PART TWO, CHAPTER 6.
A MOONLESS NIGHT, THICK WITH STARS ABOVE, VERY DARK ON THE WATER.
In the mess-room Powell found Mr Franklin hacking at a piece of coldsalt beef with a table knife. The mate, fiery in the face and rollinghis eyes over that task, explained that the carver belonging to themess-room could not be found. The steward, present also, complainedsavagely of the cook. The fellow got things into his galley and thenlost them. Mr Franklin tried to pacify him with mournful firmness.
"There, there! That will do. We who have been all these years togetherin the ship have other things to think about than quarrelling amongourselves."
Mr Powell thought with exasperation: "Here he goes again," for thisutterance had nothing cryptic for him. The steward having withdrawnmorosely, he was not surprised to hear the mate strike the usual note.That morning the mizzen topsail-tie had carried away (probably adefective link) and something like forty feet of chain and wire-rope,mixed up with a few heavy iron blocks, had crashed down from aloft onthe poop with a terrifying racket.
"Did you notice the captain then, Mr Powell. Did you notice?"
Powell confessed frankly that he was too scared himself when all thatlot of gear came down on deck to notice anything.
"The gin-block missed his head by an inch," went on the mateimpressively. "I wasn't three feet from him. And what did he do? Didhe shout, or jump, or even look aloft to see if the yard wasn't comingdown 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 thatiron gin-block on his face--looked down at it, there, lying close to hisfoot--and went on again. I believe he didn't even blink. It isn'tnatural. The man is stupefied."
He sighed ridiculously and Mr Powell had suppressed a grin, when themate added as if he couldn't contain himself:
"He will be taking to drink next. Mark my words. That's the nextthing."
Mr Powell was disgusted.
"You are so fond of the captain and yet you don't seem to care what yousay about him. I haven't been with him for seven years, but I know heisn't the sort of man that takes to drink. And then--why the devilshould he?"
"Why the devil, you ask. Devil--eh? Well, no man is safe from thedevil--and that's answer enough for you," wheezed Mr Franklin notunkindly. "There was a time, a long time ago, when I nearly took todrink myself. What do you say to that?"
Mr Powell expressed a polite incredulity. The thick, congested mateseemed on the point of bursting with despondency. "That was bad examplethough. I was young and fell into dangerous company, made a fool ofmyself--yes, as true as you see me sitting here. Drank to forget.Thought it a great dodge."
Powell looked at the grotesque Franklin with awakened interest and withthat half-amused sympathy with which we receive unprovoked confidencesfrom men with whom we have no sort of affinity. And at the same time hebegan to look upon him more seriously. Experience has its prestige.And the mate continued:
"If it hadn't been for the old lady, I would have gone to the devil. Iremembered her in time. Nothing like having an old lady to look afterto steady a chap and make him face things. But as bad luck would haveit, Captain Anthony has no mother living, not a blessed soul belongingto him as far as I know. Oh, ay, I fancy he said once something to meof a sister. But she's married. She don't need him. Yes. In the olddays he used to talk to me as if we had been brothers," exaggerated themate sentimentally. "`Franklin,'--he would say--`this ship is mynearest relation and she isn't likely to turn against me. And I supposeyou are the man I've known the longest in the world.' That's how heused to speak to me. Can I turn my back on him? He has turned his backon his ship; that's what it has come to. He has no one now but his oldFranklin. But what's a fellow to do to put things back as they were andshould be. Should be--I say!"
His starting eyes had a terrible fixity. Mr Powell's irresistiblethought, "he resembles a boiled lobster in distress," was followed byannoyance. "Good Lord," he said, "you don't mean to hint that CaptainAnthony has fallen into bad company. What is it you want to save himfrom?"
"I do mean it," affirmed the mate, and the very absurdity of thestatement 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 howyou carry on."
