Chance: A Tale in Two Parts

by Joseph Conrad

  PART ONE, CHAPTER 5.

  THE TEA-PARTY.

  "Amiable personality," I observed seeing Fyne on the point of fallinginto a brown study. But I could not help adding with meaning: "Hehadn't the gift of prophecy though."

  Fyne got up suddenly with a muttered "No, evidently not." He wasgloomy, hesitating. I supposed that he would not wish to play chessthat afternoon. This would dispense me from leaving my rooms on a daymuch too fine to be wasted in walking exercise. And I was disappointedwhen picking up his cap he intimated to me his hope of seeing me at thecottage about four o'clock--as usual.

  "It wouldn't be as usual." I put a particular stress on that remark.He admitted, after a short reflection, that it would not be. No. Notas usual. In fact it was his wife who hoped, rather, for my presence.She had formed a very favourable opinion of my practical sagacity.

  This was the first I ever heard of it. I had never suspected that MrsFyne had taken the trouble to distinguish in me the signs of sagacity orfolly. The few words we had exchanged last night in the excitement--orthe bother--of the girl's disappearance, were the first moderatelysignificant words which had ever passed between us. I had felt myselfalways to be in Mrs Fyne's view her husband's chess-player and nothingelse--a convenience--almost an implement.

  "I am highly flattered," I said. "I have always heard that there are nolimits to feminine intuition; and now I am half inclined to believe itis so. But still I fail to see in what way my sagacity, practical orotherwise, can be of any service to Mrs Fyne. One man's sagacity isvery much like any other man's sagacity. And with you at hand--"

  Fyne, manifestly not attending to what I was saying, directed straightat me his worried solemn eyes and struck in:

  "Yes, yes. Very likely. But you will come--won't you?"

  I had made up my mind that no Fyne of either sex would make me walkthree miles (there and back to their cottage) on this fine day. If theFynes had been an average sociable couple one knows only because leisuremust be got through somehow, I would have made short work of thatspecial invitation. But they were not that. Their undeniable humanityhad 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 acup of tea at my rooms.

  A short reflective pause--and Fyne accepted eagerly in his own and hiswife's name. A moment after I heard the click of the gate-latch andthen in an ecstasy of barking from his demonstrative dog his serioushead went past my window on the other side of the hedge, its troubledgaze fixed forward, and the mind inside obviously employed in earnestspeculation of an intricate nature. One at least of his wife'sgirl-friends had become more than a mere shadow for him. I surmisedhowever that it was not of the girl-friend but of his wife that Fyne wasthinking. He was an excellent husband.

  I prepared myself for the afternoon's hospitalities, calling in thefarmer's wife and reviewing with her the resources of the house and thevillage. She was a helpful woman. But the resources of my sagacity Idid not review. Except in the gross material sense of the afternoon teaI made _no_ preparations for Mrs Fyne.

  It was impossible for me to make any such preparations. I could nottell what sort of sustenance she would look for from my sagacity. Andas to taking stock of the wares of my mind no one I imagine is anxiousto do that sort of thing if it can be avoided. A vaguely grandiosestate of mental self-confidence is much too agreeable to be disturbedrecklessly by such a delicate investigation. Perhaps if I had had ahelpful 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 Idoubt whether she would have known how to be nattering enough. She wasbeing helpful in her own way, with an extraordinary black bonnet on herhead, a good mile off by that time, trying to discover in the villageshops a piece of eatable cake. The pluck of women! The optimism of thedear creatures!

  And she managed to find something which looked eatable. That's all Iknow as I had no opportunity to observe the more intimate effects ofthat comestible. I myself never eat cake, and Mrs Fyne, when shearrived punctually, brought with her no appetite for cake. She had noappetite for anything. But she had a thirst--the sign of deep, oftormenting 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 skirtand coat; a white hat with a large brim reposed on her smoothly arrangedhair. The coat was cut something like an army mess-jacket and the stylesuited her. I dare say there are many youthful subalterns, and not theworst-looking too, who resemble Mrs Fyne in the type of face, in thesunburnt complexion, down to that something alert in bearing. But notmany would have had that aspect breathing a readiness to assume anyresponsibility under Heaven. This is the sort of courage which ripenslate in life and of course Mrs Fyne was of mature years for all herunwrinkled face.

  She looked round the room, told me positively that I was verycomfortable there; to which I assented, humbly, acknowledging myundeserved good fortune.

  "Why undeserved?" she wanted to know.

  "I engaged these rooms by letter without asking any questions. It mighthave been an abominable hole," I explained to her. "I always do thingslike that. I don't like to be bothered. This is no great proof ofsagacity--is it? Sagacious people I believe like to exercise thatfaculty. I have heard that they can't even help showing it in theveriest trifles. It must be very delightful. But I know nothing of it.I think that I have no sagacity--no practical sagacity."

