faded, resentful gaze of -his pale eyes, which were wet. - -"The start is really only a matter of judicious advertising. -There's no difficulty. And here you go and . . . " - -He turned his face away. "After all I am still de Barral, THE de -Barral. Didn't you remember that?" - -"Papa," said Flora; "listen. It's you who must remember that there -is no longer a de Barral . . . " He looked at her sideways -anxiously. "There is Mr. Smith, whom no harm, no trouble, no wicked -lies of evil people can ever touch." - -"Mr. Smith," he breathed out slowly. "Where does he belong to? -There's not even a Miss Smith." - -"There is your Flora." - -"My Flora! You went and . . . I can't bear to think of it. It's -horrible." - -"Yes. It was horrible enough at times," she said with feeling, -because somehow, obscurely, what this man said appealed to her as if -it were her own thought clothed in an enigmatic emotion. "I think -with shame sometimes how I . . . No not yet. I shall not tell you. -At least not now." - -The cab turned into the gateway of the dock. Flora handed the tall -hat to her father. "Here, papa. And please be good. I suppose you -love me. If you don't, then I wonder who--" - -He put the hat on, and stiffened hard in his corner, kept a sidelong -glance on his girl. "Try to be nice for my sake. Think of the -years I have been waiting for you. I do indeed want support--and -peace. A little peace." - -She clasped his arm suddenly with both hands pressing with all her -might as if to crush the resistance she felt in him. "I could not -have peace if I did not have you with me. I won't let you go. Not -after all I went through. I won't." The nervous force of her grip -frightened him a little. She laughed suddenly. "It's absurd. It's -as if I were asking you for a sacrifice. What am I afraid of? -Where could you go? I mean now, to-day, to-night? You can't tell -me. Have you thought of it? Well I have been thinking of it for -the last year. Longer. I nearly went mad trying to find out. I -believe I was mad for a time or else I should never have thought . . -. " - - -"This was as near as she came to a confession," remarked Marlow in a -changed tone. "The confession I mean of that walk to the top of the -quarry which she reproached herself with so bitterly. And he made -of it what his fancy suggested. It could not possibly be a just -notion. The cab stopped alongside the ship and they got out in the -manner described by the sensitive Franklin. I don't know if they -suspected each other's sanity at the end of that drive. But that is -possible. We all seem a little mad to each other; an excellent -arrangement for the bulk of humanity which finds in it an easy -motive of forgiveness. Flora crossed the quarter-deck with a -rapidity born of apprehension. It had grown unbearable. She wanted -this business over. She was thankful on looking back to see he was -following her. "If he bolts away," she thought, "then I shall know -that I am of no account indeed! That no one loves me, that words -and actions and protestations and everything in the world is false-- -and I shall jump into the dock. THAT at least won't lie." - -Well I don't know. If it had come to that she would have been most -likely fished out, what with her natural want of luck and the good -many people on the quay and on board. And just where the Ferndale -was moored there hung on a wall (I know the berth) a coil of line, a -pole, and a life-buoy kept there on purpose to save people who -tumble into the dock. It's not so easy to get away from life's -betrayals as she thought. However it did not come to that. He -followed her with his quick gliding walk. Mr. Smith! The liberated -convict de Barral passed off the solid earth for the last time, -vanished for ever, and there was Mr. Smith added to that world of -waters which harbours so many queer fishes. An old gentleman in a -silk hat, darting wary glances. He followed, because mere existence -has its claims which are obeyed mechanically. I have no doubt he -presented a respectable figure. Father-in-law. Nothing more -respectable. But he carried in his heart the confused pain of -dismay and affection, of involuntary repulsion and pity. Very much -like his daughter. Only in addition he felt a furious jealousy of -the man he was going to see. - -A residue of egoism remains in every affection--even paternal. And -this man in the seclusion of his prison had thought himself into -such a sense of ownership of that single human being he had to think -about, as may well be inconceivable to us who have not had to serve -a long (and wickedly unjust) sentence of penal servitude. She was -positively the only thing, the one point where his thoughts found a -resting-place, for years. She was the only outlet for his -imagination. He had not much of that faculty to be sure, but there -was in it the force of concentration. He felt outraged, and perhaps -it was an absurdity on his part, but I venture to suggest rather in -degree than in kind. I have a notion that no usual, normal father -is pleased at parting with his daughter. No. Not even when he -rationally appreciates "Jane being taken off his hands" or perhaps -is able to exult at an excellent match. At bottom, quite deep down, -down in the dark (in some cases only by digging), there is to be -found a certain repugnance . . . With mothers of course it is -different. Women are more loyal, not to each other, but to their -common femininity which they behold triumphant with a secret and -proud satisfaction. - -The circumstances of that match added to Mr. Smith's indignation. -And if he followed his daughter into that ship's cabin it was as if -into a house of disgrace and only because he was still bewildered by -the suddenness of the thing. His will, so long lying fallow, was -overborne by her determination and by a vague fear of that regained -liberty. - -You will be glad to hear that Anthony, though he did shirk the -welcome on the quay, behaved admirably, with the simplicity of a man -who has no small meannesses and makes no mean reservations. His -eyes did not flinch and his tongue did not falter. He was, I have -it on the best authority, admirable in his earnestness, in his -sincerity and also in his restraint. He was perfect. Nevertheless -the vital force of his unknown individuality addressing him so -familiarly was enough to fluster Mr. Smith. Flora saw her father -trembling in all his exiguous length, though he held himself stiffer -than ever if that was possible. He muttered a little and at last -managed to utter, not loud of course but very distinctly: "I am -here under protest," the corners of his mouth sunk disparagingly, -his eyes stony. "I am here under protest. I have been locked up by -a conspiracy. I--" - -He raised his hands to his forehead--his silk hat was on the table -rim upwards; he had put it there with a despairing gesture as he -came in--he raised his hands to his forehead. "It seems to me -unfair. I--" He broke off again. Anthony looked at Flora who -stood by the side of her father. - -"Well, sir, you will soon get used to me. Surely you and she must -have had enough of shore-people and their confounded half-and-half -ways to last you both for a life-time. A particularly merciful lot -they are too. You ask Flora. I am alluding to my own sister, her -best friend, and not a bad woman either as they go." - -The captain of the Ferndale checked himself. "Lucky thing I was -there to step in. I want you to make yourself at home, and before -long--" - -The faded stare of the Great de Barral silenced Anthony by its -inexpressive fixity. He signalled with his eyes to Flora towards -the door of the state-room fitted specially to receive Mr. Smith, -the free man. She seized the free man's hat off the table and took -him caressingly under the arm. "Yes! This is home, come and see -your room, papa!" - -Anthony himself threw open the door and Flora took care to shut it -carefully behind herself and her father. "See," she began but -desisted because it was clear that he would look at none of the -contrivances for his comfort. She herself had hardly seen them -before. He was looking only at the new carpet and she waited till -he should raise his eyes. - -He didn't do that but spoke in his usual voice. "So this is your -husband, that . . . And I locked up!" - -"Papa, what's the good of harping on that," she remonstrated no -louder. "He is kind." - -"And you went and . . . married him so that he should be kind to me. -Is that it? How did you know that I wanted anybody to be kind to -me?" - -"How strange you are!" she said thoughtfully. - -"It's hard for a man who has gone through what I have gone through -to feel like other people. Has that occurred to you? . . . " He -looked up at last . . . "Mrs. Anthony, I can't bear the sight of -the fellow." She met his eyes without flinching and he added, "You -want to go to him now." His mild automatic manner seemed the effect -of tremendous self-restraint--and yet she remembered him always like -that. She felt cold all over. - -"Why, of course, I must go to him," she said with a slight start. - -He gnashed his teeth at her and she went out. - -Anthony had not moved from the spot. One of his hands was resting -on the table. She went up to him, stopped, then deliberately moved -still closer. "Thank you, Roderick." - -"You needn't thank me," he murmured. "It's I who . . . " - -"No, perhaps I needn't. You do what you like. But you are doing it -well." - -He sighed then hardly above a whisper because they were near the -state-room door, "Upset, eh?" - -She made no sign, no sound of any kind. The thorough falseness of -the position weighed on them both. But he was the braver of the -two. "I dare say. At first. Did you think of telling him you were -happy?" - -"He never asked me," she smiled faintly at him. She was -disappointed by his quietness. "I did not say more than I was -absolutely obliged to say--of myself." She was beginning to be -irritated with this man a little. "I told him I had been very -lucky," she said suddenly despondent, missing Anthony's masterful -manner, that something arbitrary and tender which, after the first -scare, she had accustomed herself to look forward to with -pleasurable apprehension. He was contemplating her rather blankly. -She had not taken off her outdoor things, hat, gloves. She was like -a caller. And she had a movement suggesting the end of a not very -satisfactory business call. "Perhaps it would be just as well if we -went ashore. Time yet." - -He gave her a glimpse of his unconstrained self in the low vehement -"You dare!" which sprang to his lips and out of them with a most -menacing inflexion. - -"You dare . . . What's the matter now?" - -These last words were shot out not at her but at some target behind -her back. Looking over her shoulder she saw the bald head with -black bunches of hair of the congested and devoted Franklin (he had -his cap in his hand) gazing sentimentally from the saloon doorway -with his lobster eyes. He was heard from the distance in a tone of -injured innocence reporting that the berthing master was alongside -and that he wanted to move the ship into the basin before the crew -came on board. - -His captain growled "Well, let him," and waved away the ulcerated -and pathetic soul behind these prominent eyes which lingered on the -offensive woman while the mate backed out slowly. Anthony turned to -Flora. - -"You could not have meant it. You are as straight as they make -them." - -"I am trying to be." - -"Then don't joke in that way. Think of what would become of--me." - -"Oh yes. I forgot. No, I didn't mean it. It wasn't a joke. It -was forgetfulness. You wouldn't have been wronged. I couldn't have -gone. I--I am too tired." - -He saw she was swaying where she stood and restrained himself -violently from taking her into his arms, his frame trembling with -fear as though he had been tempted to an act of unparalleled -treachery. He stepped aside and lowering his eyes pointed to the -door of the stern-cabin. It was only after she passed by him that -he looked up and thus he did not see the angry glance she gave him -before she moved on. He looked after her. She tottered slightly -just before reaching the door and flung it to behind her nervously. - -Anthony--he had felt this crash as if the door had been slammed -inside his very breast--stood for a moment without moving and then -shouted for Mrs. Brown. This was the steward's wife, his lucky -inspiration to make Flora comfortable. "Mrs. Brown! Mrs. Brown!" -At last she appeared from somewhere. "Mrs. Anthony has come on -board. Just gone into the cabin. Hadn't you better see if you can -be of any assistance?" - -"Yes, sir." - -And again he was alone with the situation he had created in the -hardihood and inexperience of his heart. He thought he had better -go on deck. In fact he ought to have been there before. At any -rate it would be the usual thing for him to be on deck. But a sound -of muttering and of faint thuds somewhere near by arrested his -attention. They proceeded from Mr. Smith's room, he perceived. It -was very extraordinary. "He's talking to himself," he thought. "He -seems to be thumping the bulkhead with his fists--or his head." - -Anthony's eyes grew big with wonder while he listened to these -noises. He became so attentive that he did not notice Mrs. Brown -till she actually stopped before him for a moment to say: - -"Mrs. Anthony doesn't want any assistance, sir." - - -This was you understand the voyage before Mr. Powell--young Powell -then--joined the Ferndale; chance having arranged that he should get -his start in life in that particular ship of all the ships then in -the port of London. The most unrestful ship that ever sailed out of -any port on earth. I am not alluding to her sea-going qualities. -Mr. Powell tells me she was as steady as a church. I mean unrestful -in the sense, for instance in which this planet of ours is -unrestful--a matter of an uneasy atmosphere disturbed by passions, -jealousies, loves, hates and the troubles of transcendental good -intentions, which, though ethically valuable, I have no doubt cause -often more unhappiness than the plots of the most evil tendency. -For those who refuse to believe in chance he, I mean Mr. Powell, -must have been obviously predestined to add his native ingenuousness -to the sum of all the others carried by the honest ship Ferndale. -He was too ingenuous. Everybody on board was, exception being made -of Mr. Smith who, however, was simple enough in his way, with that -terrible simplicity of the fixed idea, for which there is also -another name men pronounce with dread and aversion. His fixed idea -was to save his girl from the man who had possessed himself of her -(I use these words on purpose because the image they suggest was -clearly in Mr. Smith's mind), possessed himself unfairly of her -while he, the father, was locked up. - -"I won't rest till I have got you away from that man," he would -murmur to her after long periods of contemplation. We know from -Powell how he used to sit on the skylight near the long deck-chair -on which Flora was reclining, gazing into her face from above with -an air of guardianship and investigation at the same time. - -It is almost impossible to say if he ever had considered the event -rationally. The avatar of de Barral into Mr. Smith had not been -effected without a shock--that much one must recognize. It may be -that it drove all practical considerations out of his mind, making -room for awful and precise visions which nothing could dislodge -afterwards. - -And it might have been the tenacity, the unintelligent tenacity, of -the man who had persisted in throwing millions of other people's -thrift into the Lone Valley Railway, the Labrador Docks, the Spotted -Leopard Copper Mine, and other grotesque speculations exposed during -the famous de Barral trial, amongst murmurs of astonishment mingled -with bursts of laughter. For it is in the Courts of Law that Comedy -finds its last refuge in our deadly serious world. As to tears and -lamentations, these were not heard in the august precincts of -comedy, because they were indulged in privately in several thousand -homes, where, with a fine dramatic effect, hunger had taken the -place of Thrift. - -But there was one at least who did not laugh in court. That person -was the accused. The notorious de Barral did not laugh because he -was indignant. He was impervious to words, to facts, to inferences. -It would have been impossible to make him see his guilt or his -folly--either by evidence or argument--if anybody had tried to -argue. - -Neither did his daughter Flora try to argue with him. The cruelty -of her position was so great, its complications so thorny, if I may -express myself so, that a passive attitude was yet her best refuge-- -as it had been before her of so many women. - -For that sort of inertia in woman is always enigmatic and therefore -menacing. It makes one pause. A woman may be a fool, a sleepy -fool, an agitated fool, a too awfully noxious fool, and she may even -be simply stupid. But she is never dense. She's never made of