"And welcome," uttered the fervently devoted Franklin. "I am willing,if he would only clear the ship afterwards of that ... You are but ayoungster and you may go and tell him what you like. Let him knock thestuffing out of his old Franklin first and think it over afterwards.Anything to pull him together. But of course you wouldn't. You are allright. Only you don't know that things are sometimes different fromwhat they look. There are friendships that are no friendships, andmarriages that are no marriages... Phoo! Likely to be right--wasn'tit? Never a hint to me. I go off on leave and when I come back, thereit is--all over, settled! Not a word beforehand. No warning. If only:`What do you think of it, Franklin?'--or anything of the sort. Andthat'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 ... firstthing, directly the fellow came on board with some new clothes, whetherin London or in China, it would be: `Pass the word along there for MrFranklin. Mr Franklin wanted in the cabin.' In I would go. `Justlook at my back, Franklin. Fits all right, doesn't it?' And I wouldsay: `First-rate, sir,' or whatever was the truth of it. That oranything 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 mejoy, Mr Franklin!' Yes, that was the way to let me know. God onlyknows what they are--perhaps she isn't his daughter any more than sheis... 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 forgoodness' sake, you who are mixed up with that lot, keep your eyes andears open too in case--in case of--I don't know what. Anything. Onewonders what can happen here at sea! Nothing. Yet when a man is calleda jailer behind his back."
Mr Franklin hid his face in his hands for a moment and Powell shut hismouth, which indeed had been open. He slipped out of the mess-roomnoiselessly. "The mate's crazy," he thought. It was his firmconviction. Nevertheless, that evening, he felt his inner tranquillitydisturbed at last by the force and obstinacy of this craze. He couldn'tdismiss it with the contempt it deserved. Had the word "jailer" reallybeen pronounced? A strange word for the mate to even _imagine_ he hadheard. A senseless, unlikely word. But this word being the only clearand definite statement in these grotesque and dismal ravings wascomparatively restful to his mind. Powell's mind rested on it stillwhen he came up at eight o'clock to take charge of the deck. It was amoonless night, thick with stars above, very dark on the water. Asteady air from the west kept the sails asleep. Franklin mustered bothwatches in low tones as if for a funeral, then approaching Powell:
"The course is east-south-east," said the chief mate distinctly.
"East-south-east, sir."
"Everything's set, Mr Powell."
"All right, sir."
The other lingered, his sentimental eyes gleamed silvery in the shadowyface. "A quiet night before us. I don't know that there are anyspecial orders. A settled, quiet night. I dare say you won't see thecaptain. Once upon a time this was the watch he used to come up andstart a chat with either of us then on deck. But now he sits in thatinfernal stern-cabin and mopes. Jailer--eh?"
Mr Powell walked away from the mate and when at some distance said,"Damn!" quite heartily. It was a confounded nuisance. It had ceased tobe funny; that hostile word "jailer" had given the situation an air ofreality.
Franklin's grotesque mortal envelope had disappeared from the poop toseek its needful repose, if only the worried soul would let it rest awhile. Mr Powell, half sorry for the thick little man, wonderedwhether it would let him. For hi
mself, he recognised that the charm ofa quiet watch on deck when one may let one's thoughts roam in space andtime had been spoiled without remedy. What shocked him most was theimplied aspersion of complicity on Mrs Anthony. It angered him. Inhis own words to me, he felt very "enthusiastic" about Mrs Anthony."Enthusiastic" is good; especially as he couldn't exactly explain to mewhat he meant by it. But he felt enthusiastic, he says. That sillyFranklin must have been dreaming. That was it. He had dreamed it all.Ass. Yet the injurious word stuck in Powell's mind with its associatedideas of prisoner, of escape. He became very uncomfortable. And justthen (it might have been half an hour or more since he had relievedFranklin) just then Mr Smith came up on the poop alone, like a glidingshadow and leaned over the rail by his side. Young Powell was affecteddisagreeably by his presence. He made a movement to go away but theother began to talk--and Powell remained where he was as if retained bya mysterious compulsion. The conversation started by Mr Smith hadnothing peculiar. He began to talk of mail-boats in general and in theend seemed anxious to discover what were the services from PortElizabeth to London. Mr Powell did not know for certain but imaginedthat there must be communication with England at least twice a month."Are you thinking of leaving us, sir; of going home by steam? Perhapswith Mrs Anthony," he asked anxiously.