  Fyne made an inarticulate bass murmur of protest. I asked after thechildren whom I had not seen yet since my return from town. They hadbeen very well. They were always well. Both Fyne and Mrs Fyne spokeof the rude health of their children as if it were a result of moralexcellence; in a peculiar tone which seemed to imply some contempt forpeople whose children were liable to be unwell at times. One almostfelt inclined to apologise for the inquiry. And this annoyed me;unreasonably, I admit, because the assumption of superior merit is not avery exceptional weakness. Anxious to make myself disagreeable by wayof retaliation I observed in accents of interested civility that thedear girls must have been wondering at the sudden disappearance of theirmother's young friend. Had they been putting any awkward questionsabout Miss Smith. Wasn't it as Miss Smith that Miss de Barral had beenintroduced to me?

  Mrs Fyne, staring fixedly but also colouring deeper under her tan, toldme that the children had never liked Flora very much. She hadn't thehigh spirits which endear grown-ups to healthy children, Mrs Fyneexplained unflinchingly. Flora had been staying at the cottage severaltimes before. Mrs Fyne assured me that she often found it verydifficult to have her in the house.

  "But what else could we do?" she exclaimed.

  That little cry of distress quite genuine in its inexpressiveness,altered my feeling towards Mrs Fyne. It would have been so easy tohave done nothing and to have thought no more about it. My liking forher began while she was trying to tell me of the night she spent by thegirl's bedside, the night before her departure with her unprepossessingrelative. That Mrs Fyne found means to comfort the child I doubt verymuch. She had not the genius for the task of undoing that which thehate of an infuriated woman had planned so well.

  You will tell me perhaps that children's impressions are not durable.That's true enough. But here, child is only a manner of speaking. Thegirl was within a few days of her sixteenth birthday; she was old enoughto be matured by the shock. The very effort she had to make inconveying the impression to Mrs Fyne, in remembering the details, infinding adequate words--or any words at all--was in itself a terriblyenlightening, an ageing process. She had talked a long time,uninterrupted by Mrs Fyne, childlike enough in her wonder and pain,pa
using now and then to interject the pitiful query: "It was cruel ofher. Wasn't it cruel, Mrs Fyne?"

  For Charley she found excuses. He at any rate had not said anything,while he had looked very gloomy and miserable. He couldn't have takenpart against his aunt--could he? But after all he did, when she calledupon him, take "that cruel woman away." He had dragged her out by thearm. She had seen that plainly. She remembered it. That was it! Thewoman was mad. "Oh! Mrs Fyne, don't tell me she wasn't mad. If youhad only seen her face..."

  But Mrs Fyne was unflinching in her idea that as much truth as could betold was due in the way of kindness to the girl, whose fate she fearedwould be to live exposed to the hardest realities of unprivilegedexistences. She explained to her that there were in the worldevil-minded, selfish people. Unscrupulous people... These two personshad been after her father's money. The best thing she could do was toforget all about them.

  "After papa's money? I don't understand," poor Flora de Barral hadmurmured, and lay still as if trying to think it out in the silence andshadows of the room where only a night-light was burning. Then she hada long shivering fit while holding tight the hand of Mrs Fyne whosepatient immobility by the bedside of that brutally murdered childhooddid infinite honour to her humanity. That vigil must have been the moretrying because I could see very well that at no time did she think thevictim particularly charming or sympathetic. It was a manifestation ofpure compassion, of compassion in itself, so to speak, not many womenwould have been capable of displaying with that unflinching steadiness.The shivering fit over, the girl's next words in an outburst of sobswere, "Oh! Mrs Fyne, am I really such a horrid thing as she has mademe out to be?"

  "No, no!" protested Mrs Fyne. "It is your former governess who ishorrid and odious. She is a vile woman. I cannot tell you that she wasmad but I think she must have been beside herself with rage and full ofevil thoughts. You must try not to think of these abominations, my dearchild."

  They were not fit for anyone to think of much, Mrs Fyne commented to mein a curt positive tone. All that had been very trying. The girl waslike a creature struggling under a net.

  "But how can I forget? she called my father a cheat and a swindler! Dotell me Mrs Fyne that it isn't true. It can't be true. How can it betrue?"

  She sat up in bed with a sudden wild motion as if to jump out and fleeaway 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 herhead on her pillow again, assuring her all the time that nothing thiswoman had had the cruelty to say deserved to be taken to heart. Thegirl, exhausted, cried quietly for a time. It may be she had noticedsomething evasive in Mrs Fyne's assurances. After a while, withoutstirring, she whispered brokenly:

  "That awful woman told me that all the world would call papa these awfulnames. Is it possible? Is it possible?"

  Mrs Fyne kept silent.

  "Do say something to me, Mrs Fyne," the daughter of de Barral insistedin the same feeble whisper.

  Again Mrs Fyne assured me that it had been very trying. Terriblytrying. "Yes, thanks, I will." She leaned back in the chair withfolded arms while I poured another cup of tea for her, and Fyne went outto pacify the dog which, tied up under the porch, had become suddenlyvery 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 cupdown and said with that air of accepting all the consequences:

  "Silence would have been unfair. I don't think it would have been kindeither. I told her that she must be prepared for the world passing avery severe judgment on her father..."

  "Wasn't it admirable," cried Marlow interrupting his narrative."Admirable!" And as I looked dubiously at this unexpected enthusiasm hestarted justifying it after his own manner.