wood -through and through as some men are. There is in woman always, -somewhere, a spring. Whatever men don't know about women (and it -may be a lot or it may be very little) men and even fathers do know -that much. And that is why so many men are afraid of them. - -Mr. Smith I believe was afraid of his daughter's quietness though of -course he interpreted it in his own way. - -He would, as Mr. Powell depicts, sit on the skylight and bend over -the reclining girl, wondering what there was behind the lost gaze -under the darkened eyelids in the still eyes. He would look and -look and then he would say, whisper rather, it didn't take much for -his voice to drop to a mere breath--he would declare, transferring -his faded stare to the horizon, that he would never rest till he had -"got her away from that man." - -"You don't know what you are saying, papa." - -She would try not to show her weariness, the nervous strain of these -two men's antagonism around her person which was the cause of her -languid attitudes. For as a matter of fact the sea agreed with her. - -As likely as not Anthony would be walking on the other side of the -deck. The strain was making him restless. He couldn't sit still -anywhere. He had tried shutting himself up in his cabin; but that -was no good. He would jump up to rush on deck and tramp, tramp up -and down that poop till he felt ready to drop, without being able to -wear down the agitation of his soul, generous indeed, but weighted -by its envelope of blood and muscle and bone; handicapped by the -brain creating precise images and everlastingly speculating, -speculating--looking out for signs, watching for symptoms. - -And Mr. Smith with a slight backward jerk of his small head at the -footsteps on the other side of the skylight would insist in his -awful, hopelessly gentle voice that he knew very well what he was -saying. Hadn't she given herself to that man while he was locked -up. - -"Helpless, in jail, with no one to think of, nothing to look forward -to, but my daughter. And then when they let me out at last I find -her gone--for it amounts to this. Sold. Because you've sold -yourself; you know you have." - -With his round unmoved face, a lot of fine white hair waving in the -wind-eddies of the spanker, his glance levelled over the sea he -seemed to be addressing the universe across her reclining form. She -would protest sometimes. - -"I wish you would not talk like this, papa. You are only tormenting -me, and tormenting yourself." - -"Yes, I am tormented enough," he admitted meaningly. But it was not -talking about it that tormented him. It was thinking of it. And to -sit and look at it was worse for him than it possibly could have -been for her to go and give herself up, bad as that must have been. - -"For of course you suffered. Don't tell me you didn't? You must -have." - -She had renounced very soon all attempts at protests. It was -useless. It might have made things worse; and she did not want to -quarrel with her father, the only human being that really cared for -her, absolutely, evidently, completely--to the end. There was in -him no pity, no generosity, nothing whatever of these fine things-- -it was for her, for her very own self such as it was, that this -human being cared. This certitude would have made her put up with -worse torments. For, of course, she too was being tormented. She -felt also helpless, as if the whole enterprise had been too much for -her. This is the sort of conviction which makes for quietude. She -was becoming a fatalist. - -What must have been rather appalling were the necessities of daily -life, the intercourse of current trifles. That naturally had to go -on. They wished good morning to each other, they sat down together -to meals--and I believe there would be a game of cards now and then -in the evening, especially at first. What frightened her most was -the duplicity of her father, at least what looked like duplicity, -when she remembered his persistent, insistent whispers on deck. -However her father was a taciturn person as far back as she could -remember him best--on the Parade. It was she who chattered, never -troubling herself to discover whether he was pleased or displeased. -And now she couldn't fathom his thoughts. Neither did she chatter -to him. Anthony with a forced friendly smile as if frozen to his -lips seemed only too thankful at not being made to speak. Mr. Smith -sometimes forgot himself while studying his hand so long that Flora -had to recall him to himself by a murmured "Papa--your lead." Then -he apologized by a faint as if inward ejaculation "Beg your pardon, -Captain." Naturally she addressed Anthony as Roderick and he -addressed her as Flora. This was all the acting that was necessary -to judge from the wincing twitch of the old man's mouth at every -uttered "Flora." On hearing the rare "Rodericks" he had sometimes a -scornful grimace as faint and faded and colourless as his whole -stiff personality. - -He would be the first to retire. He was not infirm. With him too -the life on board ship seemed to agree; but from a sense of duty, of -affection, or to placate his hidden fury, his daughter always -accompanied him to his state-room "to make him comfortable." She -lighted his lamp, helped him into his dressing-gown or got him a -book from a bookcase fitted in there--but this last rarely, because -Mr. Smith used to declare "I am no reader" with something like pride -in his low tones. Very often after kissing her good-night on the -forehead he would treat her to some such fretful remark: "It's like -being in jail--'pon my word. I suppose that man is out there -waiting for you. Head jailer! Ough!" - -She would smile vaguely; murmur a conciliatory "How absurd." But -once, out of patience, she said quite sharply "Leave off. It hurts -me. One would think you hate me." - -"It isn't you I hate," he went on monotonously breathing at her. -"No, it isn't you. But if I saw that you loved that man I think I -could hate you too." - -That word struck straight at her heart. "You wouldn't be the first -then," she muttered bitterly. But he was busy with his fixed idea -and uttered an awfully equable "But you don't! Unfortunate girl!" - -She looked at him steadily for a time then said "Good-night, papa." - -As a matter of fact Anthony very seldom waited for her alone at the -table with the scattered cards, glasses, water-jug, bottles and -soon. He took no more opportunities to be alone with her than was -absolutely necessary for the edification of Mrs. Brown. Excellent, -faithful woman; the wife of his still more excellent and faithful -steward. And Flora wished all these excellent people, devoted to -Anthony, she wished them all further; and especially the nice, -pleasant-spoken Mrs. Brown with her beady, mobile eyes and her "Yes -certainly, ma'am," which seemed to her to have a mocking sound. And -so this short trip--to the Western Islands only--came to an end. It -was so short that when young Powell joined the Ferndale by a -memorable stroke of chance, no more than seven months had elapsed -since the--let us say the liberation of the convict de Barral and -his avatar into Mr. Smith. - - -For the time the ship was loading in London Anthony took a cottage -near a little country station in Essex, to house Mr. Smith and Mr. -Smith's daughter. It was altogether his idea. How far it was -necessary for Mr. Smith to seek rural retreat I don't know. Perhaps -to some extent it was a judicious arrangement. There were some -obligations incumbent on the liberated de Barral (in connection with -reporting himself to the police I imagine) which Mr. Smith was not -anxious to perform. De Barral had to vanish; the theory was that de -Barral had vanished, and it had to be upheld. Poor Flora liked the -country, even if the spot had nothing more to recommend it than its -retired character. - -Now and then Captain Anthony ran down; but as the station was a real -wayside one, with no early morning trains up, he could never stay -for more than the afternoon. It appeared that he must sleep in town -so as to be early on board his ship. The weather was magnificent -and whenever the captain of the Ferndale was seen on a brilliant -afternoon coming down the road Mr. Smith would seize his stick and -toddle off for a solitary walk. But whether he would get tired or -because it gave him some satisfaction to see "that man" go away--or -for some cunning reason of his own, he was always back before the -hour of Anthony's departure. On approaching the cottage he would -see generally "that man" lying on the grass in the orchard at some -distance from his daughter seated in a chair brought out of the -cottage's living room. Invariably Mr. Smith made straight for them -and as invariably had the feeling that his approach was not -disturbing a very intimate conversation. He sat with them, through -a silent hour or so, and then it would be time for Anthony to go. -Mr. Smith, perhaps from discretion, would casually vanish a minute -or so before, and then watch through the diamond panes of an -upstairs room "that man" take a lingering look outside the gate at -the invisible Flora, lift his hat, like a caller, and go off down -the road. Then only Mr. Smith would join his daughter again. - -These were the bad moments for her. Not always, of course, but -frequently. It was nothing extraordinary to hear Mr. Smith begin -gently with some observation like this: - -"That man is getting tired of you." - -He would never pronounce Anthony's name. It was always "that man." - -Generally she would remain mute with wide open eyes gazing at -nothing between the gnarled fruit trees. Once, however, she got up -and walked into the cottage. Mr. Smith followed her carrying the -chair. He banged it down resolutely and in that smooth inexpressive -tone so many ears used to bend eagerly to catch when it came from -the Great de Barral he said: - -"Let's get away." - -She had the strength of mind not to spin round. On the contrary she -went on to a shabby bit of a mirror on the wall. In the greenish -glass her own face looked far off like the livid face of a drowned -corpse at the bottom of a pool. She laughed faintly. - -"I tell you that man's getting--" - -"Papa," she interrupted him. "I have no illusions as to myself. It -has happened to me before but--" - -Her voice failing her suddenly her father struck in with quite an -unwonted animation. "Let's make a rush for it, then." - -Having mastered both her fright and her bitterness, she turned -round, sat down and allowed her astonishment to be seen. Mr. Smith -sat down too, his knees together and bent at right angles, his thin -legs parallel to each other and his hands resting on the arms of the -wooden arm-chair. His hair had grown long, his head was set -stiffly, there was something fatuously venerable in his aspect. - -"You can't care for him. Don't tell me. I understand your motive. -And I have called you an unfortunate girl. You are that as much as -if you had gone on the streets. Yes. Don't interrupt me, Flora. I -was everlastingly being interrupted at the trial and I can't stand -it any more. I won't be interrupted by my own child. And when I -think that it is on the very day before they let me out that you . . -. " - -He had wormed this fact out of her by that time because Flora had -got tired of evading the question. He had been very much struck and -distressed. Was that the trust she had in him? Was that a proof of -confidence and love? The very day before! Never given him even -half a chance. It was as at the trial. They never gave him a -chance. They would not give him time. And there was his own -daughter acting exactly as his bitterest enemies had done. Not -giving him time! - -The monotony of that subdued voice nearly lulled her dismay to -sleep. She listened to the unavoidable things he was saying. - -"But what induced that man to marry you? Of course he's a -gentleman. One can see that. And that makes it worse. Gentlemen -don't understand anything about city affairs--finance. Why!--the -people who started the cry after me were a firm of gentlemen. The -counsel, the judge--all gentlemen--quite out of it! No notion of . -. . And then he's a sailor too. Just a skipper--" - -"My grandfather was nothing else," she interrupted. And he made an -angular gesture of impatience. - -"Yes. But what does a silly sailor know of business? Nothing. No -conception. He can have no idea of what it means to be the daughter -of Mr. de Barral--even after his enemies had smashed him. What on -earth induced him--" - -She made a movement because the level voice was getting on her -nerves. And he paused, but only to go on again in the same tone -with the remark: - -"Of course you are pretty. And that's why you are lost--like many -other poor girls. Unfortunate is the word for you." - -She said: "It may be. Perhaps it is the right word; but listen, -papa. I mean to be honest." - -He began to exhale more speeches. - -"Just the sort of man to get tired and then leave you and go off -with his beastly ship. And anyway you can never be happy with him. -Look at his face. I want to save you. You see I was not perhaps a -very good husband to your poor mother. She would have done better -to have left me long before she died. I have been thinking it all -over. I won't have you unhappy." - -He ran his eyes over her with an attention which was surprisingly -noticeable. Then said, "H'm! Yes. Let's clear out before it is -too late. Quietly, you and I." - -She said as if inspired and with that calmness which despair often -gives: "There is no money to go away with, papa." - -He rose up straightening himself as though he were a hinged figure. -She said decisively: - -"And of course you wouldn't think of deserting me, papa?" - -"Of course not," sounded his subdued tone. And he left her, gliding -away with his walk which Mr. Powell described to me as being as -level and wary as his voice. He walked as if he were carrying a -glass full of water on his head. - -Flora naturally said nothing to Anthony of that edifying -conversation. His generosity might have taken alarm at it and she -did not want to be left behind to manage her father alone. And -moreover she was too honest. She would be honest at whatever cost. -She would not be the first to speak. Never. And the thought came -into her head: "I am indeed an unfortunate creature!" - -It was by the merest coincidence that Anthony coming for the -afternoon two days later had a talk with Mr. Smith in the orchard. -Flora for some reason or other had left them for a moment; and -Anthony took that opportunity to be frank with Mr. Smith. He said: -"It seems to me, sir, that you think Flora has not done very well -for herself. Well, as to that I can't say anything. All I want you -to know is that I have tried to do the right thing." And then he -explained that he had willed everything he was possessed of to her. -"She didn't tell you, I suppose?" - -Mr. Smith shook his head slightly. And Anthony, trying to be -friendly, was just saying that he proposed to keep the ship away -from home for at least two years. "I think, sir, that from every -point of view it would be best," when Flora came back and the -conversation, cut short in that direction, languished and died. -Later in the evening, after Anthony had been gone for hours, on the -point of separating for the night, Mr. Smith remarked suddenly to -his daughter after a long period of brooding: - -"A will is nothing. One tears it up. One makes another." Then -after reflecting for a minute he added unemotionally: - -"One tells lies about it." - -Flora, patient, steeled against every hurt and every disgust to the -point of wondering at herself, said: "You push your dislike of--of- --Roderick too far, papa. You have no regard for me. You hurt me." - -He, as ever inexpressive to the point of terrifying her sometimes by -the contrast of his placidity and his words, turned away from her a -pair of faded eyes. - -"I wonder how far your dislike goes," he began. "His very name -sticks in your throat. I've noticed it. It hurts me. What do you -think of that? You might remember that you are not the only person -that's hurt by your folly, by your hastiness, by your recklessness." -He brought back his eyes to her face. "And the very day before they -were going to let me out." His feeble voice failed him altogether, -the narrow compressed lips only trembling for a time before he added -with that extraordinary equanimity of tone, "I call it sinful." - -Flora made no answer. She judged it simpler, kinder and certainly -safer to let him talk himself out. This, Mr. Smith, being naturally -taciturn, never took very long to do. And we must not imagine that -this sort of thing went on all the time. She had a few good days in -that cottage. The absence of Anthony was a relief and his visits -were pleasurable. She was quieter. He was quieter too. She was -almost sorry when the time to join the ship arrived. It was a -moment of anguish, of excitement; they arrived at the dock in the -evening and Flora after "making her father comfortable" according to -established usage lingered in the state-room long enough to notice -that he was surprised. She caught his pale eyes observing her quite -stonily. Then she went out after a cheery good-night. - -Contrary to her hopes she found Anthony yet in the saloon. Sitting -in his arm-chair at the head of the table he was picking up some -business papers which he put hastily in his breast pocket and got -up. He asked her if her day, travelling up to town and then doing -some shopping, had tired her. She shook her head. Then he wanted -to know in a half-jocular way how she felt about going away, and for -a long voyage this time. - -"Does it matter how I feel?" she asked in a tone that cast a gloom -over his face. He answered with repressed violence which she did -not expect: - -"No, it does not matter, because I cannot go without you. I've told -you . . . You know it. You don't think I could." - -"I assure you I haven't the slightest wish to evade my obligations," -she said steadily. "Even if I could. Even if I dared, even if I -had to die for it!" - -He looked thunderstruck. They stood facing each other at the end of -the saloon. Anthony stuttered. "Oh no. You won't die. You don't -mean it. You have taken kindly to the sea." - -She laughed, but she felt angry. - -"No, I don't mean it. I tell you I don't mean to evade my -obligations. I shall live on . . . feeling a little crushed, -nevertheless." - -"Crushed!" he repeated. "What's crushing you?" - -"Your magnanimity," she said sharply. But her voice was softened -after a time. "Yet I don't know. There is a perfection in it--do -you understand me, Roderick?