"No! No! How can I?" Mr Smith got quite agitated, for him, which didnot amount to much. He was just asking for the sake of something totalk about. No idea at all of going home. One could not always do whatone wanted and that's why there were moments when one felt ashamed tolive. This did not mean that one did not want to live. Oh no!
He spoke with careless slowness, pausing frequently and in such a lowvoice that Powell had to strain his hearing to catch the phrases droppedoverboard as it were. And indeed they seemed not worth the effort. Itwas like the aimless talk of a man pursuing a secret train of thoughtfar removed from the idle words we so often utter only to keep in touchwith our fellow beings. An hour passed. It seemed as though Mr Smithcould not make up his mind to go below. He repeated himself. Again hespoke of lives which one was ashamed of. It was necessary to put upwith such lives as long as there was no way out, no possible issue. Heeven alluded once more to mail-boat services on the East coast of Africaand young Powell had to tell him once more that he knew nothing aboutthem.
"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 theenveloping soft peace of air and sea and sky, emitted into the night aweak murmur which Mr Powell fancied was the word, "Abominable" repeatedthree times, but which passed into the faintly louder declaration: "Themoment has come--to go to bed," followed by a just audible sigh.
"I sleep very well," added Mr Smith in his restrained tone. "But it isthe moment one opens one's eyes that is horrible at sea. These days!Oh, these days! I wonder how anybody can..."
"I like the life," observed Mr Powell.
"Oh, you. You have only yourself to think of. You have made your bed.Well, it's very pleasant to feel that you are friendly to us. Mydaughter has taken quite a liking to you, Mr Powell."
He murmured, "Good-night" and glided away rigidly. Young Powell askedhimself with some distaste what was the meaning of these utterances.His mind had been worried at last into that questioning attitude by noother person than the grotesque Franklin. Suspicion was not natural tohim. And he took good care to carefully separate in his thoughts MrsAnthony from this man of enigmatic words--her father. Presently heobserved that the sheen of the two deck dead-lights of Mr Smith's roomhad gone out. The old gentleman had been surprisingly quick in gettinginto bed. Shortly afterwards the lamp in the foremost skylight of thesaloon was turned out; and this was the sign that the steward had takenin the tray and had retired for the night.
Young Powell had settled down to the regular officer-of-the-watch trampin the dense shadow of the world decorated with stars high above hishead, and on earth only a few gleams of light about the ship. The lampin the after skylight was kept burning through the night. There werealso the dead-lights of the stern-cabins glimmering dully in the deckfar aft, catching his eye when he turned to walk that way. The brassesof the wheel glittered too, with the dimly lit figure of the mandetached, as if phosphorescent, against the black and spangledbackground of the horizon.
Young Powell, in the silence of the ship, reinforced by the great silentstillness of the world, said to himself that there was somethingmysterious in such beings as the absurd Franklin, and even in suchbeings as himself. It was a strange and almost improper thought tooccur to the officer of the watch of a ship on the high seas on nomatter how quiet a night. Why on earth was he bothering his head? Whycouldn't he dismiss all these people from his mind? It was as if themate had infected him with his own diseased devotion. He would not havebelieved it possible that he should be so foolish. But he was--clearly.He was foolish in a way totally unforeseen by himself. Pushing thisself-analysis further, he reflected that the springs of his conduct werejust as obscure.
"I may be catching myself any time doing things of which I have noconception," he thought. And as he was passing near the mizzen-mast heperceived a coil of rope left lying on the deck by the oversight of thesweepers. By an impulse which had nothing mysterious in it, he stoopedas he went by with the intention of picking it up and hanging it up onits proper pin. This movement brought his head down to the level of theglazed end of the after skylight--the lighted skylight of the mostprivate part of the saloon, consecrated to the exclusiveness of CaptainAnthony's married life; the part, let me remind you, cut off from therest of that forbidden space by a pair of heavy curtains. I mentionthese curtains because at this point Mr Powell himself recalled theexistence of that unusual arrangement, to my mind.