  "I say admirable because it was so characteristic. It was perfect.Nothing short of genius could have found better. And this was nature!As they say of an artist's work: this was a perfect Fyne. Compassion--judiciousness--something correctly measured. None of your dishevelledsentiment. And right! You must confess that nothing could have beenmore right. I had a mind to shout `Brava! Brava!' but I did not dothat. I took a piece of cake and went out to bribe the Fyne dog intosome sort of self-control. His sharp comical yapping was unbearable,like stabs through one's brain, and Fyne's deeply modulatedremonstrances 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 Iappeared. The dog became at once wildly demonstrative, half stranglinghimself in his collar, his eyes and tongue hanging out in the excess ofhis incomprehensible affection for me. This was before he caught sightof the cake in my hand. A series of vertical springs high up in the airfollowed, and then, when he got the cake, he instantly lost his interestin everything else."

  Fyne was slightly vexed with me. As kind a master as any dog could wishto have, he yet did not approve of cake being given to dogs. The Fynedog was supposed to lead a Spartan existence on a diet of repulsivebiscuits with an occasional dry, hygienic, bone thrown in. Fyne lookeddown gloomily at the appeased animal, I too looked at that fool-dog; and(you know how one's memory gets suddenly stimulated) I was remindedvisually, with an almost painful distinctness, of the ghostly white faceof the girl I saw last accompanied by that dog--deserted by that dog. Ialmost heard her distressed voice as if on the verge of resentful tearscalling to the dog, the unsympathetic dog. Perhaps she had not thepower of evoking sympathy, that personal gift of direct appeal to thefeelings. I said to Fyne, mistrusting the supine attitude of the dog:

  "Why don't you let him come inside?"

  Oh dear no! He couldn't think of it! I might indeed have saved mybreath, I knew it was one of the Fynes' rules of life, part of theirsolemnity and responsibility, one of those things that were part oftheir unassertive but ever present superiority, that their dog must notbe allowed in. It was most improper to intrude the dog into the housesof the people they were calling on--if it were only a careless bachelorin farmhouse lodgings and a personal friend of the dog. It was out ofthe question. But they would let him bark one's sanity away outsideone's window. They were strangely consistent in their lack ofimaginative sympathy. I didn't insist but simply led the way back tothe parlour, hoping that no wayfarer would happen along the lane for thenext hour or so to disturb the dog's composure.

  Mrs Fyne seated immovable before the table charged with plates, cups,jugs, a cold teapot, crumbs, and the general litter of the entertainmentturned her head towards us.

  "You see, Mr Marlow," she said in an unexpectedly confidential tone:"they are so utterly unsuited for each other."

  At the moment I did not know how to apply this remark. I thought atfirst of Fyne and the dog. Then I adjusted it to the matter in handwhich was neither more nor less than an elopement. Yes, by Jove! Itwas something very much like an elopement--with certain unusualcharacteristics of its own which made it in a sense equivocal. Withamused wonder I remembered that my sagacity was requisitioned in such aconnection. How unexpected! But we never know what tests our gifts maybe put to. Sagacity dictated caution first of all. I believe cautionto be the first duty of sagacity. Fyne sat down as if preparing himselfto witness a joust, I thought.

  "Do you think so, Mrs Fyne?" I said sagaciously. "Of course you arein a position..." I was continuing with caution when she struck outvivaciously for immediate assent.

  "Obviously! dearly! You yourself must admit..."

  "But, Mrs Fyne," I remonstrated, "you forget that I don't know yourbrother."

  This argument which was not only sagacious but true, overwhelminglytrue, unanswerably true, seemed to surprise her.

  I wondered why. I did not know enough of her brother for the remotestguess at what he might be like. I had never set eyes on the man. Ididn't know him so completely that by contrast I seemed to have knownMiss de Barral--whom I had seen twice (altogether about sixty minute
s)and with whom I had exchanged about sixty words--from the cradle so tospeak. And perhaps, I thought, looking down at Mrs Fyne (I hadremained standing) perhaps she thinks that this ought to be enough for asagacious assent.

  She kept silent; and I looking at her with polite expectation, went onaddressing her mentally in a mood of familiar approval which would haveastonished her had it been audible: "You my dear at any rate are asincere woman..."

  "I call a woman sincere," Marlow began again after giving me a cigar andlighting one himself, "I call a woman sincere when she volunteers astatement 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 necessityto spare the stupid sensitiveness of men. The women's rougher, simpler,more upright judgment, embraces the whole truth, which their tact, theirmistrust of masculine idealism, ever prevents them from speaking in itsentirety. And their tact is unerring. We could not stand womenspeaking the truth. We could not bear it. It would cause infinitemisery and bring about most awful disturbances in this rather mediocre,but still idealistic fool's paradise in which each of us lives his ownlittle life--the unit in the great sum of existence. And they know it.They are merciful. This generalisation does not apply exactly to MrsFyne's outburst of sincerity in a matter in which neither my affectionsnor 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 notonly the form but almost the whole substance of her thought in what shesaid. She believed she could risk it. She had reasoned somewhat inthis way; there's a man, possessing a certain amount of sagacity..."