--which makes it almost possible to -bear." - -He sighed, looked away, and remarked that it was time to put out the -lamp in the saloon. The permission was only till ten o'clock. - -"But you needn't mind that so much in your cabin. Just see that the -curtains of the ports are drawn close and that's all. The steward -might have forgotten to do it. He lighted your reading lamp in -there before he went ashore for a last evening with his wife. I -don't know if it was wise to get rid of Mrs. Brown. You will have -to look after yourself, Flora." - -He was quite anxious; but Flora as a matter of fact congratulated -herself on the absence of Mrs. Brown. No sooner had she closed the -door of her state-room than she murmured fervently, "Yes! Thank -goodness, she is gone." There would be no gentle knock, followed by -her appearance with her equivocal stare and the intolerable: "Can I -do anything for you, ma'am?" which poor Flora had learned to fear -and hate more than any voice or any words on board that ship--her -only refuge from the world which had no use for her, for her -imperfections and for her troubles. - - -Mrs. Brown had been very much vexed at her dismissal. The Browns -were a childless couple and the arrangement had suited them -perfectly. Their resentment was very bitter. Mrs. Brown had to -remain ashore alone with her rage, but the steward was nursing his -on board. Poor Flora had no greater enemy, the aggrieved mate had -no greater sympathizer. And Mrs. Brown, with a woman's quick power -of observation and inference (the putting of two and two together) -had come to a certain conclusion which she had imparted to her -husband before leaving the ship. The morose steward permitted -himself once to make an allusion to it in Powell's hearing. It was -in the officers' mess-room at the end of a meal while he lingered -after putting a fruit pie on the table. He and the chief mate -started a dialogue about the alarming change in the captain, the -sallow steward looking down with a sinister frown, Franklin rolling -upwards his eyes, sentimental in a red face. Young Powell had heard -a lot of that sort of thing by that time. It was growing -monotonous; it had always sounded to him a little absurd. He struck -in impatiently with the remark that such lamentations over a man -merely because he had taken a wife seemed to him like lunacy. - -Franklin muttered, "Depends on what the wife is up to." The steward -leaning against the bulkhead near the door glowered at Powell, that -newcomer, that ignoramus, that stranger without right or privileges. -He snarled: - -"Wife! Call her a wife, do you?" - -"What the devil do you mean by this?" exclaimed young Powell. - -"I know what I know. My old woman has not been six months on board -for nothing. You had better ask her when we get back." - -And meeting sullenly the withering stare of Mr. Powell the steward -retreated backwards. - -Our young friend turned at once upon the mate. "And you let that -confounded bottle-washer talk like this before you, Mr. Franklin. -Well, I am astonished." - -"Oh, it isn't what you think. It isn't what you think." Mr. -Franklin looked more apoplectic than ever. "If it comes to that I -could astonish you. But it's no use. I myself can hardly . . . You -couldn't understand. I hope you won't try to make mischief. There -was a time, young fellow, when I would have dared any man--any man, -you hear?--to make mischief between me and Captain Anthony. But not -now. Not now. There's a change! Not in me though . . . " - -Young Powell rejected with indignation any suggestion of making -mischief. "Who do you take me for?" he cried. "Only you had better -tell that steward to be careful what he says before me or I'll spoil -his good looks for him for a month and will leave him to explain the -why of it to the captain the best way he can." - -This speech established Powell as a champion of Mrs. Anthony. -Nothing more bearing on the question was ever said before him. He -did not care for the steward's black looks; Franklin, never -conversational even at the best of times and avoiding now the only -topic near his heart, addressed him only on matters of duty. And -for that, too, Powell cared very little. The woes of the apoplectic -mate had begun to bore him long before. Yet he felt lonely a bit at -times. Therefore the little intercourse with Mrs. Anthony either in -one dog-watch or the other was something to be looked forward to. -The captain did not mind it. That was evident from his manner. One -night he inquired (they were then alone on the poop) what they had -been talking about that evening? Powell had to confess that it was -about the ship. Mrs. Anthony had been asking him questions. - -"Takes interest--eh?" jerked out the captain moving rapidly up and -down the weather side of the poop. - -"Yes, sir. Mrs. Anthony seems to get hold wonderfully of what one's -telling her." - -"Sailor's granddaughter. One of the old school. Old sea-dog of the -best kind, I believe," ejaculated the captain, swinging past his -motionless second officer and leaving the words behind him like a -trail of sparks succeeded by a perfect conversational darkness, -because, for the next two hours till he left the deck, he didn't -open his lips again. - -On another occasion . . . we mustn't forget that the ship had -crossed the line and was adding up south latitude every day by then -. . . on another occasion, about seven in the evening, Powell on -duty, heard his name uttered softly in the companion. The captain -was on the stairs, thin-faced, his eyes sunk, on his arm a Shetland -wool wrap. - -"Mr. Powell--here." - -"Yes, sir." - -"Give this to Mrs. Anthony. Evenings are getting chilly." - -And the haggard face sank out of sight. Mrs. Anthony was surprised -on seeing the shawl. - -"The captain wants you to put this on," explained young Powell, and -as she raised herself in her seat he dropped it on her shoulders. -She wrapped herself up closely. - -"Where was the captain?" she asked. - -"He was in the companion. Called me on purpose," said Powell, and -then retreated discreetly, because she looked as though she didn't -want to talk any more that evening. Mr. Smith--the old gentleman-- -was as usual sitting on the skylight near her head, brooding over -the long chair but by no means inimical, as far as his unreadable -face went, to those conversations of the two youngest people on -board. In fact they seemed to give him some pleasure. Now and then -he would raise his faded china eyes to the animated face of Mr. -Powell thoughtfully. When the young sailor was by, the old man -became less rigid, and when his daughter, on rare occasions, smiled -at some artless tale of Mr. Powell, the inexpressive face of Mr. -Smith reflected dimly that flash of evanescent mirth. For Mr. -Powell had come now to entertain his captain's wife with anecdotes -from the not very distant past when he was a boy, on board various -ships,--funny things do happen on board ship. Flora was quite -surprised at times to find herself amused. She was even heard to -laugh twice in the course of a month. It was not a loud sound but -it was startling enough at the after-end of the Ferndale where low -tones or silence were the rule. The second time this happened the -captain himself must have been startled somewhere down below; -because he emerged from the depths of his unobtrusive existence and -began his tramping on the opposite side of the poop. - -Almost immediately he called his young second officer over to him. -This was not done in displeasure. The glance he fastened on Mr. -Powell conveyed a sort of approving wonder. He engaged him in -desultory conversation as if for the only purpose of keeping a man -who could provoke such a sound, near his person. Mr. Powell felt -himself liked. He felt it. Liked by that haggard, restless man who -threw at him disconnected phrases to which his answers were, "Yes, -sir," "No, sir," "Oh, certainly," "I suppose so, sir,"--and might -have been clearly anything else for all the other cared. - -It was then, Mr. Powell told me, that he discovered in himself an -already old-established liking for Captain Anthony. He also felt -sorry for him without being able to discover the origins of that -sympathy of which he had become so suddenly aware. - -Meantime Mr. Smith, bending forward stiffly as though he had a -hinged back, was speaking to his daughter. - -She was a child no longer. He wanted to know if she believed in--in -hell. In eternal punishment? - -His peculiar voice, as if filtered through cotton-wool was inaudible -on the other side of the deck. Poor Flora, taken very much -unawares, made an inarticulate murmur, shook her head vaguely, and -glanced in the direction of the pacing Anthony who was not looking -her way. It was no use glancing in that direction. Of young -Powell, leaning against the mizzen-mast and facing his captain she -could only see the shoulder and part of a blue serge back. - -And the unworried, unaccented voice of her father went on tormenting -her. - -"You see, you must understand. When I came out of jail it was with -joy. That is, my soul was fairly torn in two--but anyway to see you -happy--I had made up my mind to that. Once I could be sure that you -were happy then of course I would have had no reason to care for -life--strictly speaking--which is all right for an old man; though -naturally . . . no reason to wish for death either. But this sort -of life! What sense, what meaning, what value has it either for you -or for me? It's just sitting down to look at the death, that's -coming, coming. What else is it? I don't know how you can put up -with that. I don't think you can stand it for long. Some day you -will jump overboard." - -Captain Anthony had stopped for a moment staring ahead from the -break of the poop, and poor Flora sent at his back a look of -despairing appeal which would have moved a heart of stone. But as -though she had done nothing he did not stir in the least. She got -out of the long chair and went towards the companion. Her father -followed carrying a few small objects, a handbag, her handkerchief, -a book. They went down together. - -It was only then that Captain Anthony turned, looked at the place -they had vacated and resumed his tramping, but not his desultory -conversation with his second officer. His nervous exasperation had -grown so much that now very often he used to lose control of his -voice. If he did not watch himself it would suddenly die in his -throat. He had to make sure before he ventured on the simplest -saying, an order, a remark on the wind, a simple good-morning. -That's why his utterance was abrupt, his answers to people -startlingly brusque and often not forthcoming at all. - -It happens to the most resolute of men to find himself at grips not -only with unknown forces, but with a well-known force the real might -of which he had not understood. Anthony had discovered that he was -not the proud master but the chafing captive of his generosity. It -rose in front of him like a wall which his respect for himself -forbade him to scale. He said to himself: "Yes, I was a fool--but -she has trusted me!" Trusted! A terrible word to any man somewhat -exceptional in a world in which success has never been found in -renunciation and good faith. And it must also be said, in order not -to make Anthony more stupidly sublime than he was, that the -behaviour of Flora kept him at a distance. The girl was afraid to -add to the exasperation of her father. It was her unhappy lot to be -made more wretched by the only affection which she could not -suspect. She could not be angry with it, however, and out of -deference for that exaggerated sentiment she hardly dared to look -otherwise than by stealth at the man whose masterful compassion had -carried her off. And quite unable to understand the extent of -Anthony's delicacy, she said to herself that "he didn't care." He -probably was beginning at bottom to detest her--like the governess, -like the maiden lady, like the German woman, like Mrs. Fyne, like -Mr. Fyne--only he was extraordinary, he was generous. At the same -time she had moments of irritation. He was violent, headstrong-- -perhaps stupid. Well, he had had his way. - -A man who has had his way is seldom happy, for generally he finds -that the way does not lead very far on this earth of desires which -can never be fully satisfied. Anthony had entered with extreme -precipitation the enchanted gardens of Armida saying to himself "At -last!" As to Armida, herself, he was not going to offer her any -violence. But now he had discovered that all the enchantment was in -Armida herself, in Armida's smiles. This Armida did not smile. She -existed, unapproachable, behind the blank wall of his renunciation. -His force, fit for action, experienced the impatience, the -indignation, almost the despair of his vitality arrested, bound, -stilled, progressively worn down, frittered away by Time; by that -force blind and insensible, which seems inert and yet uses one's -life up by its imperceptible action, dropping minute after minute on -one's living heart like drops of water wearing down a stone. - -He upbraided himself. What else could he have expected? He had -rushed in like a ruffian; he had dragged the poor defenceless thing -by the hair of her head, as it were, on board that ship. It was -really atrocious. Nothing assured him that his person could be -attractive to this or any other woman. And his proceedings were -enough in themselves to make anyone odious. He must have been -bereft of his senses. She must fatally detest and fear him. -Nothing could make up for such brutality. And yet somehow he -resented this very attitude which seemed to him completely -justifiable. Surely he was not too monstrous (morally) to be looked -at frankly sometimes. But no! She wouldn't. Well, perhaps, some -day . . . Only he was not going ever to attempt to beg for -forgiveness. With the repulsion she felt for his person she would -certainly misunderstand the most guarded words, the most careful -advances. Never! Never! - -It would occur to Anthony at the end of such meditations that death -was not an unfriendly visitor after all. No wonder then that even -young Powell, his faculties having been put on the alert, began to -think that there was something unusual about the man who had given -him his chance in life. Yes, decidedly, his captain was "strange." -There was something wrong somewhere, he said to himself, never -guessing that his young and candid eyes were in the presence of a -passion profound, tyrannical and mortal, discovering its own -existence, astounded at feeling itself helpless and dismayed at -finding itself incurable. - -Powell had never before felt this mysterious uneasiness so strongly -as on that evening when it had been his good fortune to make Mrs. -Anthony laugh a little by his artless prattle. Standing out of the -way, he had watched his captain walk the weather-side of the poop, -he took full cognizance of his liking for that inexplicably strange -man and saw him swerve towards the companion and go down below with -sympathetic if utterly uncomprehending eyes. - -Shortly afterwards, Mr. Smith came up alone and manifested a desire -for a little conversation. He, too, if not so mysterious as the -captain, was not very comprehensible to Mr. Powell's uninformed -candour. He often favoured thus the second officer. His talk -alluded somewhat enigmatically and often without visible connection -to Mr. Powell's friendliness towards himself and his daughter. "For -I am