He recalled them with simple-minded compunction at that distance oftime. He said: "You understand that directly I stooped to pick up thatcoil of running gear--the spanker foot-outhaul, it was--I perceived thatI could see right into that part of the saloon the curtains were meantto make particularly private. Do you understand me?" he insisted.
I told him that I understood; and he proceeded to call my attention tothe 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 austeretouch of grey on his temples, "observe, my dear fellow, that everythingdepended on the men who cleared up the poop in the evening leaving thatcoil of rope on the deck, and on the topsail-tie carrying away in a mostincomprehensible and surprising manner earlier in the day, and the endof the chain whipping round the coaming and shivering to bits thecoloured glass-pane at the end of the skylight. It had the arms of thecity of Liverpool on it; I don't know why unless because the _Ferndale_was registered in Liverpool. It was very thick plate-glass. Anyhow,the upper part got smashed, and directly we had attended to things aloftMr Franklin had set the carpenter to patch up the damage with somepieces of plain glass. I don't know where they got them; I think thepeople who fitted up new bookcases in the captain's room had left somespare panes. Chips was there the whole afternoon on his knees, messingwith putty and red-lead. It wasn't a neat job when it was done, not byany means, but it would serve to keep the weather out and let the lightin. Clear glass. And of course I was not thinking of it. I juststooped to pick up that rope and found my head within three inches ofthat clear glass, and--dash it all! I found myself out. Not half anhour before I was saying to myself that it was impossible to tell whatwas in people's heads or at the back of their talk, or what they werelikely to be up to. And here I found myself up to as low a trick as youcan well think of. For, after I had stooped, there I remained prying,spying, anyway looking, where I had no business to look. Notconsciously at first, may be. He who has eyes, you know, nothing canstop him from seeing things as long as th
ere are things to see in frontof him. What I saw at first was the end of the table and the trayclamped on to it, a patent tray for sea use, fitted with holders for acouple of decanters, water-jug and glasses. The glitter of these thingscaught 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 ofthat part up to the cottage piano, dark against the satin-wood panellingof the bulkhead. And I remained looking. I did. And I don't know thatI was ashamed of myself either, then. It was the fault of thatFranklin, always talking of the man, making free with him to that extentthat really he seemed to have become our property, his and mine, in away. It's funny, but one had that feeling about Captain Anthony. Towatch him was not so much worse than listening to Franklin talking himover. Well, it's no use making excuses for what's inexcusable. Iwatched; but I dare say you know that there could have been nothinginimical in this low behaviour of mine. On the contrary. I'll tell younow what he was doing. He was helping himself out of a decanter. I sawevery movement, and I said to myself mockingly as though jeering atFranklin in my thoughts `Hallo! Here's the captain taking to drink atlast.' 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 glassback into the holder. Every sign of a bad drinking bout, I was sayingto myself, feeling quite amused at the notions of that Franklin. Heseemed to me an enormous ass; with his jealousy and his fears. At thatrate a month would not have been enough for anybody to get drunk. Thecaptain sat down in one of the swivel armchairs fixed around the table;I had him right under me and as he turned the chair slightly, I waslooking, I may say, down his back. He took another little sip and thenreached for a book which was lying on the table. I had not noticed itbefore. Altogether the proceedings of a desperate drunkard--weren'tthey? He opened the book and held it before his face. If this was theway he took to drink, then I needn't worry. He was in no danger fromthat, and as to any other, I assure you no human being could have lookedsafer than he did down there. I felt the greatest contempt for Franklinjust then, while I looked at Captain Anthony sitting there with a glassof weak brandy-and-water at his elbow and reading in the cabin of hisship, on a quiet night--the quietest, perhaps the finest, of aprosperous passage. And if you wonder why I didn't leave off my uglyspying I will tell you how it was. Captain Anthony was a great readerjust about that time; and I, too, I have a great liking for books. Tothis day I can't come near a book but I must know what it is about. Itwas a thickish volume he had there, small close print, double columns--Ican see it now. What I wanted to make out was the title at the top ofthe 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 muchI read and then suddenly he bangs the book face down on the table, jumpsup as if something had bitten him and walks away aft.