  Marlow paused with a whimsical look at me. The last few words he hadspoken with the cigar in his teeth. He took it out now by an amplemovement of his arm and blew a thin cloud.

  "You smile? It would have been more kind to spare my blushes. But as amatter 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 thisconnection stands for. When you see this you shall see also that therewas nothing in it to alarm my modesty. I don't think Mrs Fyne creditedme with the possession of wisdom tempered by common sense. And had Ihad the wisdom of the Seven Sages of Antiquity, she would not have beenmoved to confidence or admiration. The secret scorn of women for thecapacity to consider judiciously and to express profoundly a meditatedconclusion is unbounded. They have no use for these lofty exerciseswhich they look upon as a sort of purely masculine game--game meaning arespectable occupation devised to kill time in this man-arranged lifewhich must be got through somehow. What women's acuteness reallyrespects are the inept `ideas' and the sheep-like impulses by which ouractions and opinions are determined in matters of real importance. Forif women are not rational they are indeed acute. Even Mrs Fyne wasacute. The good woman was making up to her husband's chess-playersimply 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 twomisadventures in my life either ridiculous or lamentable, I am not verycertain which. It matters very little. Anyhow misadventures. Observethat I say `femininity,' a privilege--not `feminism,' an attitude. I amnot a feminist. It was Fyne who on certain solemn grounds had adoptedthat mental attitude; but it was enough to glance at him sitting on oneside, to see that he was purely masculine to his finger-tips, masculinesolidly, densely, amusingly,--hopelessly."

  I did glance at him. You don't get your sagacity recognised by a man'swife without feeling the propriety and even the need to glance at theman now and again. So I glanced at him. Very masculine. So much sothat "hopelessly" was not the last word of it. He was helpless. He wasbound and delivered by it. And if by the obscure promptings of mycomposite temperament I beheld him with malicious amusement, yet beingin fact, by definition and especially from profound conviction, a man, Icould not help sympathising with him largely. Seeing him thus disarmed,_so_ completely captive by the very nature of things I was moved tospeak to him kindly.

  "Well. And what do you think of it?"

  "I don't know. How's one to tell. But I say that the thing is done nowand there's an end of it," said the masculine creature as bluntly as hisinnate solemnity permitted.

  Mrs Fyne moved a little in her chair. I turned to her and remarkedgently that this was a charge, a criticism, which was often made. Somepeople always ask: What could he see in her? Others wonder what shecould have seen in him? Expressions of unsuitability.

  She said with all the emphasis of her quietly folded arms:

  "I know perfectly well what Flora has seen in my brother."

  I bowed my head to the gust but pursued my point.

  "And then the marriage in most cases turns out no worse than theaverage, to say the least of it."

  Mrs Fyne was disappointed by the optimistic turn of my sagacity. Sherested her eyes on my face as though in doubt whether I had enoughfemininity in my composition to understand the case.

  I waited for her to speak. She seemed to be asking herself; Is it afterall, worth while to talk to that man? You understand how provoking thiswas. I looked in my mind for something appallingly stupid to say, withthe object of distressing and teasing Mrs Fyne. It is humiliating toconfess a failure. One would think that a man of average intelligencecould command stupidity at will. But it isn't so. I suppose it's aspecial gift or else the difficulty consists in being relevant.Discovering that I could find no really telling stupidity, I turned tothe next best thing; a platitude. I advanced, in a common sense tone,that, surely, in the matter of marriage a man had only himself toplease.

  Mrs Fyne received this without the flutter of an eyelid. Fyne'smasculine breast, as might have been expected, was pierced by that old,regulation shaft. He grunted most feelingly. I turned to him withfalse simplicity. "Don't you agree with me?"

  "The very thing I've been telling my wife," he exclaimed in hisextra-manly bass. "We have been discussing--"

  A discussion in the Fyne menage! How portentous! Perhaps the veryA discussion in the Fyne menage! How portentous! Perhaps the veryfirst difference they had ever had: Mrs Fyne unflinching and ready forany responsibility, Fyne solemn and shrinking--the children in bedupstairs; and outside the dark fields, the shadowy contours of the landon the starry background of the universe, with the crude light of theopen window like a beacon for the truant who would never come back now;a truant no longer but a downright fugitive. Yet a fugitive carryingoff spoils. It was the flight of a raider--or a tractor? This affairof the purloined brother, as I had named it to myself, had a verypuzzling physiognomy. The girl must have been desperate, I thought,hearing the grave voice of Fyne well enough but catching the sense ofhis words not at all, except the very last words which were:

  "Of course, it's extremely distressing."

  I looked at him inquisitively. What was distressing him? Thepurloining of the son of the poet-tyrant by the daughter of thefinancier-convict. Or only, if I may say so, the wind of their flightdisturbing the solemn placidity of the Fynes' domestic atmosphere. Myincertitude did not last long, for he added:

  "Mrs Fyne urges me to go to London at once."