well aware that we have no friends on board this ship, my dear -young man," he would add, "except yourself. Flora feels that too." - -And Mr. Powell, flattered and embarrassed, could but emit a vague -murmur of protest. For the statement was true in a sense, though -the fact was in itself insignificant. The feelings of the ship's -company could not possibly matter to the captain's wife and to Mr. -Smith--her father. Why the latter should so often allude to it was -what surprised our Mr. Powell. This was by no means the first -occasion. More like the twentieth rather. And in his weak voice, -with his monotonous intonation, leaning over the rail and looking at -the water the other continued this conversation, or rather his -remarks, remarks of such a monstrous nature that Mr. Powell had no -option but to accept them for gruesome jesting. - -"For instance," said Mr. Smith, "that mate, Franklin, I believe he -would just as soon see us both overboard as not." - -"It's not so bad as that," laughed Mr. Powell, feeling -uncomfortable, because his mind did not accommodate itself easily to -exaggeration of statement. "He isn't a bad chap really," he added, -very conscious of Mr. Franklin's offensive manner of which instances -were not far to seek. "He's such a fool as to be jealous. He has -been with the captain for years. It's not for me to say, perhaps, -but I think the captain has spoiled all that gang of old servants. -They are like a lot of pet old dogs. Wouldn't let anybody come near -him if they could help it. I've never seen anything like it. And -the second mate, I believe, was like that too." - -"Well, he isn't here, luckily. There would have been one more -enemy," said Mr. Smith. "There's enough of them without him. And -you being here instead of him makes it much more pleasant for my -daughter and myself. One feels there may be a friend in need. For -really, for a woman all alone on board ship amongst a lot of -unfriendly men . . . " - -"But Mrs Anthony is not alone," exclaimed Powell. "There's you, and -there's the . . . " - -Mr. Smith interrupted him. - -"Nobody's immortal. And there are times when one feels ashamed to -live. Such an evening as this for instance." - -It was a lovely evening; the colours of a splendid sunset had died -out and the breath of a warm breeze seemed to have smoothed out the -sea. Away to the south the sheet lightning was like the flashing of -an enormous lantern hidden under the horizon. In order to change -the conversation Mr. Powell said: - -"Anyway no one can charge you with being a Jonah, Mr. Smith. We -have had a magnificent quick passage so far. The captain ought to -be pleased. And I suppose you are not sorry either." - -This diversion was not successful. Mr. Smith emitted a sort of -bitter chuckle and said: "Jonah! That's the fellow that was thrown -overboard by some sailors. It seems to me it's very easy at sea to -get rid of a person one does not like. The sea does not give up its -dead as the earth does." - -"You forget the whale, sir," said young Powell. - -Mr. Smith gave a start. "Eh? What whale? Oh! Jonah. I wasn't -thinking of Jonah. I was thinking of this passage which seems so -quick to you. But only think what it is to me? It isn't a life, -going about the sea like this. And, for instance, if one were to -fall ill, there isn't a doctor to find out what's the matter with -one. It's worrying. It makes me anxious at times." - -"Is Mrs. Anthony not feeling well?" asked Powell. But Mr. Smith's -remark was not meant for Mrs. Anthony. She was well. He himself -was well. It was the captain's health that did not seem quite -satisfactory. Had Mr. Powell noticed his appearance? - -Mr. Powell didn't know enough of the captain to judge. He couldn't -tell. But he observed thoughtfully that Mr. Franklin had been -saying the same thing. And Franklin had known the captain for -years. The mate was quite worried about it. - -This intelligence startled Mr. Smith considerably. "Does he think -he is in danger of dying?" he exclaimed with an animation quite -extraordinary for him, which horrified Mr. Powell. - -"Heavens! Die! No! Don't you alarm yourself, sir. I've never -heard a word about danger from Mr. Franklin." - -"Well, well," sighed Mr. Smith and left the poop for the saloon -rather abruptly. - -As a matter of fact Mr. Franklin had been on deck for some -considerable time. He had come to relieve young Powell; but seeing -him engaged in talk with the "enemy"--with one of the "enemies" at -least--had kept at a distance, which, the poop of the Ferndale being -aver seventy feet long, he had no difficulty in doing. Mr. Powell -saw him at the head of the ladder leaning on his elbow, melancholy -and silent. "Oh! Here you are, sir." - -"Here I am. Here I've been ever since six o'clock. Didn't want to -interrupt the pleasant conversation. If you like to put in half of -your watch below jawing with a dear friend, that's not my affair. -Funny taste though." - -"He isn't a bad chap," said the impartial Powell. - -The mate snorted angrily, tapping the deck with his foot; then: -"Isn't he? Well, give him my love when you come together again for -another nice long yarn." - -"I say, Mr. Franklin, I wonder the captain don't take offence at -your manners." - -"The captain. I wish to goodness he would start a row with me. -Then I should know at least I am somebody on board. I'd welcome it, -Mr. Powell. I'd rejoice. And dam' me I would talk back too till I -roused him. He's a shadow of himself. He walks about his ship like -a ghost. He's fading away right before our eyes. But of course you -don't see. You don't care a hang. Why should you?" - -Mr. Powell did not wait for more. He went down on the main deck. -Without taking the mate's jeremiads seriously he put them beside the -words of Mr. Smith. He had grown already attached to Captain -Anthony. There was something not only attractive but compelling in -the man. Only it is very difficult for youth to believe in the -menace of death. Not in the fact itself, but in its proximity to a -breathing, moving, talking, superior human being, showing no sign of -disease. And Mr. Powell thought that this talk was all nonsense. -But his curiosity was awakened. There was something, and at any -time some circumstance might occur . . . No, he would never find out -. . . There was nothing to find out, most likely. Mr. Powell went -to his room where he tried to read a book he had already read a good -many times. Presently a bell rang for the officers' supper. - - - -CHAPTER SIX--. . . A MOONLESS NIGHT, THICK WITH STARS ABOVE, VERY -DARK ON THE WATER - - - -In the mess-room Powell found Mr. Franklin hacking at a piece of -cold salt beef with a table knife. The mate, fiery in the face and -rolling his eyes over that task, explained that the carver belonging -to the mess-room could not be found. The steward, present also, -complained savagely of the cook. The fellow got things into his -galley and then lost them. Mr. Franklin tried to pacify him with -mournful firmness. - -"There, there! That will do. We who have been all these years -together in the ship have other things to think about than -quarrelling among ourselves." - -Mr. Powell thought with exasperation: "Here he goes again," for -this utterance had nothing cryptic for him. The steward having -withdrawn morosely, he was not surprised to hear the mate strike the -usual note. That morning the mizzen topsail tie had carried away -(probably a defective link) and something like forty feet of chain -and wire-rope, mixed up with a few heavy iron blocks, had crashed -down from aloft on the poop with a terrifying racket. - -"Did you notice the captain then, Mr. Powell. Did you notice?" - -Powell confessed frankly that he was too scared himself when all -that lot of gear came down on deck to notice anything. - -"The gin-block missed his head by an inch," went on the mate -impressively. "I wasn't three feet from him. And what did he do? -Did he shout, or jump, or even look aloft to see if the yard wasn't -coming down too about our ears in a dozen pieces? It's a marvel it -didn't. No, he just stopped short--no wonder; he must have felt the -wind of that iron gin-block on his face--looked down at it, there, -lying close to his foot--and went on again. I believe he didn't -even blink. It isn't natural. The man is stupefied." - -He sighed ridiculously and Mr. Powell had suppressed a grin, when -the mate added as if he couldn't contain himself: - -"He will be taking to drink next. Mark my words. That's the next -thing." - -Mr. Powell was disgusted. - -"You are so fond of the captain and yet you don't seem to care what -you say about him. I haven't been with him for seven years, but I -know he isn't the sort of man that takes to drink. And then--why -the devil should he?" - -"Why the devil, you ask. Devil--eh? Well, no man is safe from the -devil--and that's answer enough for you," wheezed Mr. Franklin not -unkindly. "There was a time, a long time ago, when I nearly took to -drink myself. What do you say to that?" - -Mr. Powell expressed a polite incredulity. The thick, congested -mate seemed on the point of bursting with despondency. "That was -bad example though. I was young and fell into dangerous company, -made a fool of myself--yes, as true as you see me sitting here. -Drank to forget. Thought it a great dodge." - -Powell looked at the grotesque Franklin with awakened interest and -with that half-amused sympathy with which we receive unprovoked -confidences from men with whom we have no sort of affinity. And at -the same time he began to look upon him more seriously. Experience -has its prestige. And the mate continued: - -"If it hadn't been for the old lady, I would have gone to the devil. -I remembered her in time. Nothing like having an old lady to look -after to steady a chap and make him face things. But as bad luck -would have it, Captain Anthony has no mother living, not a blessed -soul belonging to him as far as I know. Oh, aye, I fancy he said -once something to me of a sister. But she's married. She don't -need him. Yes. In the old days he used to talk to me as if we had -been brothers," exaggerated the mate sentimentally. "'Franklin,'-- -he would say--'this ship is my nearest relation and she isn't likely -to turn against me. And I suppose you are the man I've known the -longest in the world.' That's how he used to speak to me. Can I -turn my back on him? He has turned his back on his ship; that's -what it has come to. He has no one now but his old Franklin. But -what's a fellow to do to put things back as they were and should be. -Should be--I say!" - -His starting eyes had a terrible fixity. Mr. Powell's irresistible -thought, "he resembles a boiled lobster in distress," was followed -by annoyance. "Good Lord," he said, "you don't mean to hint that -Captain Anthony has fallen into bad company. What is it you want to -save him from?" - -"I do mean it," affirmed the mate, and the very absurdity of the -statement made it impressive--because it seemed so absolutely -audacious. "Well, you have a cheek," said young Powell, feeling -mentally helpless. "I have a notion the captain would half kill you -if he were to know how you carry on." - -"And welcome," uttered the fervently devoted Franklin. "I am -willing, if he would only clear the ship afterwards of that . . . -You are but a youngster and you may go and tell him what you like. -Let him knock the stuffing out of his old Franklin first and think -it over afterwards. Anything to pull him together. But of course -you wouldn't. You are all right. Only you don't know that things -are sometimes different from what they look. There are friendships -that are no friendships, and marriages that are no marriages. Phoo! -Likely to be right--wasn't it? Never a hint to me. I go off on -leave and when I come back, there it is--all over, settled! Not a -word beforehand. No warning. If only: 'What do you think of it, -Franklin?'--or anything of the sort. And that's a man who hardly -ever did anything without asking my advice. Why! He couldn't take -over a new coat from the tailor without . . . first thing, directly -the fellow came on board with some new clothes, whether in London or -in China, it would be: 'Pass the word along there for Mr. Franklin. -Mr. Franklin wanted in the cabin.' In I would go. 'Just look at my -back, Franklin. Fits all right, doesn't it?' And I would say: -'First rate, sir,' or whatever was the truth of it. That or -anything else. Always the truth of it. Always. And well he knew -it; and that's why he dared not speak right out. Talking about -workmen, alterations, cabins . . . Phoo! . . . instead of a -straightforward--'Wish me joy, Mr. Franklin!' Yes, that was the way -to let me know. God only knows what they are--perhaps she isn't his -daughter any more than she is . . . She doesn't resemble that old -fellow. Not a bit. Not a bit. It's very awful. You may well open -your mouth, young man. But for goodness' sake, you who are mixed up -with that lot, keep your eyes and ears open too in case--in case of -. . . I don't know what. Anything. One wonders what can happen -here at sea! Nothing. Yet when a man is called a jailer behind his -back." - -Mr. Franklin hid his face in his hands for a moment and Powell shut -his mouth, which indeed had been open. He slipped out of the mess- -room noiselessly. "The mate's crazy," he thought. It was his firm -conviction. Nevertheless, that evening, he felt his inner -tranquillity disturbed at last by the force and obstinacy of this -craze. He couldn't dismiss it with the contempt it deserved. Had -the word "jailer" really been pronounced? A strange word for the -mate to even IMAGINE he had heard. A senseless, unlikely word. But -this word being the only clear and definite statement in these -grotesque and dismal ravings was comparatively restful to his mind. -Powell's mind rested on it still when he came up at eight o'clock to -take charge of the deck. It was a moonless night, thick with stars -above, very dark on the water. A steady air from the west kept the -sails asleep. Franklin mustered both watches in low tones as if for -a funeral, then approaching Powell: - -"The course is east-south-east," said the chief mate distinctly. - -"East-south-east, sir." - -"Everything's set, Mr. Powell." - -"All right, sir." - -The other lingered, his sentimental eyes gleamed silvery in the -shadowy face. "A quiet night before us. I don't know that there -are any special orders. A settled, quiet night. I dare say you -won't see the captain. Once upon a time this was the watch he used -to come up and start a chat with either of us then on deck. But now -he sits in that infernal stern-cabin and mopes. Jailer--eh?" - -Mr. Powell walked away from the mate and when at some distance said, -"Damn!" quite heartily. It was a confounded nuisance. It had -ceased to be funny; that hostile word "jailer" had given the -situation an air of reality. - - -Franklin's grotesque mortal envelope had disappeared from the poop -to seek its needful repose, if only the worried soul would let it -rest a while. Mr. Powell, half sorry for the thick little man, -wondered whether it would let him. For himself, he recognized that -the charm of a quiet watch on deck when one may let one's thoughts -roam in space and time had been spoiled without remedy. What -shocked him most was the implied aspersion of complicity on Mrs. -Anthony. It angered him. In his own words to me, he felt very -"enthusiastic" about Mrs. Anthony. "Enthusiastic" is good; -especially as he couldn't exactly explain to me what he meant by it. -But he felt enthusiastic, he says. That silly Franklin must have -been dreaming. That was it. He had dreamed it all. Ass. Yet the -injurious word stuck in Powell's mind with its associated ideas of -prisoner, of escape. He became very uncomfortable. And just then -(it might have been half an hour or more since he had relieved -Franklin) just then Mr. Smith came up on the poop alone, like a -gliding shadow and leaned over the rail by his side. Young Powell -was affected disagreeably by his presence. He made a movement to go -away but the other began to talk--and Powell remained where he was -as if retained by a mysterious compulsion. The conversation started -by Mr. Smith had nothing peculiar. He began to talk of mail-boats -in general and in the end seemed anxious to discover what were the -services from Port Elizabeth to London. Mr. Powell did not know for -certain but imagined that there must be communication with England -at least twice a month. "Are you thinking of leaving us, sir; of -going home by steam? Perhaps with Mrs. Anthony," he asked -anxiously. - -"No! No! How can I?" Mr. Smith got quite agitated, for him, which -did not amount to much. He was just asking for the sake of -something to talk about. No idea at all of going home. One could -not always do what one wanted and that's why there were moments when -one felt ashamed to live. This did not mean that one did not want -to live. Oh no! - -He spoke with careless slowness, pausing frequently and in such a -low voice that Powell had to strain his hearing to catch