"Funny thing shame is. I had been behaving badly and aware of it in away, but I didn't feel really ashamed till the fright of being found outin my honourable occupation drove me from it. I slunk away to theforward end of the poop and lounged about there, my face and earsburning and glad it was a dark night, expecting every moment to hear thecaptain'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 walkedslowly aft prepared to see him emerge from the companion before I gotthat far. I even thought of his having detected me by some means. Butit was impossible, unless he had eyes in the top of his head. I hadnever 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 beingmean. I wanted another peep. I really don't know what was the beastlyinfluence except that Mr Franklin's talk was enough to demoralise anyman by raising a sort of unhealthy curiosity which did away in my casewith all the restraints of common decency.
"I did not mean to run the risk of being caught squatting in asuspicious attitude by the captain. There was also the helmsman toconsider. So what I did--I am surprised at my low cunning--was to sitdown naturally on the skylight-seat and then by bending forward I foundthat, as I expected, I could look down through the upper part of theend-pane. The worst that could happen to me then, if I remained toolong in that position, was to be suspected by the seaman aft at thewheel of having gone to sleep there. For the rest my ears would give mesufficient warning of any movements in the companion.
"But in that way my angle of view was changed. The field too wassmaller. The end of the table, the tray and the swivel-chair I hadright under my eyes. The captain had not come back yet. The piano Icould not see now; but on the other hand I had a very oblique downwardview of the curtains drawn across the cabin and cutting off the forwardpart of it just about the level of the skylight-end and only an inch orso from the end of the table. They were heavy stuff, travelling on athick brass rod with some contrivance to keep the rings from sliding toand fro when the ship rolled. But just then the ship was as stillalmost as a model shut up in a glass case while the curtains, joinedclosely, and, perhaps on purpose, made a little too long moved no morethan a solid wall."
Marlow got up to get another cigar. The night was getting on to what Imay call its deepest hour, the hour most favourable to evil purposes ofmen's hate, despair or greed--to whatever can whisper into their earsthe unlawful counsels of protest against things that are; the hour ofill-omened silence and chill and stagnation, the hour when the criminalplies his trade and the victim of sleeplessness reaches the lowest depthof dreadful discouragement; the hour before the first sight of dawn. Iknow it, because while Marlow was crossing the room I looked at theclock on the mantelpiece. He however never looked that way though it ispossible that he, too, was aware of the passage of time. He sat downheavily.
"Our friend Powell," he began again, "was very anxious that I shouldunderstand the topography of that cabin. I was interested more by itsmoral atmosphere, that tension of falsehood, of desperate acting, whichtainted the pure sea-atmosphere into which the magnanimous Anthony hadcarried off his conquest and--well--his self-conquest too, trying to actat the same time like a beast of prey, a pure spirit and the `mostgenerous of men.' Too big an order clearly because he was nothing of amonster but just a common mortal, a little more self-willed andself-confident than most, may be, both in his roughness and in hisdelicacy."
As to the delicacy of Mr Powell's proceedings I'll say nothing. Hefound a sort of depraved excitement in watching an unconscious man--andsuch an attractive and mysterious man as Captain Anthony at that. Hewanted another peep at him. He surmised that the captain must come backsoon because of the glass two-thirds full and also of the book put downso 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 hismagnanimity which like all abnormal growths was gnawing at his healthysubstance with cruel persistence. Perhaps he had rushed into his cabinsimply to groan freely in absolute and delicate secrecy. At any rate hetarried there. And young Powell would have grown weary and compunctiousat last if it had not become manifest to him that he had not been alonein the highly incorrect occupation of watching the movements of CaptainAnthony.