  One could guess at, almost see, his profound distaste for the journey,his distress at a difference of feeling with his wife. With his seriousview of the sublunary comedy Fyne suffered from not being able to agreesolemnly with her sentiment as he was accustomed to do, in recognitionof having had his way in one supreme instance; when he made her elopewith him--the most momentous step imaginable in a young lady's life. Hehad been really trying to acknowledge it by taking the rightness of herfeeling for granted on every other occasion. It had become a sort ofhabit at last. And it is never pleasant to break a habit. The man wasdeeply troubled. I said: "Really! To go to London!"

  He looked dumbly into my eyes. It was pathetic and funny. "And you ofcourse feel it would be useless," I pursued.

  He evidently felt that, though he said nothing. He
only went onblinking at me with a solemn and comical slowness. "Unless it be tocarry there the family's blessing," I went on, indulging my chaffinghumour steadily, in a rather sneaking fashion, for I dared not look atMrs 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 intellectbordering on the absurd."

  He looked surprised as if I had discovered something very clever. He,dear man, had thought of nothing at all. He simply knew that he did notwant to go to London on that mission. Mere masculine delicacy. In amoment he became enthusiastic.

  "Yes! Yes! Exactly. A man in love ... You hear, my dear? Here youhave an independent opinion--"

  "Can anything be more hopeless," I insisted to the fascinated littleFyne, "than to pit reason against love. I must confess however that inthis case when I think of that poor girl's sharp chin I wonder if..."

  My levity was too much for Mrs Fyne. Still leaning back in her chairshe exclaimed:

  "Mr Marlow!"

  "As if mysteriously affected by her indignation the absurd Fyne dogbegan to bark in the porch. It might have been at a trespassingbumble-bee however. That animal was capable of any eccentricity. Fynegot up quickly and went out to him. I think he was glad to leave usalone to discuss that matter of his journey to London. A sort ofanti-sentimental journey. He, too, apparently, had confidence in mysagacity. It was touching, this confidence. It was at any rate moregenuine than the confidence his wife pretended to have in her husband'schess-player, of three successive holidays. Confidence be hanged!Sagacity--indeed! She had simply marched in without a shadow ofmisgiving to make me back her up. But she had delivered herself into myhands..."

  Interrupting his narrative Marlow addressed me in his tone between grimjest and grim earnest:

  "Perhaps you didn't know that my character is upon the whole rathervindictive."

  "No, I didn't know," I said with a grin. "That's rather unusual for asailor. They always seemed to me the least vindictive body of men inthe world."

  "H'm! Simple souls," Marlow muttered moodily. "Want of opportunity.The world leaves them alone for the most part. For myself it's towardswomen that I feel vindictive mostly, in my small way. I admit that itis small. But then the occasions in themselves are not great. Mainly.I resent that pretence of winding us round their dear little fingers, asof right. Not that the result ever amounts to much generally. Thereare so very few momentous opportunities. It is the assumption that eachof 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 werebreathing fire and smoke out of my nostrils. I am not a women-devouringmonster. I am not even what is technically called `a brute.' I hopethere's enough of a kid and an imbecile in me to answer the requirementsof some really good woman eventually--some day... Some day. Why do yougasp? You don't suppose I should be afraid of getting married? Thatsupposition would be offensive..."

  "I wouldn't dream of offending you," I said.

  "Very well. But meantime please remember that I was not married to MrsFyne. That lady's little finger was none of my legal property. I hadnot run off with it. It was Fyne who had done that thing. Let him bewound round as much as his backbone could stand--or even more, for all Icared. His rushing away from the discussion on the transparent pretenceof quieting the dog confirmed my notion of there being a considerablestrain on his elasticity. I confronted Mrs Fyne resolved not to assisther in her eminently feminine occupation of thrusting a stick in thespokes of another woman's wheel.

  "She tried to preserve her calm-eyed superiority. She was familiar andolympian, fenced in by the tea-table, that excellent symbol of domesticlife in its lighter hour and its perfect security. In a few severelyunadorned words she gave me to understand that she had ventured to hopefor some really helpful suggestion from me. To this almost chidingdeclaration--because my vindictiveness seldom goes further than a bit ofteasing--I said that I was really doing my best. And being aphysiognomist..."

  "Being what?" she interrupted me.

  "A physiognomist," I repeated raising my voice a little. "Aphysiognomist, Mrs Fyne. And on the principles of that science apointed little chin is a sufficient ground for interference. You wantto interfere--do you not?"

  Her eyes grew distinctly bigger. She had never been bantered before inher life. The late subtle poet's method of making himself unpleasantwas merely savage and abusive. Fyne had been always solemnlysubservient. What other men she knew I cannot tell but I assume theymust have been gentlemanly creatures. The girl-friends sat at her feet.How could she recognise my intention. She didn't know what to make ofmy tone.

  "Are you serious in what you say?" she asked slowly. And it wastouching. It was as if a very young, confiding girl had spoken. I feltmyself relenting.

  "No. I am not, Mrs Fyne," I said. "I didn't know I was expected to beserious as well as sagacious. No. That science is farcical andtherefore I am not serious. It's true that most sciences are farcicalexcept those which teach us how to put things together."