the phrases -dropped overboard as it were. And indeed they seemed not worth the -effort. It was like the aimless talk of a man pursuing a secret -train of thought far removed from the idle words we so often utter -only to keep in touch with our fellow beings. An hour passed. It -seemed as though Mr. Smith could not make up his mind to go below. -He repeated himself. Again he spoke of lives which one was ashamed -of. It was necessary to put up with such lives as long as there was -no way out, no possible issue. He even alluded once more to mail- -boat services on the East coast of Africa and young Powell had to -tell him once more that he knew nothing about them. - -"Every fortnight, I thought you said," insisted Mr. Smith. He -stirred, seemed to detach himself from the rail with difficulty. -His long, slender figure straightened into stiffness, as if hostile -to the enveloping soft peace of air and sea and sky, emitted into -the night a weak murmur which Mr. Powell fancied was the word, -"Abominable" repeated three times, but which passed into the faintly -louder declaration: "The moment has come--to go to bed," followed -by a just audible sigh. - -"I sleep very well," added Mr. Smith in his restrained tone. "But -it is the moment one opens one's eyes that is horrible at sea. -These days! Oh, these days! I wonder how anybody can . . . " - -"I like the life," observed Mr. Powell. - -"Oh, you. You have only yourself to think of. You have made your -bed. Well, it's very pleasant to feel that you are friendly to us. -My daughter has taken quite a liking to you, Mr. Powell." - -He murmured, "Good-night" and glided away rigidly. Young Powell -asked himself with some distaste what was the meaning of these -utterances. His mind had been worried at last into that questioning -attitude by no other person than the grotesque Franklin. Suspicion -was not natural to him. And he took good care to carefully separate -in his thoughts Mrs. Anthony from this man of enigmatic words--her -father. Presently he observed that the sheen of the two deck dead- -lights of Mr. Smith's room had gone out. The old gentleman had been -surprisingly quick in getting into bed. Shortly afterwards the lamp -in the foremost skylight of the saloon was turned out; and this was -the sign that the steward had taken in the tray and had retired for -the night. - -Young Powell had settled down to the regular officer-of-the-watch -tramp in the dense shadow of the world decorated with stars high -above his head, and on earth only a few gleams of light about the -ship. The lamp in the after skylight was kept burning through the -night. There were also the dead-lights of the stern-cabins -glimmering dully in the deck far aft, catching his eye when he -turned to walk that way. The brasses of the wheel glittered too, -with the dimly lit figure of the man detached, as if phosphorescent, -against the black and spangled background of the horizon. - -Young Powell, in the silence of the ship, reinforced by the great -silent stillness of the world, said to himself that there was -something mysterious in such beings as the absurd Franklin, and even -in such beings as himself. It was a strange and almost improper -thought to occur to the officer of the watch of a ship on the high -seas on no matter how quiet a night. Why on earth was he bothering -his head? Why couldn't he dismiss all these people from his mind? -It was as if the mate had infected him with his own diseased -devotion. He would not have believed it possible that he should be -so foolish. But he was--clearly. He was foolish in a way totally -unforeseen by himself. Pushing this self-analysis further, he -reflected that the springs of his conduct were just as obscure. - -"I may be catching myself any time doing things of which I have no -conception," he thought. And as he was passing near the mizzen-mast -he perceived a coil of rope left lying on the deck by the oversight -of the sweepers. By an impulse which had nothing mysterious in it, -he stooped as he went by with the intention of picking it up and -hanging it up on its proper pin. This movement brought his head -down to the level of the glazed end of the after skylight--the -lighted skylight of the most private part of the saloon, consecrated -to the exclusiveness of Captain Anthony's married life; the part, -let me remind you, cut off from the rest of that forbidden space by -a pair of heavy curtains. I mention these curtains because at this -point Mr. Powell himself recalled the existence of that unusual -arrangement to my mind. - -He recalled them with simple-minded compunction at that distance of -time. He said: "You understand that directly I stooped to pick up -that coil of running gear--the spanker foot-outhaul, it was--I -perceived that I could see right into that part of the saloon the -curtains were meant to make particularly private. Do you understand -me?" he insisted. - -I told him that I understood; and he proceeded to call my attention -to the wonderful linking up of small facts, with something of awe -left yet, after all these years, at the precise workmanship of -chance, fate, providence, call it what you will! "For, observe, -Marlow," he said, making at me very round eyes which contrasted -funnily with the austere touch of grey on his temples, "observe, my -dear fellow, that everything depended on the men who cleared up the -poop in the evening leaving that coil of rope on the deck, and on -the topsail-tie carrying away in a most incomprehensible and -surprising manner earlier in the day, and the end of the chain -whipping round the coaming and shivering to bits the coloured glass- -pane at the end of the skylight. It had the arms of the city of -Liverpool on it; I don't know why unless because the Ferndale was -registered in Liverpool. It was very thick plate glass. Anyhow, -the upper part got smashed, and directly we had attended to things -aloft Mr. Franklin had set the carpenter to patch up the damage with -some pieces of plain glass. I don't know where they got them; I -think the people who fitted up new bookcases in the captain's room -had left some spare panes. Chips was there the whole afternoon on -his knees, messing with putty and red-lead. It wasn't a neat job -when it was done, not by any means, but it would serve to keep the -weather out and let the light in. Clear glass. And of course I was -not thinking of it. I just stooped to pick up that rope and found -my head within three inches of that clear glass, and--dash it all! -I found myself out. Not half an hour before I was saying to myself -that it was impossible to tell what was in people's heads or at the -back of their talk, or what they were likely to be up to. And here -I found myself up to as low a trick as you can well think of. For, -after I had stooped, there I remained prying, spying, anyway -looking, where I had no business to look. Not consciously at first, -may be. He who has eyes, you know, nothing can stop him from seeing -things as long as there are things to see in front of him. What I -saw at first was the end of the table and the tray clamped on to it, -a patent tray for sea use, fitted with holders for a couple of -decanters, water-jug and glasses. The glitter of these things -caught my eye first; but what I saw next was the captain down there, -alone as far as I could see; and I could see pretty well the whole -of that part up to the cottage piano, dark against the satin-wood -panelling of the bulkhead. And I remained looking. I did. And I -don't know that I was ashamed of myself either, then. It was the -fault of that Franklin, always talking of the man, making free with -him to that extent that really he seemed to have become our -property, his and mine, in a way. It's funny, but one had that -feeling about Captain Anthony. To watch him was not so much worse -than listening to Franklin talking him over. Well, it's no use -making excuses for what's inexcusable. I watched; but I dare say -you know that there could have been nothing inimical in this low -behaviour of mine. On the contrary. I'll tell you now what he was -doing. He was helping himself out of a decanter. I saw every -movement, and I said to myself mockingly as though jeering at -Franklin in my thoughts, 'Hallo! Here's the captain taking to drink -at last.' He poured a little brandy or whatever it was into a long -glass, filled it with water, drank about a fourth of it and stood -the glass back into the holder. Every sign of a bad drinking bout, -I was saying to myself, feeling quite amused at the notions of that -Franklin. He seemed to me an enormous ass, with his jealousy and -his fears. At that rate a month would not have been enough for -anybody to get drunk. The captain sat down in one of the swivel -arm-chairs fixed around the table; I had him right under me and as -he turned the chair slightly, I was looking, I may say, down his -back. He took another little sip and then reached for a book which -was lying on the table. I had not noticed it before. Altogether -the proceedings of a desperate drunkard--weren't they? He opened -the book and held it before his face. If this was the way he took -to drink, then I needn't worry. He was in no danger from that, and -as to any other, I assure you no human being could have looked safer -than he did down there. I felt the greatest contempt for Franklin -just then, while I looked at Captain Anthony sitting there with a -glass of weak brandy-and-water at his elbow and reading in the cabin -of his ship, on a quiet night--the quietest, perhaps the finest, of -a prosperous passage. And if you wonder why I didn't leave off my -ugly spying I will tell you how it was. Captain Anthony was a great -reader just about that time; and I, too, I have a great liking for -books. To this day I can't come near a book but I must know what it -is about. It was a thickish volume he had there, small close print, -double columns--I can see it now. What I wanted to make out was the -title at the top of the page. I have very good eyes but he wasn't -holding it conveniently--I mean for me up there. Well, it was a -history of some kind, that much I read and then suddenly he bangs -the book face down on the table, jumps up as if something had bitten -him and walks away aft. - -"Funny thing shame is. I had been behaving badly and aware of it in -a way, but I didn't feel really ashamed till the fright of being -found out in my honourable occupation drove me from it. I slunk -away to the forward end of the poop and lounged about there, my face -and ears burning and glad it was a dark night, expecting every -moment to hear the captain's footsteps behind me. For I made sure -he was coming on deck. Presently I thought I had rather meet him -face to face and I walked slowly aft prepared to see him emerge from -the companion before I got that far. I even thought of his having -detected me by some means. But it was impossible, unless he had -eyes in the top of his head. I had never had a view of his face -down there. It was impossible; I was safe; and I felt very mean, -yet, explain it as you may, I seemed not to care. And the captain -not appearing on deck, I had the impulse to go on being mean. I -wanted another peep. I really don't know what was the beastly -influence except that Mr. Franklin's talk was enough to demoralize -any man by raising a sort of unhealthy curiosity which did away in -my case with all the restraints of common decency. - -"I did not mean to run the risk of being caught squatting in a -suspicious attitude by the captain. There was also the helmsman to -consider. So what I did--I am surprised at my low cunning--was to -sit down naturally on the skylight-seat and then by bending forward -I found that, as I expected, I could look down through the upper -part of the end-pane. The worst that could happen to me then, if I -remained too long in that position, was to be suspected by the -seaman aft at the wheel of having gone to sleep there. For the rest -my ears would give me sufficient warning of any movements in the -companion. - -"But in that way my angle of view was changed. The field too was -smaller. The end of the table, the tray and the swivel-chair I had -right under my eyes. The captain had not come back yet. The piano -I could not see now; but on the other hand I had a very oblique -downward view of the curtains drawn across the cabin and cutting off -the forward part of it just about the level of the skylight-end and -only an inch or so from the end of the table. They were heavy -stuff, travelling on a thick brass rod with some contrivance to keep -the rings from sliding to and fro when the ship rolled. But just -then the ship was as still almost as a model shut up in a glass case -while the curtains, joined closely, and, perhaps on purpose, made a -little too long moved no more than a solid wall." - - -Marlow got up to get another cigar. The night was getting on to -what I may call its deepest hour, the hour most favourable to evil -purposes of men's hate, despair or greed--to whatever can whisper -into their ears the unlawful counsels of protest against things that -are; the hour of ill-omened silence and chill and stagnation, the -hour when the criminal plies his trade and the victim of -sleeplessness reaches the lowest depth of dreadful discouragement; -the hour before the first sight of dawn. I know it, because while -Marlow was crossing the room I looked at the clock on the -mantelpiece. He however never looked that way though it is possible -that he, too, was aware of the passage of time. He sat down -heavily. - -"Our friend Powell," he began again, "was very anxious that I should -understand the topography of that cabin. I was interested more by -its moral atmosphere, that tension of falsehood, of desperate -acting, which tainted the pure sea-atmosphere into which the -magnanimous Anthony had carried off his conquest and--well--his -self-conquest too, trying to act at the same time like a beast of -prey, a pure spirit and the "most generous of men." Too big an -order clearly because he was nothing of a monster but just a common -mortal, a little more self-willed and self-confident than most, may -be, both in his roughness and in his delicacy. - -As to the delicacy of Mr. Powell's proceedings I'll say nothing. He -found a sort of depraved excitement in watching an unconscious man-- -and such an attractive and mysterious man as Captain Anthony at -that. He wanted another peep at him. He surmised that the captain -must come back soon because of the glass two-thirds full and also of -the book put down so brusquely. God knows what sudden pang had made -Anthony jump up so. I am convinced he used reading as an opiate -against the pain of his magnanimity which like all abnormal growths -was gnawing at his healthy substance with cruel persistence. -Perhaps he had rushed into his cabin simply to groan freely in -absolute and delicate secrecy. At any rate he tarried there. And -young Powell would have grown weary and compunctious at last if it -had not become manifest to him that he had not been alone in the -highly incorrect occupation of watching the movements of Captain -Anthony. - -Powell explained to me that no sound did or perhaps could reach him -from the saloon. The first sign--and we must remember that he was -using his eyes for all they were worth--was an unaccountable -movement of the curtain. It was wavy and very slight; just -perceptible in fact to the sharpened faculties of a secret watcher; -for it can't be denied that our wits are much more alert when -engaged in wrong-doing (in which one mustn't be found out) than in a -righteous occupation. - -He became suspicious, with no one and nothing definite in his mind. -He was suspicious of the curtain itself and observed it. It looked -very innocent. Then just as he was ready to put it down to a trick -of imagination he saw trembling movements where the two curtains -joined. Yes! Somebody else besides himself had been watching -Captain Anthony. He owns artlessly that this roused his -indignation. It was really too much of a good thing. In this state -of intense antagonism he was startled to observe tips of fingers -fumbling with the dark stuff. Then they grasped the edge of the -further curtain and hung on there, just fingers and knuckles and -nothing else. It made an abominable sight. He was looking at it -with unaccountable repulsion when a hand came into view; a short, -puffy, old, freckled hand projecting into the lamplight, followed by -a white wrist, an arm in a grey coat-sleeve, up to the elbow, beyond -the elbow, extended tremblingly towards the tray. Its appearance -was weird and nauseous, fantastic and silly. But instead of -grabbing the bottle as Powell expected, this hand, tremulous with -senile eagerness, swerved to the glass, rested on its edge for a -moment (or so it looked from above) and went back with a jerk. The -gripping fingers of the other hand vanished at the same time, and -young Powell staring at the motionless curtains could indulge for a -moment the notion that he had been dreaming. - -But that notion did not last long. Powell, after