Powell explained to me that no sound did or perhaps could reach him fromthe saloon. The first sign--and we must remember that he was using hiseyes for all they were worth--was an unaccountable movement of thecurtain. It was wavy and very slight; just perceptible in fact to thesharpened faculties of a secret watcher; for it can't be denied that ourwits are much more alert when engaged in wrong-doing (in which onemustn't be found out) than in a righteous occupation.
He became suspicious, with no one and nothing definite in his mind. Hewas suspicious of the curtain itself and observed it. It looked veryinnocent. Then just as he was ready to put it down to a trick ofimagination he saw trembling movements where the two curtains joined.Yes! Somebody else besides himself had been watching Captain Anthony.He owns artlessly th
at this roused his indignation. It was really toomuch of a good thing. In this state of intense antagonism he wasstartled to observe tips of fingers fumbling with the dark stuff. Thenthey grasped the edge of the further curtain and hung on there, justfingers and knuckles and nothing else. It made an abominable sight. Hewas looking at it with unaccountable repulsion when a hand came intoview; a short, puffy, old, freckled hand projecting into the lamplight,followed by a white wrist, an arm in a grey coat-sleeve, up to theelbow, beyond the elbow, extended tremblingly towards the tray. Itsappearance was weird and nauseous, fantastic and silly. But instead ofgrabbing the bottle as Powell expected, this hand, tremulous with senileeagerness, swerved to the glass, rested on its edge for a moment (or soit looked from above) and went back with a jerk. The gripping fingersof the other hand vanished at the same time, and young Powell staring atthe motionless curtains could indulge for a moment the notion that hehad been dreaming.
But that notion did not last long. Powell, after repressing his firstimpulse 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 stateof distraction as to his feelings and yet lucid as to his mind. Heremained on the skylight so as to keep his eye on the tray.
Still the captain did not appear in the saloon. "If he had," said MrPowell, "I knew what to do. I would have put my elbow through the paneinstantly--crash."
I asked him why?
"It was the quickest dodge for getting him away from that tray," heexplained. "My throat was so dry that I didn't know if I could shoutloud enough. And this was not a case for shouting, either."
The boatswain, sleepy and disgusted, arriving on the poop, found thesecond officer doubled up over the end of the skylight in a pose whichmight have been that of severe pain. And his voice was so changed thatthe man, though naturally vexed at being turned out, made no comment onthe plea of sudden indisposition which young Powell put forward.
The rapidity with which the sick man got off the poop must haveastonished the boatswain. But Powell, at the moment he opened the doorleading into the saloon from the quarter-deck, had managed to controlhis agitation. He entered swiftly but without noise and found himselfin the dark part of the saloon, the strong sheen of the lamp on theother 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 itassuring himself by a quick side glance that it was imperfectly closed."Yes," he said to me. "The old man must have been watching through thecrack. Of that I am certain; but it was not for me that he was watchingand listening. Horrible! Surely he must have been startled to hear andsee somebody he did not expect. He could not possibly guess why I wascoming in, but I suppose he must have been concerned." Concernedindeed! He must have been thunderstruck, appalled.
Powell's only distinct aim was to remove the suspected tumbler. He hadno other plan, no other intention, no other thought. Do away with it insome manner. Snatch it up and run out with it.
You know that complete mastery of one fixed idea, not a reasonable butan emotional mastery, a sort of concentrated exaltation. Under itsempire men rush blindly through fire and water and opposing violence,and nothing can stop them--unless, sometimes, a grain of sand. For hisblind purpose (and clearly the thought of Mrs Anthony was at the bottomof it) Mr Powell had plenty of time. What checked him at the crucialmoment was the familiar, harmless aspect of common things, the steadylight, the open book on the table, the solitude, the peace, thehome-like effect of the place. He held the glass in his hand; all hehad to do was to vanish back beyond the curtains, flee with itnoiselessly into the night on deck, fling it unseen overboard. A minuteor less. And then all that would have happened would have been thewonder at the utter disappearance of a glass tumbler, a ridiculousriddle in pantry-affairs beyond the wit of anyone on board to solve.The grain of sand against which Powell stumbled in his headlong careerwas a moment of incredulity as to the truth of his own convictionbecause it had failed to affect the safe aspect of familiar things. Hedoubted 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 havelooked like a man in a trance or profoundly asleep on his feet, and witha glass of brandy-and-water in his hand.