  "The question is how to keep these two people apart," she struck in.She had recovered. I admired the quickness of women's wit. Mentalagility is a rare perfection. And aren't they agile! Aren't they--just! And tenacious! When they once get hold you may uproot the treebut 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 mengive in--generally. I won't say I was actually charmed by Mrs Fyne. Iwas not delighted with her. What affected me was not what she displayedbut something which she could not conceal. And that was emotion--nothing less. The form of her declaration was dry, almost peremptory--but not its ton. Her voice faltered just the least bit, she smiledfaintly; and as we were looking straight at each other I observed thather eyes were glistening in a peculiar manner. She was distressed.And indeed that Mrs Fyne should have appealed to me at all was initself the evidence of her profound distress. "By Jove she's desperatetoo," I thought. This discovery was followed by a movement ofinstinctive shrinking from this unreasonable and unmasculine affair.They were all alike, with their supreme interest aroused only byfighting with each other about some man: a lover, a son, a brother.

  "But do you think there's time yet to do anything?" I asked.

  She had an impatient movement of her shoulders without detaching herselffrom the back of the chair. Time! Of course? It was less thanforty-eight hours since she had followed him to London.--I am no greatclerk at those matters but I murmured vaguely an allusion to speciallicences. We couldn't tell what might have happened to-day already.But she knew better, scornfully. Nothing had happened.

  "Nothing's likely to happen before next Friday week,--if then."

  This was wonderfully precise. Then after a pause she added that sheshould never forgive herself if some effort were not made, an appeal.

  "To your brother?" I asked.

  "Yes. John ought to go to-morrow. Nine o'clock train."

  "So early as that!" I said. But I could not find it in my heart topursue this discussion in a jocular tone. I submitted to her severalobvious arguments, dictated apparently by common sense but in reality bymy secret compassion. Mrs Fyne brushed them aside, with thesemi-conscious egoism of all safe, established, existences. They hadknown each other so little. Just three weeks. And of that time, tooshort for the birth of any serious sentiment, the first week had to bededucted. They would hardly look at each other to begin with. Florabarely consented to acknowledge Captain Anthony's presence. Goodmorning--good-night--that was all--absolutely the whole extent of theirintercourse. Captain Anthony was a silent man, completely unused to thesociety of girls of any sort and so shy in fact that he avoided raisinghis eyes to her face at the table. It was perfectly absurd. It waseven inconvenient, embarrassing to her--Mrs Fyne. After breakfastFlora would go off by herself for a long walk and Captain Anthony
(MrsFyne referred to him at times also as Roderick) joined the children.But he was actually too shy to get on terms with his own nieces.

  This would have sounded pathetic if I hadn't known the Fyne children whowere at the same time solemn and malicious, and nursed a secret contemptfor all the world. No one could get on terms with those fresh andcomely young monsters! They just tolerated their parents and seemed tohave a sort of mocking understanding among themselves against alloutsiders, yet with no visible affection for each other. They had thehabit of exchanging derisive glances which to a shy man must have beenvery trying. They thought their uncle no doubt a bore and perhaps anass.

  I was not surprised to hear that very soon Anthony formed the habit ofcrossing the two neighbouring fields to seek the shade of a clump ofelms at a good distance from the cottage. He lay on the grass andsmoked his pipe all the morning. Mrs Fyne wondered at her brother'sindolent habits. He had asked for books it is true but there were butfew in the cottage. He read them through in three days and thencontinued to lie contentedly on his back with no other companion but hispipe. Amazing indolence! The live-long morning, Mrs Fyne, busywriting upstairs in the cottage, could see him out of the window. Shehad a very long sight, and these elms were grouped on a rise of theground. His indolence was plainly exposed to her criticism on a gentlegreen slope. Mrs Fyne wondered at it; she was disgusted too. Buthaving just then `commenced author,' as you know, she could not tearherself away from the fascinating novelty. She let him wallow in hisvice. I imagine Captain Anthony must have had a rather pleasant time ina quiet way. It was, I remember, a hot dry summer, favourable tocontemplative life out of doors. And Mrs Fyne was scandalised. Womendon't understand the force of a contemplative temperament. It simplyshocks them. They feel instinctively that it is the one which escapesbest the domination of feminine influences. The dear girls wereexchanging jeering remarks about "lazy uncle Roderick" openly, in herindulgent hearing. And it was so strange, she told me, because as a boyhe was anything but indolent. On the contrary. Always active.

  I remarked that a man of thirty-five was no longer a boy. It was anobvious remark but she received it without favour. She told mepositively that the best, the nicest men remained boys all their lives.She was disappointed not to be able to detect anything boyish in herbrother. Very, very sorry. She had not seen him for fifteen years orthereabouts, except on three or four occasions for a few hours at atime. No. Not a trace of the boy, he used to be, left in him.