repressing his -first impulse to spring for the companion and hammer at the -captain's door, took steps to have himself relieved by the -boatswain. He was in a state of distraction as to his feelings and -yet lucid as to his mind. He remained on the skylight so as to keep -his eye on the tray. - -Still the captain did not appear in the saloon. "If he had," said -Mr. Powell, "I knew what to do. I would have put my elbow through -the pane instantly--crash." - -I asked him why? - -"It was the quickest dodge for getting him away from that tray," he -explained. "My throat was so dry that I didn't know if I could -shout loud enough. And this was not a case for shouting, either." - -The boatswain, sleepy and disgusted, arriving on the poop, found the -second officer doubled up over the end of the skylight in a pose -which might have been that of severe pain. And his voice was so -changed that the man, though naturally vexed at being turned out, -made no comment on the plea of sudden indisposition which young -Powell put forward. - -The rapidity with which the sick man got off the poop must have -astonished the boatswain. But Powell, at the moment he opened the -door leading into the saloon from the quarter-deck, had managed to -control his agitation. He entered swiftly but without noise and -found himself in the dark part of the saloon, the strong sheen of -the lamp on the other side of the curtains visible only above the -rod on which they ran. The door of Mr. Smith's cabin was in that -dark part. He passed by it assuring himself by a quick side glance -that it was imperfectly closed. "Yes," he said to me. "The old man -must have been watching through the crack. Of that I am certain; -but it was not for me that he was watching and listening. Horrible! -Surely he must have been startled to hear and see somebody he did -not expect. He could not possibly guess why I was coming in, but I -suppose he must have been concerned." Concerned indeed! He must -have been thunderstruck, appalled. - -Powell's only distinct aim was to remove the suspected tumbler. He -had no other plan, no other intention, no other thought. Do away -with it in some manner. Snatch it up and run out with it. - -You know that complete mastery of one fixed idea, not a reasonable -but an emotional mastery, a sort of concentrated exaltation. Under -its empire men rush blindly through fire and water and opposing -violence, and nothing can stop them--unless, sometimes, a grain of -sand. For his blind purpose (and clearly the thought of Mrs. -Anthony was at the bottom of it) Mr. Powell had plenty of time. -What checked him at the crucial moment was the familiar, harmless -aspect of common things, the steady light, the open book on the -table, the solitude, the peace, the home-like effect of the place. -He held the glass in his hand; all he had to do was to vanish back -beyond the curtains, flee with it noiselessly into the night on -deck, fling it unseen overboard. A minute or less. And then all -that would have happened would have been the wonder at the utter -disappearance of a glass tumbler, a ridiculous riddle in pantry- -affairs beyond the wit of anyone on board to solve. The grain of -sand against which Powell stumbled in his headlong career was a -moment of incredulity as to the truth of his own conviction because -it had failed to affect the safe aspect of familiar things. He -doubted his eyes too. He must have dreamt it all! "I am dreaming -now," he said to himself. And very likely for a few seconds he must -have looked like a man in a trance or profoundly asleep on his feet, -and with a glass of brandy-and-water in his hand. - -What woke him up and, at the same time, fixed his feet immovably to -the spot, was a voice asking him what he was doing there in tones of -thunder. Or so it sounded to his ears. Anthony, opening the door -of his stern-cabin had naturally exclaimed. What else could you -expect? And the exclamation must have been fairly loud if you -consider the nature of the sight which met his eye. There, before -him, stood his second officer, a seemingly decent, well-bred young -man, who, being on duty, had left the deck and had sneaked into the -saloon, apparently for the inexpressibly mean purpose of drinking up -what was left of his captain's brandy-and-water. There he was, -caught absolutely with the glass in his hand. - -But the very monstrosity of appearances silenced Anthony after the -first exclamation; and young Powell felt himself pierced through and -through by the overshadowed glance of his captain. Anthony advanced -quietly. The first impulse of Mr. Powell, when discovered, had been -to dash the glass on the deck. He was in a sort of panic. But deep -down within him his wits were working, and the idea that if he did -that he could prove nothing and that the story he had to tell was -completely incredible, restrained him. The captain came forward -slowly. With his eyes now close to his, Powell, spell-bound, numb -all over, managed to lift one finger to the deck above mumbling the -explanatory words, "Boatswain on the poop." - -The captain moved his head slightly as much as to say, "That's all -right"--and this was all. Powell had no voice, no strength. The -air was unbreathable, thick, sticky, odious, like hot jelly in which -all movements became difficult. He raised the glass a little with -immense difficulty and moved his trammelled lips sufficiently to -form the words: - -"Doctored." - -Anthony glanced at it for an instant, only for an instant, and again -fastened his eyes on the face of his second mate. Powell added a -fervent "I believe" and put the glass down on the tray. The -captain's glance followed the movement and returned sternly to his -face. The young man pointed a finger once more upwards and squeezed -out of his iron-bound throat six consecutive words of further -explanation. "Through the skylight. The white pane." - -The captain raised his eyebrows very much at this, while young -Powell, ashamed but desperate, nodded insistently several times. He -meant to say that: Yes. Yes. He had done that thing. He had been -spying . . . The captain's gaze became thoughtful. And, now the -confession was over, the iron-bound feeling of Powell's throat -passed away giving place to a general anxiety which from his breast -seemed to extend to all the limbs and organs of his body. His legs -trembled a little, his vision was confused, his mind became blankly -expectant. But he was alert enough. At a movement of Anthony he -screamed in a strangled whisper. - -"Don't, sir! Don't touch it." - -The captain pushed aside Powell's extended arm, took up the glass -and raised it slowly against the lamplight. The liquid, of very -pale amber colour, was clear, and by a glance the captain seemed to -call Powell's attention to the fact. Powell tried to pronounce the -word, "dissolved" but he only thought of it with great energy which -however failed to move his lips. Only when Anthony had put down the -glass and turned to him he recovered such a complete command of his -voice that he could keep it down to a hurried, forcible whisper--a -whisper that shook him. - -"Doctored! I swear it! I have seen. Doctored! I have seen." - -Not a feature of the captain's face moved. His was a calm to take -one's breath away. It did so to young Powell. Then for the first -time Anthony made himself heard to the point. - -"You did! . . . Who was it?" - -And Powell gasped freely at last. "A hand," he whispered fearfully, -"a hand and the arm--only the arm--like that." - -He advanced his own, slow, stealthy, tremulous in faithful -reproduction, the tips of two fingers and the thumb pressed together -and hovering above the glass for an instant--then the swift jerk -back, after the deed. - -"Like that," he repeated growing excited. "From behind this." He -grasped the curtain and glaring at the silent Anthony flung it back -disclosing the forepart of the saloon. There was on one to be seen. - -Powell had not expected to see anybody. "But," he said to me, "I -knew very well there was an ear listening and an eye glued to the -crack of a cabin door. Awful thought. And that door was in that -part of the saloon remaining in the shadow of the other half of the -curtain. I pointed at it and I suppose that old man inside saw me -pointing. The captain had a wonderful self-command. You couldn't -have guessed anything from his face. Well, it was perhaps more -thoughtful than usual. And indeed this was something to think -about. But I couldn't think steadily. My brain would give a sort -of jerk and then go dead again. I had lost all notion of time, and -I might have been looking at the captain for days and months for all -I knew before I heard him whisper to me fiercely: "Not a word!" -This jerked me out of that trance I was in and I said "No! No! I -didn't mean even you." - -"I wanted to explain my conduct, my intentions, but I read in his -eyes that he understood me and I was only too glad to leave off. -And there we were looking at each other, dumb, brought up short by -the question "What next?" - -"I thought Captain Anthony was a man of iron till I saw him suddenly -fling his head to the right and to the left fiercely, like a wild -animal at bay not knowing which way to break out . . . " - - -"Truly," commented Marlow, "brought to bay was not a bad comparison; -a better one than Mr. Powell was aware of. At that moment the -appearance of Flora could not but bring the tension to the breaking -point. She came out in all innocence but not without vague dread. -Anthony's exclamation on first seeing Powell had reached her in her -cabin, where, it seems, she was brushing her hair. She had heard -the very words. "What are you doing here?" And the unwonted -loudness of the voice--his voice--breaking the habitual stillness of -that hour would have startled a person having much less reason to be -constantly apprehensive, than the captive of Anthony's masterful -generosity. She had no means to guess to whom the question was -addressed and it echoed in her heart, as Anthony's voice always did. -Followed complete silence. She waited, anxious, expectant, till she -could stand the strain no longer, and with the weary mental appeal -of the overburdened. "My God! What is it now?" she opened the door -of her room and looked into the saloon. Her first glance fell on -Powell. For a moment, seeing only the second officer with Anthony, -she felt relieved and made as if to draw back; but her sharpened -perception detected something suspicious in their attitudes, and she -came forward slowly. - -"I was the first to see Mrs. Anthony," related Powell, "because I -was facing aft. The captain, noticing my eyes, looked quickly over -his shoulder and at once put his finger to his lips to caution me. -As if I were likely to let out anything before her! Mrs. Anthony -had on a dressing-gown of some grey stuff with red facings and a -thick red cord round her waist. Her hair was down. She looked a -child; a pale-faced child with big blue eyes and a red mouth a -little open showing a glimmer of white teeth. The light fell -strongly on her as she came up to the end of the table. A strange -child though; she hardly affected one like a child, I remember. Do -you know," exclaimed Mr. Powell, who clearly must have been, like -many seamen, an industrious reader, "do you know what she looked -like to me with those big eyes and something appealing in her whole -expression. She looked like a forsaken elf. Captain Anthony had -moved towards her to keep her away from my end of the table, where -the tray was. I had never seen them so near to each other before, -and it made a great contrast. It was wonderful, for, with his beard -cut to a point, his swarthy, sunburnt complexion, thin nose and his -lean head there was something African, something Moorish in Captain -Anthony. His neck was bare; he had taken off his coat and collar -and had drawn on his sleeping jacket in the time that he had been -absent from the saloon. I seem to see him now. Mrs. Anthony too. -She looked from him to me--I suppose I looked guilty or frightened-- -and from me to him, trying to guess what there was between us two. -Then she burst out with a "What has happened?" which seemed -addressed to me. I mumbled "Nothing! Nothing, ma'am," which she -very likely did not hear. - -"You must not think that all this had lasted a long time. She had -taken fright at our behaviour and turned to the captain pitifully. -"What is it you are concealing from me?" A straight question--eh? -I don't know what answer the captain would have made. Before he -could even raise his eyes to her she cried out "Ah! Here's papa" in -a sharp tone of relief, but directly afterwards she looked to me as -if she were holding her breath with apprehension. I was so -interested in her that, how shall I say it, her exclamation made no -connection in my brain at first. I also noticed that she had sidled -up a little nearer to Captain Anthony, before it occurred to me to -turn my head. I can tell you my neck stiffened in the twisted -position from the shock of actually seeing that old man! He had -dared! I suppose you think I ought to have looked upon him as mad. -But I couldn't. It would have been certainly easier. But I could -NOT. You should have seen him. First of all he was completely -dressed with his very cap still on his head just as when he left me -on deck two hours before, saying in his soft voice: "The moment has -come to go to bed"--while he meant to go and do that thing and hide -in his dark cabin, and watch the stuff do its work. A cold shudder -ran down my back. He had his hands in the pockets of his jacket, -his arms were pressed close to his thin, upright body, and he -shuffled across the cabin with his short steps. There was a red -patch on each of his old soft cheeks as if somebody had been -pinching them. He drooped his head a little, and looked with a sort -of underhand expectation at the captain and Mrs. Anthony standing -close together at the other end of the saloon. The calculating -horrible impudence of it! His daughter was there; and I am certain -he had seen the captain putting his finger on his lips to warn me. -And then he had coolly come out! He passed my imagination, I assure -you. After that one shiver his presence killed every faculty in me- --wonder, horror, indignation. I felt nothing in particular just as -if he were still the old gentleman who used to talk to me familiarly -every day on deck. Would you believe it?" - -"Mr. Powell challenged my powers of wonder at this internal -phenomenon," went on Marlow after a slight pause. "But even if they -had not been fully engaged, together with all my powers of attention -in following the facts of the case, I would not have been astonished -by his statements about himself. Taking into consideration his -youth they were by no means incredible; or, at any rate, they were -the least incredible part of the whole. They were also the least -interesting part. The interest was elsewhere, and there of course -all he could do was to look at the surface. The inwardness of what -was passing before his eyes was hidden from him, who had looked on, -more impenetrably than from me who at a distance of years was -listening to his words. What presently happened at this crisis in -Flora de Barral's fate was beyond his power of comment, seemed in a -sense natural. And his own presence on the scene was so strangely -motived that it was left for me to marvel alone at this young man, a -completely chance-comer, having brought it about on that night. - -Each situation created either by folly or wisdom has its -psychological moment. The behaviour of young Powell with its -mixture of boyish impulses combined with instinctive prudence, had -not created it--I can't say that--but had discovered it to the very -people involved. What would have happened if he had made a noise -about his discovery? But he didn't. His head was full of Mrs. -Anthony and he behaved with a discretion beyond his years. Some -nice children often do; and surely it is not from reflection. They -have their own inspirations. Young Powell's inspiration consisted -in being "enthusiastic" about Mrs. Anthony. 