What woke him up and, at the same time, fixed his feet immovably to thespot, was a voice asking him what he was doing there in tones ofthunder. Or so it sounded to his ears. Anthony, opening the door ofhis stern-cabin had naturally exclaimed. What else could you expect?And the exclamation must have been fairly loud if you consider thenature of the sight which met his eye. There, before him, stood hissecond officer, a seemingly decent, well-bred young man, who, being onduty, had left the deck and had sneaked into the saloon, apparently forthe inexpressibly mean purpose of drinking up what was left of hiscaptain's brandy-and-water. There he was, caught absolutely with theglass in his hand.
But the very monstrosity of appearances silenced Anthony after the firstexclamation; and young Powell felt himself pierced through and throughby the overshadowed glance of his captain. Anthony advanced quietly.The first impulse of Mr Powell, when discovered, had been to dash theglass on the deck. He was in a sort of panic. But deep down within himhis wits were working, and the idea that if he did that he could provenothing and that the story he had to tell was completely incredible,restrained him. The captain came forward slowly. With his eyes nowclose to his, Powell, spell-bound, numb all over, managed to lift onefinger to the deck above mumbling the explanatory words, "Boatswain onthe poop."
The captain moved his head slightly as much as to say, "That's allright"--and this was all. Powell had no voice, no strength. The airwas unbreathable, thick, sticky, odious, like hot jelly in which allmovements became difficult. He raised the glass a little with immensedifficulty and moved his trammelled lips sufficiently to form the words:
"Doctored."
Anthony glanced at it for an instant, only for an instant, and againfastened his eyes on the face of his second mate. Powell added afervent "I believe" and put the glass down on the tray. The captain'sglance followed the movement and returned sternly to his face. Theyoung man pointed a finger once more upwards and squeezed out of hisiron-bound throat six consecutive words of further explanation."Through the skylight. The white pane."
The captain raised his eyebrows very much at this, while young Powell,ashamed but desperate, nodded insistently several times. He meant tosay 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 ageneral anxiety which from his breast seemed to extend to all the limbsand organs of his body. His legs trembled a little, his vision wasconfused, his mind became blankly expectant. But he was alert enough.At a movement of Anthony he screamed in a strangled whisper.
"Don't, sir! Don't touch it."
The captain pushed aside Powell's extended arm, took up the glass andraised it slowly against the lamplight. The liquid, of very pale ambercolour, was clear, and by a glance the captain seemed to call Powell'sattention to the fact. Powell tried to pronounce the word, "dissolved"but he only thought of it with great energy which however failed to movehis lips. Only when Anthony had put down the glass and turned to him herecovered such a complete command of his voice that he could keep itdown to a hurried, forcible whisper--a whisper that shook him.
"Doctored! I swear it! I have seen. Doctored! I have seen."
Not a feature of the captain's face moved. His was a calm to take one'sbreath away. It did so to young Powell. Then for the first timeAnthony made himself heard to the point.
"You did! ... Who was it?"
And Powell gasped freely at last. "A hand," he whispered fearfully, "ahand and the arm--only the arm--like that."
He advanced his own, slow, stealthy, tremulous in faithful reproduction,the tips of two fingers and the thumb pressed together and hoveringabove t
he glass for an instant--then the swift jerk back, after thedeed.
"Like that," he repeated growing excited. "From behind this." Hegrasped the curtain and glaring at the silent Anthony flung it backdisclosing the forepart of the saloon. There was no one to be seen.
