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diff --git a/old/1476-h/1476-h.htm b/old/1476-h/1476-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 58c7d57..0000000 --- a/old/1476-h/1476-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,17068 +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 style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chance, by Joseph Conrad</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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 <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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