'Enthusiastic' is -really good. And he was amongst them like a child, sensitive, -impressionable, plastic--but unable to find for himself any sort of -comment. - -I don't know how much mine may be worth; but I believe that just -then the tension of the false situation was at its highest. Of all -the forms offered to us by life it is the one demanding a couple to -realize it fully, which is the most imperative. Pairing off is the -fate of mankind. And if two beings thrown together, mutually -attracted, resist the necessity, fail in understanding and -voluntarily stop short of the--the embrace, in the noblest meaning -of the word, then they are committing a sin against life, the call -of which is simple. Perhaps sacred. And the punishment of it is an -invasion of complexity, a tormenting, forcibly tortuous involution -of feelings, the deepest form of suffering from which indeed -something significant may come at last, which may be criminal or -heroic, may be madness or wisdom--or even a straight if despairing -decision. - -Powell on taking his eyes off the old gentleman noticed Captain -Anthony, swarthy as an African, by the side of Flora whiter than the -lilies, take his handkerchief out and wipe off his forehead the -sweat of anguish--like a man who is overcome. "And no wonder," -commented Mr. Powell here. Then the captain said, "Hadn't you -better go back to your room." This was to Mrs. Anthony. He tried -to smile at her. "Why do you look startled? This night is like any -other night." - -"Which," Powell again commented to me earnestly, "was a lie . . . No -wonder he sweated." You see from this the value of Powell's -comments. Mrs. Anthony then said: "Why are you sending me away?" - -"Why! That you should go to sleep. That you should rest." And -Captain Anthony frowned. Then sharply, "You stay here, Mr. Powell. -I shall want you presently." - -As a matter of fact Powell had not moved. Flora did not mind his -presence. He himself had the feeling of being of no account to -those three people. He was looking at Mrs. Anthony as unabashed as -the proverbial cat looking at a king. Mrs. Anthony glanced at him. -She did not move, gripped by an inexplicable premonition. She had -arrived at the very limit of her endurance as the object of -Anthony's magnanimity; she was the prey of an intuitive dread of she -did not know what mysterious influence; she felt herself being -pushed back into that solitude, that moral loneliness, which had -made all her life intolerable. And then, in that close communion -established again with Anthony, she felt--as on that night in the -garden--the force of his personal fascination. The passive -quietness with which she looked at him gave her the appearance of a -person bewitched--or, say, mesmerically put to sleep--beyond any -notion of her surroundings. - -After telling Mr. Powell not to go away the captain remained silent. -Suddenly Mrs. Anthony pushed back her loose hair with a decisive -gesture of her arms and moved still nearer to him. "Here's papa up -yet," she said, but she did not look towards Mr. Smith. "Why is it? -And you? I can't go on like this, Roderick--between you two. -Don't." - -Anthony interrupted her as if something had untied his tongue. - -"Oh yes. Here's your father. And . . . Why not. Perhaps it is -just as well you came out. Between us two? Is that it? I won't -pretend I don't understand. I am not blind. But I can't fight any -longer for what I haven't got. I don't know what you imagine has -happened. Something has though. Only you needn't be afraid. No -shadow can touch you--because I give up. I can't say we had much -talk about it, your father and I, but, the long and the short of it -is, that I must learn to live without you--which I have told you was -impossible. I was speaking the truth. But I have done fighting, or -waiting, or hoping. Yes. You shall go." - -At this point Mr. Powell who (he confessed to me) was listening with -uncomprehending awe, heard behind his back a triumphant chuckling -sound. It gave him the shudders, he said, to mention it now; but at -the time, except for another chill down the spine, it had not the -power to destroy his absorption in the scene before his eyes, and -before his ears too, because just then Captain Anthony raised his -voice grimly. Perhaps he too had heard the chuckle of the old man. - -"Your father has found an argument which makes me pause, if it does -not convince me. No! I can't answer it. I--I don't want to answer -it. I simply surrender. He shall have his way with you--and with -me. Only," he added in a gloomy lowered tone which struck Mr. -Powell as if a pedal had been put down, "only it shall take a little -time. I have never lied to you. Never. I renounce not only my -chance but my life. In a few days, directly we get into port, the -very moment we do, I, who have said I could never let you go, I -shall let you go." - -To the innocent beholder Anthony seemed at this point to become -physically exhausted. My view is that the utter falseness of his, I -may say, aspirations, the vanity of grasping the empty air, had come -to him with an overwhelming force, leaving him disarmed before the -other's mad and sinister sincerity. As he had said himself he could -not fight for what he did not possess; he could not face such a -thing as this for the sake of his mere magnanimity. The normal -alone can overcome the abnormal. He could not even reproach that -man over there. "I own myself beaten," he said in a firmer tone. -"You are free. I let you off since I must." - -Powell, the onlooker, affirms that at these incomprehensible words -Mrs. Anthony stiffened into the very image of astonishment, with a -frightened stare and frozen lips. But next minute a cry came out -from her heart, not very loud but of a quality which made not only -Captain Anthony (he was not looking at her), not only him but also -the more distant (and equally unprepared) young man, catch their -breath: "But I don't want to be let off," she cried. - -She was so still that one asked oneself whether the cry had come -from her. The restless shuffle behind Powell's back stopped short, -the intermittent shadowy chuckling ceased too. Young Powell, -glancing round, saw Mr. Smith raise his head with his faded eyes -very still, puckered at the corners, like a man perceiving something -coming at him from a great distance. And Mrs. Anthony's voice -reached Powell's ears, entreating and indignant. - -"You can't cast me off like this, Roderick. I won't go away from -you. I won't--" - -Powell turned about and discovered then that what Mr. Smith was -puckering his eyes at, was the sight of his daughter clinging round -Captain Anthony's neck--a sight not in itself improper, but which -had the power to move young Powell with a bashfully profound -emotion. It was different from his emotion while spying at the -revelations of the skylight, but in this case too he felt the -discomfort, if not the guilt, of an unseen beholder. Experience was -being piled up on his young shoulders. Mrs. Anthony's hair hung -back in a dark mass like the hair of a drowned woman. She looked as -if she would let go and sink to the floor if the captain were to -withhold his sustaining arm. But the captain obviously had no such -intention. Standing firm and still he gazed with sombre eyes at Mr. -Smith. For a time the low convulsive sobbing of Mr. Smith's -daughter was the only sound to trouble the silence. The strength of -Anthony's clasp pressing Flora to his breast could not be doubted -even at that distance, and suddenly, awakening to his opportunity, -he began to partly support her, partly carry her in the direction of -her cabin. His head was bent over her solicitously, then -recollecting himself, with a glance full of unwonted fire, his voice -ringing in a note unknown to Mr. Powell, he cried to him, "Don't you -go on deck yet. I want you to stay down here till I come back. -There are some instructions I want to give you." - -And before the young man could answer, Anthony had disappeared in -the stern-cabin, burdened and exulting. - -"Instructions," commented Mr. Powell. "That was all right. Very -likely; but they would be such instructions as, I thought to myself, -no ship's officer perhaps had ever been given before. It made me -feel a little sick to think what they would be dealing with, -probably. But there! Everything that happens on board ship on the -high seas has got to be dealt with somehow. There are no special -people to fly to for assistance. And there I was with that old man -left in my charge. When he noticed me looking at him he started to -shuffle again athwart the saloon. He kept his hands rammed in his -pockets, he was as stiff-backed as ever, only his head hung down. -After a bit he says in his gentle soft tone: "Did you see it?" - -There were in Powell's head no special words to fit the horror of -his feelings. So he said--he had to say something, "Good God! What -were you thinking of, Mr. Smith, to try to . . . " And then he -left off. He dared not utter the awful word poison. Mr. Smith -stopped his prowl. - -"Think! What do you know of thinking. I don't think. There is -something in my head that thinks. The thoughts in men, it's like -being drunk with liquor or--You can't stop them. A man who thinks -will think anything. No! But have you seen it. Have you?" - -"I tell you I have! I am certain!" said Powell forcibly. "I was -looking at you all the time. You've done something to the drink in -that glass." - -Then Powell lost his breath somehow. Mr. Smith looked at him -curiously, with mistrust. - -"My good young man, I don't know what you are talking about. I ask -you--have you seen? Who would have believed it? with her arms round -his neck. When! Oh! Ha! Ha! You did see! Didn't you? It -wasn't a delusion--was it? Her arms round . . . But I have never -wholly trusted her." - -"Then I flew out at him, said Mr. Powell. I told him he was jolly -lucky to have fallen upon Captain Anthony. A man in a million. He -started again shuffling to and fro. "You too," he said mournfully, -keeping his eyes down. "Eh? Wonderful man? But have you a notion -who I am? Listen! I have been the Great Mr. de Barral. So they -printed it in the papers while they were getting up a conspiracy. -And I have been doing time. And now I am brought low." His voice -died down to a mere breath. "Brought low." - -He took his hands out of his pocket, dragged the cap down on his -head and stuck them back into his pockets, exactly as if preparing -himself to go out into a great wind. "But not so low as to put up -with this disgrace, to see her, fast in this fellow's clutches, -without doing something. She wouldn't listen to me. Frightened? -Silly? I had to think of some way to get her out of this. Did you -think she cared for him? No! Would anybody have thought so? No! -She pretended it was for my sake. She couldn't understand that if I -hadn't been an old man I would have flown at his throat months ago. -As it was I was tempted every time he looked at her. My girl. -Ough! Any man but this. And all the time the wicked little fool -was lying to me. It was their plot, their conspiracy! These -conspiracies are the devil. She has been leading me on, till she -has fairly put my head under the heel of that jailer, of that -scoundrel, of her husband . . . Treachery! Bringing me low. Lower -than herself. In the dirt. That's what it means. Doesn't it? -Under his heel!" - -He paused in his restless shuffle and again, seizing his cap with -both hands, dragged it furiously right down on his ears. Powell had -lost himself in listening to these broken ravings, in looking at -that old feverish face when, suddenly, quick as lightning, Mr. Smith -spun round, snatched up the captain's glass and with a stifled, -hurried exclamation, "Here's luck," tossed the liquor down his -throat. - -"I know now the meaning of the word 'Consternation,'" went on Mr. -Powell. "That was exactly my state of mind. I thought to myself -directly: There's nothing in that drink. I have been dreaming, I -have made the awfulest mistake! . . ." - -Mr. Smith put the glass down. He stood before Powell unharmed, -quieted down, in a listening attitude, his head inclined on one -side, chewing his thin lips. Suddenly he blinked queerly, grabbed -Powell's shoulder and collapsed, subsiding all at once as though he -had gone soft all over, as a piece of silk stuff collapses. Powell -seized his arm instinctively and checked his fall; but as soon as -Mr. Smith was fairly on the floor he jerked himself free and backed -away. Almost as quick he rushed forward again and tried to lift up -the body. But directly he raised his shoulders he knew that the man -was dead! Dead! - -He lowered him down gently. He stood over him without fear or any -other feeling, almost indifferent, far away, as it were. And then -he made another start and, if he had not kept Mrs. Anthony always in -his mind, he would have let out a yell for help. He staggered to -her cabin-door, and, as it was, his call for "Captain Anthony" burst -out of him much too loud; but he made a great effort of self- -control. "I am waiting for my orders, sir," he said outside that -door distinctly, in a steady tone. - -It was very still in there; still as death. Then he heard a shuffle -of feet and the captain's voice "All right. Coming." He leaned his -back against the bulkhead as you see a drunken man sometimes propped -up against a wall, half doubled up. In that attitude the captain -found him, when he came out, pulling the door to after him quickly. -At once Anthony let his eyes run all over the cabin. Powell, -without a word, clutched his forearm, led him round the end of the -table and began to justify himself. "I couldn't stop him," he -whispered shakily. "He was too quick for me. He drank it up and -fell down." But the captain was not listening. He was looking down -at Mr. Smith, thinking perhaps that it was a mere chance his own -body was not lying there. They did not want to speak. They made -signs to each other with their eyes. The captain grasped Powell's -shoulder as if in a vice and glanced at Mrs. Anthony's cabin door, -and it was enough. He knew that the young man understood him. -Rather! Silence! Silence for ever about this. Their very glances -became stealthy. Powell looked from the body to the door of the -dead man's state-room. The captain nodded and let him go; and then -Powell crept over, hooked the door open and crept back with fearful -glances towards Mrs. Anthony's cabin. They stooped over the corpse. -Captain Anthony lifted up the shoulders. - -Mr. Powell shuddered. "I'll never forget that interminable journey -across the saloon, step by step, holding our breath. For part of -the way the drawn half of the curtain concealed us from view had -Mrs. Anthony opened her door; but I didn't draw a free breath till -after we laid the body down on the swinging cot. The reflection of -the saloon light left most of the cabin in the shadow. Mr. Smith's -rigid, extended body looked shadowy too, shadowy and alive. You -know he always carried himself as stiff as a poker. We stood by the -cot as though waiting for him to make us a sign that he wanted to be -left alone. The captain threw his arm over my shoulder and said in -my very ear: "The steward'll find him in the morning." - -"I made no answer. It was for him to say. It was perhaps the best -way. It's no use talking about my thoughts. They were not -concerned with myself, nor yet with that old man who terrified me -more now than when he was alive. Him whom I pitied was the captain. -He whispered. "I am certain of you, Mr. Powell. You had better go -on deck now. As to me . . . " and I saw him raise his hands to his -head as if distracted. But his last words before we stole out that -cabin stick to my mind with the very tone of his mutter--to himself, -not to me: - -"No! No! I am not going to stumble now over that corpse." - -* * * - -"This is what our Mr. Powell had to tell me," said Marlow, changing -his tone. I was glad to learn that Flora de Barral had been saved -from THAT sinister shadow at least falling upon her path. - -We sat silent then, my mind running on the end of de Barral, on the -irresistible pressure of imaginary griefs, crushing conscience, -scruples, prudence, under their ever-expanding volume; on the sombre -and venomous irony in the obsession which had mastered that old man. - -"Well," I said. - -"The steward found him," Mr. Powell roused himself. "He went in -there with a cup of tea at five and of course dropped it. I was on -watch again. He reeled up to me on deck pale as death. I had been -expecting it; and yet I could hardly speak. "Go and tell the -captain quietly," I managed to say. He ran off muttering "My God! -My God!" and I'm hanged if he didn't get hysterical while trying to -tell the captain, and start screaming in the saloon, "Fully dressed! -Dead! Fully dressed!" Mrs. Anthony ran out of course but she -didn't get hysterical. Franklin, who was there too, told me that -she hid her face on the captain's breast and then he went out and -left them there. It was days before Mrs. Anthony was seen on deck. -The first time I spoke to her she gave me her hand and said, "My -poor father was quite fond of you, Mr. Powell." She started wiping -her eyes and I fled to the other side of the deck. One would like -to forget all this had ever come near her." - -But clearly he could not, because after lighting his pipe he began -musing aloud: "Very strong stuff it must have been. I wonder where -he got it. It could hardly be at a common chemist. Well, he had it -from somewhere--a mere pinch it must have been, no more." - -"I have my theory," observed Marlow, "which to a certain extent does -away with the added horror of a coldly premeditated crime. Chance -had stepped in there too. It was not Mr. Smith who obtained the -poison. It was the Great de Barral. And it was not meant for the -obscure, magnanimous conqueror of Flora de Barral; it was meant for -the notorious financier whose enterprises had nothing to do with -magnanimity. He had his physician