  She fell silent for a moment and I mused idly on the boyhood of littleFyne. I could not imagine what it might have been like. His dominanttrait was clearly the remnant of still earlier days, because I've neverseen such staring solemnity as Fyne's except in a very young baby. Butwhere was he all that time? Didn't he suffer contamination from theindolence of Captain Anthony, I inquired. I was told that Mr Fyne wasvery little at the cottage at the time. Some colleague of his wasconvalescing after a severe illness in a little seaside village in theneighbourhood and Fyne went off every morning by train to spend the daywith the elderly invalid who had no one to look after him. It was avery praiseworthy excuse for neglecting his brother-in-law "the son ofthe poet, you know," with whom he had nothing in common even in theremotest degree. If Captain Anthony (Roderick) had been a pedestrian itwould have been sufficient; but he was not. Still, in the afternoon, hewent sometimes for a slow casual stroll, by himself of course, thechildren having definitely cold-shouldered him, and his only sisterbeing busy with that inflammatory book which was to blaze upon the worlda year or more afterwards. It seems however that she was capable ofdetaching 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 oneafternoon she observed her brother and Flora de Barral coming down theroad side by side. They had met somewhere accidentally (which of themcrossed the other's path, as the saying is, I don't know), and werereturning to tea together. She noticed that they appeared to beconversing without constraint.

  "I had the simplicity to be pleased," Mrs Fyne commented with a drylittle laugh. "Pleased for both their sakes." Captain Anthony shookoff his indolence from that day forth, and accompanied Miss Florafrequently on her morning walks. Mrs Fyne remained pleased. She couldnow forget them comfortably and give herself up to the delights ofaudacious thought and literary composition. Only a week before the blowfell, she, happening to raise her eyes from the paper, saw two figuresseated on the grass under the shade of the elms. She could make out thewhite blouse. There could be no mistake.

  "I suppose they imagined themselves concealed by the hedge. They forgotno doubt I was working in the garret," she said bitterly. "Or perhapsthey didn't care. They were right. I am rather a simple person..."She laughed again ... "I was incapable of suspecting such duplicity."

  "Duplicity is a strong word, Mrs Fyne--isn't it?" I expostulated."And considering that Captain Anthony himself..."

  "Oh well--perhaps," she interrupted me. Her eyes which never strayedaway from mine, her set features, her whole immovable figure, how well Iknew those appearances of a person who has "made up her mind." A veryhopeless condition that, specially in women. I mistrusted herconcession so easily, so stonily made. She reflected a moment. "Yes.I ought to have said--ingratitude, perhaps."

  After having thus disengaged her brother and pushed the poor girl alittle further off as it were--isn't women's cleverness perfectlydiabolic when they are really put on their mettle?--after having donethese things and also made me feel that I was no match for her, she wenton scrupulously: "One doesn't like to use that word either. The claimis very small. It's so little one could do for her. Still..."

  "I dare say," I exclaimed, throwing diplomacy to the winds. "Butreally, Mrs Fyne, it's impossible to dismiss your brother like this outof the business..."

  "She threw herself at his head," Mrs Fyne uttered firmly.

  "He had no business to put his head in the way, then," I retorted withan angry laugh. I didn't restrain myself because her fixed stare seemedto express the purpose to daunt me. I was not afraid of her, but itoccurred to me that I was within an ace of drifting into a downrightquarrel with a lady and, besides, my guest. There was the cold teapot,the emptied cups, emblems of hospitality. It could not be. I cut shortmy angry laugh while Mrs Fyne murmured with a slight movement of hershoulders, "He! Poor man! Oh come..."

  By a great effort of will I found myself able to smile amiably, to speakwith proper softness.

  "My dear Mrs Fyne, you forget that I don't know him--not even by sight.It's difficult to imagine a victim as passive as all that; but grantingyou the (I very nearly said: imbecility, but checked myself in time)innocence of Captain Anthony, don't you think now, frankly, that thereis a little of your own fault in what has happened. `You bring themtogether, you leave your brother to himself!'

  "She sat up and leaning her elbow on the table sustained her head in heropen palm casting down her eyes. Compunction? It was indeed a veryoff-hand way of treating a brother come to stay for the first time infifteen years. I suppose she discovered very soon that she had nothingin common with that sailor, that stranger, fashioned and marked by thesea of long voyages. In her strong-minded way she had scornedpretences, had gone to her writing which interested her immensely. Avery praiseworthy thing your sincere conduct,--if it didn't at timesresemble brutality so much. But I don't think it was compunction. Thatsentiment is rare in women..."

  "Is it?" I interrupted indignantly.