in his days of greatness. I even -seem to remember that the man was called at the trial on some small -point or other. I can imagine that de Barral went to him when he -saw, as he could hardly help seeing, the possibility of a "triumph -of envious rivals"--a heavy sentence. - -I doubt if for love or even for money, but I think possibly, from -pity that man provided him with what Mr. Powell called "strong -stuff." From what Powell saw of the very act I am fairly certain it -must have been contained in a capsule and that he had it about him -on the last day of his trial, perhaps secured by a stitch in his -waistcoat pocket. He didn't use it. Why? Did he think of his -child at the last moment? Was it want of courage? We can't tell. -But he found it in his clothes when he came out of jail. It had -escaped investigation if there was any. Chance had armed him. And -chance alone, the chance of Mr. Powell's life, forced him to turn -the abominable weapon against himself. - -I imparted my theory to Mr. Powell who accepted it at once as, in a -sense, favourable to the father of Mrs. Anthony. Then he waved his -hand. "Don't let us think of it." - -I acquiesced and very soon he observed dreamily: - -"I was with Captain and Mrs. Anthony sailing all over the world for -near on six years. Almost as long as Franklin." - -"Oh yes! What about Franklin?" I asked. - -Powell smiled. "He left the Ferndale a year or so afterwards, and I -took his place. Captain Anthony recommended him for a command. You -don't think Captain Anthony would chuck a man aside like an old -glove. But of course Mrs. Anthony did not like him very much. I -don't think she ever let out a whisper against him but Captain -Anthony could read her thoughts. - -And again Powell seemed to lose himself in the past. I asked, for -suddenly the vision of the Fynes passed through my mind. - -"Any children?" - -Powell gave a start. "No! No! Never had any children," and again -subsided, puffing at his short briar pipe. - -"Where are they now?" I inquired next as if anxious to ascertain -that all Fyne's fears had been misplaced and vain as our fears often -are; that there were no undesirable cousins for his dear girls, no -danger of intrusion on their spotless home. Powell looked round at -me slowly, his pipe smouldering in his hand. - -"Don't you know?" he uttered in a deep voice. - -"Know what?" - -"That the Ferndale was lost this four years or more. Sunk. -Collision. And Captain Anthony went down with her." - -"You don't say so!" I cried quite affected as if I had known Captain -Anthony personally. "Was--was Mrs. Anthony lost too?" - -"You might as well ask if I was lost," Mr. Powell rejoined so -testily as to surprise me. "You see me here,--don't you." - -He was quite huffy, but noticing my wondering stare he smoothed his -ruffled plumes. And in a musing tone. - -"Yes. Good men go out as if there was no use for them in the world. -It seems as if there were things that, as the Turks say, are -written. Or else fate has a try and sometimes misses its mark. You -remember that close shave we had of being run down at night, I told -you of, my first voyage with them. This go it was just at dawn. A -flat calm and a fog thick enough to slice with a knife. Only there -were no explosives on board. I was on deck and I remember the -cursed, murderous thing looming up alongside and Captain Anthony (we -were both on deck) calling out, "Good God! What's this! Shout for -all hands, Powell, to save themselves. There's no dynamite on board -now. I am going to get the wife! . . " I yelled, all the watch on -deck yelled. Crash!" - -Mr. Powell gasped at the recollection. "It was a Belgian Green Star -liner, the Westland," he went on, "commanded by one of those stop- -for-nothing skippers. Flaherty was his name and I hope he will die -without absolution. She cut half through the old Ferndale and after -the blow there was a silence like death. Next I heard the captain -back on deck shouting, "Set your engines slow ahead," and a howl of -"Yes, yes," answering him from her forecastle; and then a whole -crowd of people up there began making a row in the fog. They were -throwing ropes down to us in dozens, I must say. I and the captain -fastened one of them under Mrs. Anthony's arms: I remember she had -a sort of dim smile on her face." - -"Haul up carefully," I shouted to the people on the steamer's deck. -"You've got a woman on that line." - -The captain saw her landed up there safe. And then we made a rush -round our decks to see no one was left behind. As we got back the -captain says: "Here she's gone at last, Powell; the dear old thing! -Run down at sea." - -"Indeed she is gone," I said. "But it might have been worse. Shin -up this rope, sir, for God's sake. I will steady it for you." - -"What are you thinking about," he says angrily. "It isn't my turn. -Up with you." - -These were the last words he ever spoke on earth I suppose. I knew -he meant to be the last to leave his ship, so I swarmed up as quick -as I could, and those damned lunatics up there grab at me from -above, lug me in, drag me along aft through the row and the riot of -the silliest excitement I ever did see. Somebody hails from the -bridge, "Have you got them all on board?" and a dozen silly asses -start yelling all together, "All saved! All saved," and then that -accursed Irishman on the bridge, with me roaring No! No! till I -thought my head would burst, rings his engines astern. He rings the -engines astern--I fighting like mad to make myself heard! And of -course . . . " - -I saw tears, a shower of them fall down Mr. Powell's face. His -voice broke. - -"The Ferndale went down like a stone and Captain Anthony went down -with her, the finest man's soul that ever left a sailor's body. I -raved like a maniac, like a devil, with a lot of fools crowding -round me and asking, "Aren't you the captain?" - -"I wasn't fit to tie the shoe-strings of the man you have drowned," -I screamed at them . . . Well! Well! I could see for myself that -it was no good lowering a boat. You couldn't have seen her -alongside. No use. And only think, Marlow, it was I who had to go -and tell Mrs. Anthony. They had taken her down below somewhere, -first-class saloon. I had to go and tell her! That Flaherty, God -forgive him, comes to me as white as a sheet, "I think you are the -proper person." God forgive him. I wished to die a hundred times. -A lot of kind ladies, passengers, were chattering excitedly around -Mrs. Anthony--a real parrot house. The ship's doctor went before -me. He whispers right and left and then there falls a sudden hush. -Yes, I wished myself dead. But Mrs. Anthony was a brick. - -Here Mr. Powell fairly burst into tears. "No one could help loving -Captain Anthony. I leave you to imagine what he was to her. Yet -before the week was out it was she who was helping me to pull myself -together." - -"Is Mrs. Anthony in England now?" I asked after a while. - -He wiped his eyes without any false shame. "Oh yes." He began to -look for matches, and while diving for the box under the table -added: "And not very far from here either. That little village up -there--you know." - -"No! Really! Oh I see!" - -Mr. Powell smoked austerely, very detached. But I could not let him -off like this. The sly beggar. So this was the secret of his -passion for sailing about the river, the reason of his fondness for -that creek. - -"And I suppose," I said, "that you are still as 'enthusiastic' as -ever. Eh? If I were you I would just mention my enthusiasm to Mrs. -Anthony. Why not?" - -He caught his falling pipe neatly. But if what the French call -effarement was ever expressed on a human countenance it was on this -occasion, testifying to his modesty, his sensibility and his -innocence. He looked afraid of somebody overhearing my audacious-- -almost sacrilegious hint--as if there had not been a mile and a half -of lonely marshland and dykes between us and the nearest human -habitation. And then perhaps he remembered the soothing fact for he -allowed a gleam to light up his eyes, like the reflection of some -inward fire tended in the sanctuary of his heart by a devotion as -pure as that of any vestal. - -It flashed and went out. He smiled a bashful smile, sighed: - -"Pah! Foolishness. You ought to know better," he said, more sad -than annoyed. "But I forgot that you never knew Captain Anthony," -he added indulgently. - -I reminded him that I knew Mrs. Anthony; even before he--an old -friend now--had ever set eyes on her. And as he told me that Mrs. -Anthony had heard of our meetings I wondered whether she would care -to see me. Mr. Powell volunteered no opinion then; but next time we -lay in the creek he said, "She will be very pleased. You had better -go to-day." - -The afternoon was well advanced before I approached the cottage. -The amenity of a fine day in its decline surrounded me with a -beneficent, a calming influence; I felt it in the silence of the -shady lane, in the pure air, in the blue sky. It is difficult to -retain the memory of the conflicts, miseries, temptations and crimes -of men's self-seeking existence when one is alone with the charming -serenity of the unconscious nature. Breathing the dreamless peace -around the picturesque cottage I was approaching, it seemed to me -that it must reign everywhere, over all the globe of water and land -and in the hearts of all the dwellers on this earth. - -Flora came down to the garden gate to meet me, no longer the -perversely tempting, sorrowful, wisp of white mist drifting in the -complicated bad dream of existence. Neither did she look like a -forsaken elf. I stammered out stupidly, "Again in the country, Miss -. . . Mrs . . . " She was very good, returned the pressure of my -hand, but we were slightly embarrassed. Then we laughed a little. -Then we became grave. - -I am no lover of day-breaks. You know how thin, equivocal, is the -light of the dawn. But she was now her true self, she was like a -fine tranquil afternoon--and not so very far advanced either. A -woman not much over thirty, with a dazzling complexion and a little -colour, a lot of hair, a smooth brow, a fine chin, and only the eyes -of the Flora of the old days, absolutely unchanged. - -In the room into which she led me we found a Miss Somebody--I didn't -catch the name,--an unobtrusive, even an indistinct, middle-aged -person in black. A companion. All very proper. She came and went -and even sat down at times in the room, but a little apart, with -some sewing. By the time she had brought in a lighted lamp I had -heard all the details which really matter in this story. Between me -and her who was once Flora de Barral the conversation was not likely -to keep strictly to the weather. - -The lamp had a rosy shade; and its glow wreathed her in perpetual -blushes, made her appear wonderfully young as she sat before me in a -deep, high-backed arm-chair. I asked: - -"Tell me what is it you said in that famous letter which so upset -Mrs. Fyne, and caused little Fyne to interfere in this offensive -manner?" - -"It was simply crude," she said earnestly. "I was feeling reckless -and I wrote recklessly. I knew she would disapprove and I wrote -foolishly. It was the echo of her own stupid talk. I said that I -did not love her brother but that I had no scruples whatever in -marrying him." - -She paused, hesitating, then with a shy half-laugh: - -"I really believed I was selling myself, Mr. Marlow. And I was -proud of it. What I suffered afterwards I couldn't tell you; -because I only discovered my love for my poor Roderick through -agonies of rage and humiliation. I came to suspect him of despising -me; but I could not put it to the test because of my father. Oh! I -would not have been too proud. But I had to spare poor papa's -feelings. Roderick was perfect, but I felt as though I were on the -rack and not allowed even to cry out. Papa's prejudice against -Roderick was my greatest grief. It was distracting. It frightened -me. Oh! I have been miserable! That night when my poor father -died suddenly I am certain they had some sort of discussion, about -me. But I did not want to hold out any longer against my own heart! -I could not." - -She stopped short, then impulsively: - -"Truth will out, Mr. Marlow." - -"Yes," I said. - -She went on musingly. - -"Sorrow and happiness were mingled at first like darkness and light. -For months I lived in a dusk of feelings. But it was quiet. It was -warm . . . " - -Again she paused, then going back in her thoughts. "No! There was -no harm in that letter. It was simply foolish. What did I know of -life then? Nothing. But Mrs. Fyne ought to have known better. She -wrote a letter to her brother, a little later. Years afterwards -Roderick allowed me to glance at it. I found in it this sentence: -'For years I tried to make a friend of that girl; but I warn you -once more that she has the nature of a heartless adventuress . . . ' -Adventuress!" repeated Flora slowly. "So be it. I have had a fine -adventure." - -"It was fine, then," I said interested. - -"The finest in the world! Only think! I loved and I was loved, -untroubled, at peace, without remorse, without fear. All the world, -all life were transformed for me. And how much I have seen! How -good people were to me! Roderick was so much liked everywhere. -Yes, I have known kindness and safety. The most familiar things -appeared lighted up with a new light, clothed with a loveliness I -had never suspected. The sea itself! . . . You are a sailor. You -have lived your life on it. But do you know how beautiful it is, -how strong, how charming, how friendly, how mighty . . . " - -I listened amazed and touched. She was silent only a little while. - -"It was too good to last. But nothing can rob me of it now . . . -Don't think that I repine. I am not even sad now. Yes, I have been -happy. But I remember also the time when I was unhappy beyond -endurance, beyond desperation. Yes. You remember that. And later -on, too. There was a time on board the Ferndale when the only -moments of relief I knew were when I made Mr. Powell talk to me a -little on the poop. You like him?--Don't you?" - -"Excellent fellow," I said warmly. "You see him often?" - -"Of course. I hardly know another soul in the world. I am alone. -And he has plenty of time on his hands. His aunt died a few years -ago. He's doing nothing, I believe." - -"He is fond of the sea," I remarked. "He loves it." - -"He seems to have given it up," she murmured. - -"I wonder why?" - -She remained silent. "Perhaps it is because he loves something else -better," I went on. "Come, Mrs. Anthony, don't let me carry away -from here the idea that you are a selfish person, hugging the memory -of your past happiness, like a rich man his treasure, forgetting the -poor at the gate." - -I rose to go, for it was getting late. She got up in some agitation -and went out with me into the fragrant darkness of the garden. She -detained my hand for a moment and then in the very voice of the -Flora of old days, with the exact intonation, showing the old -mistrust, the old doubt of herself, the old scar of the blow -received in childhood, pathetic and funny, she murmured, "Do you -think it possible that he should care for me?" - -"Just ask him yourself. You are brave." - -"Oh, I am brave enough," she said with a sigh. - -"Then do. For if you don't you will be wronging that patient man -cruelly." - -I departed leaving her dumb. Next day, seeing Powell making -preparations to go ashore, I asked him to give my regards to Mrs. -Anthony. He promised he would. - -"Listen, Powell," I said. "We got to know each other by chance?" - -"Oh, quite!" he admitted, adjusting his hat. - -"And the science of life consists in seizing every chance that -presents itself," I pursued. "Do you believe that?" - -"Gospel truth," he declared innocently. - -"Well, don't forget it." - -"Oh, I! I don't expect now anything to present itself," he said, -jumping ashore. - -He didn't turn up at high water. I set my sail and just as I had -cast off from the bank, round the black barn, in the dusk, two -figures appeared and stood silent, indistinct. - -"Is that you, Powell?" I hailed. - -"And Mrs. Anthony," his voice came impressively through the silence -of the great marsh. "I am not sailing to-night. I have to see Mrs. -Anthony home." - -"Then I must even go alone," I cried. - -Flora's voice wished me "bon voyage" in a most friendly but -tremulous tone. - -"You shall hear from me before long," shouted Powell, suddenly, just -as my boat had cleared the mouth of the creek. - -"This was yesterday," added Marlow, lolling in the arm-chair lazily. -"I haven't heard yet; but I expect to hear any moment . . . What on -earth are you grinning at in this sarcastic manner? I am not afraid -of going to church with a friend. Hang it all, for all my belief in -Chance I am not exactly a pagan . . . " - - - - - -End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Chance, by Joseph Conrad - diff --git a/old/old/chanc10.zip b/old/old/chanc10.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index d75d83e..0000000 --- a/old/old/chanc10.zip +++ /dev/null |