  "You know more women than I do," retorted the unabashed Marlow. "Youmake it your business to know them--don't you? You go about a lotamongst all sorts of people. You are a tolerably honest observer.Well, just try to remember how many instances of compunction you haveseen. I am ready to take your bare word for it. Compunction! Have youever seen as much as its shadow? Have you ever? Just a shadow--apassing shadow! I tell you it is so rare that you may call itnon-existent. They are too passionate. Too pedantic. Too courageouswith themsel
ves--perhaps. No I don't think for a moment that Mrs Fynefelt the slightest compunction at her treatment of her sea-goingbrother. What _he_ thought of it who can tell? It is possible that hewondered why he had been so insistently urged to come. It is possiblethat he wondered bitterly--or contemptuously--or humbly. And it may bethat he was only surprised and bored. Had he been as sincere in hisconduct as his only sister he would have probably taken himself off atthe end of the second day. But perhaps he was afraid of appearingbrutal. I am not far removed from the conviction that between thesincerities of his sister and of his dear nieces, Captain Anthony of the_Ferndale_ must have had his loneliness brought home to his bosom forthe first time of his life, at an age, thirty-five or thereabouts, whenone is mature enough to feel the pang of such a discovery. Angry orsimply sad but certainly disillusioned he wanders about and meets thegirl one afternoon and under the sway of a strong feeling forgets hisshyness. This is no supposition. It is a fact. There was such ameeting in which the shyness must have perished before we don't knowwhat encouragement, or in the community of mood made apparent by somecasual word. You remember that Mrs Fyne saw them one afternoon comingback to the cottage together. Don't you think that I have hit on thepsychology of the situation?..."

  "Doubtless..." I began to ponder.

  "I was very certain of my conclusions at the time," Marlow went onimpatiently. "But don't think for a moment that Mrs Fyne in her newattitude and toying thoughtfully with a teaspoon was about to surrender.She murmured:--

  "It's the last thing I should have thought could happen."

  "You didn't suppose they were romantic enough," I suggested dryly.

  She let it pass and with great decision but as if speaking to herself,"Roderick really must be warned."

  She didn't give me the time to ask of what precisely. She raised herhead and addressed me.

  "I am surprised and grieved more than I can tell you at Mr Fyne'sresistance. We have been always completely at one on every question.And that we should differ now on a point touching my brother so closelyis a most painful surprise to me." Her hand rattled the teaspoonbrusquely by an involuntary movement. "It is intolerable," she addedtempestuously--for Mrs Fyne that is. I suppose she had nerves of herown like any other woman.

  Under the porch where Fyne had sought refuge with the dog there wassilence. I took it for a proof of deep sagacity. I don't mean on thepart of the dog. He was a confirmed fool.

  I said:

  "You want absolutely to interfere...?" Mrs Fyne nodded justperceptibly... "Well--for my part ... but I don't really know howmatters stand at the present time. You have had a letter from Miss deBarral. What does that letter say?"

  "She asks for her valise to be sent to her town address," Mrs Fyneuttered reluctantly and stopped. I waited a bit--then exploded.

  "Well! What's the matter? Where's the difficulty? Does your husbandobject to that? You don't mean to say that he wants you to appropriatethe girl's clothes?"

  "Mr Marlow!"

  "Well, but you talk of a painful difference of opinion with yourhusband, and then, when I ask for information on the point, you bringout a valise. And only a few moments ago you reproached me for notbeing serious. I wonder who is the serious person of us two now."

  She smiled faintly and in a friendly tone, from which I concluded atonce that she did not mean to show me the girl's letter, she said thatundoubtedly the letter disclosed an understanding between CaptainAnthony and Flora de Barral.

  "What understanding?" I pressed her. "An engagement is anunderstanding."

  "There is no engagement--not yet," she said decisively. "That letter,Mr Marlow, is couched in very vague terms. That is why--"

  I interrupted her without ceremony.

  "You still hope to interfere to some purpose. Isn't it so? Yes? Buthow should you have liked it if anybody had tried to interfere betweenyou and Mr Fyne at the time when _your_ understanding with each othercould still have been described in vague terms?"

  She had a genuine movement of astonished indignation. It is with theaccent of perfect sincerity that she cried out at me:

  "But it isn't at all the same thing? How can you!"

  Indeed how could I! The daughter of a poet and the daughter of aconvict are not comparable in the consequences of their conduct if theirnecessity may wear at times a similar aspect. Amongst theseconsequences I could perceive undesirable cousins for these dear healthygirls, and such like, possible, causes of embarrassment in the future.

  "No! You can't be serious," Mrs Fyne's smouldering resentment brokeout again. "You haven't thought--"

  "Oh yes, Mrs Fyne! I have thought. I am still thinking. I am eventrying to think like you."

  "Mr Marlow," she said earnestly. "Believe me that I really am thinkingof my brother in all this..." I assured her that I quite believed shewas. For there is no law of nature making it impossible to think ofmore than one person at a time. Then I said:

  "She has told him all about herself of course."

  "All about her life," assented Mrs Fyne with an air, however, of makingsome mental reservation which I did not pause to investigate. "Herlife!" I repeated. "That girl must have had a mighty bad time of it."

  "Horrible," Mrs Fyne admitted with a ready frankness very creditableunder the circumstances, and a warmth of tone which made me look at herwith a friendly eye. "Horrible! No! You can't imagine the sort ofvulgar people she became dependent on ... You know her father neverattempted to see her while he was still at large. After his arrest heinstructed that relative of his--the odious person who took her awayfrom Brighton--not to let his daughter come to the court during thetrial. He refused to hold any communication with her whatever."

  I remembered what Mrs Fyne had told me before of the view she had yearsago of de Barral clinging to the child at the side of his wife's graveand later on of these two walking hand in hand the observed of all eyesby the sea. Pictures from Dickens--pregnant with pathos.