Powell had not expected to see anybody. "But," he said to me, "I knewvery well there was an ear listening and an eye glued to the crack of acabin door. Awful thought. And that door was in that part of thesaloon remaining in the shadow of the other half of the curtain. Ipointed at it and I suppose that old man inside saw me pointing. Thecaptain had a wonderful self-command. You couldn't have guessedanything from his face. Well, it was perhaps more thoughtful thanusual. And indeed this was something to think about. But I couldn'tthink steadily. My brain would give a sort of jerk and then go deadagain. I had lost all notion of time, and I might have been looking atthe captain for days and months for all I knew before I heard himwhisper to me fiercely: `Not a word!' This jerked me out of that tranceI was in and I said `No! No! I didn't mean even you.'"
"I wanted to explain my conduct, my intentions, but I read in his eyesthat he understood me and I was only too glad to leave off. And therewe were looking at each other, dumb, brought up short by the question`What next?'
"I thought Captain Anthony was a man of iron till I saw him suddenlyfling his head to the right and to the left fiercely, like a wild animalat bay not knowing which way to break out..."
"Truly," commented Marlow, "brought to bay was not a bad comparison; abetter one than Mr Powell was aware of. At that moment the appearanceof Flora could not but bring the tension to the breaking point. Shecame out in all innocence but not without vague dread. Anthony'sexclamation 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--hisvoice--breaking the habitual stillness of that hour would have startleda person having much less reason to be constantly apprehensive, than thecaptive of Anthony's masterful generosity. She had no means to guess towhom the question was addressed and it echoed in her heart, as Anthony'svoice always did. Followed complete silence. She waited, anxious,expectant, till she could stand the strain no longer, and with the wearymental appeal of the overburdened. `My God! What is it now?' sheopened the door of her room and looked into the saloon. Her firstglance fell on Powell. For a moment, seeing only the second officerwith Anthony, she felt relieved and made as if to draw back; but hersharpened perception detected something suspicious in their attitudes,and she came forward slowly.
"I was the first to see Mrs Anthony," related Powell, "because I wasfacing aft. The captain, noticing my eyes, looked quickly over hisshoulder and at once put his finger to his lips to caution me. As if Iwere likely to let out anything before her! Mrs Anthony had on adressing-gown of some grey stuff with red facings and a thick red cordround her waist. Her hair was down. She looked a child; a pale-facedchild with big blue eyes and a red mouth a little open showing a glimmerof white teeth. The light fell strongly on her as she came up to theend of the table. A strange child though; she hardly affected one likea child, I remember. Do you know," exclaimed Mr Powell, who clearlymust have been, like many seamen, an industrious reader, "do you knowwhat she looked like to me with those big eyes and something appealingin her whole expression. She looked like a forsaken elf. CaptainAnthony 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 cutto a point, his swarthy, sunburnt complexion, thin nose and his leanhead there was something African, something Moorish in Captain Anthony.His neck was bare; he had taken off his coat and collar and had drawn onhis 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--Isuppose I looked guilty or frightened--and from me to him, trying toguess what there was between us two. Then she burst out with a `Whathas happened?' which seemed addressed to me. I mumbled `Nothing!Nothing, ma'am,' which she very likely did not hear.
"You must not think that all this had lasted a long time. She had takenfright at our behaviour and turned to the captain pitifully. `What isit you are concealing from me?' A straight question--eh? I don't knowwhat answer the captain would have made. Before he could even raise hiseyes 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 herbreath with apprehension. I was so interested in her that, how shall Isay it, her exclamation made no connection in my brain at first. I alsonoticed 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 neckstiffened in the twisted position from the shock of actually seeing thatold man! He had dared! I suppose you think I ought to have looked uponhim as mad. But I couldn't. It would have been certainly easier. ButI could _not_. You should have seen him. First of all he wascompletely dressed with his very cap still on his head just as when heleft me on deck two hours before, saying in his soft voice: `The momenthas come to go to bed'--while he meant to go and do that thing and hidein his dark cabin, and watch the stuff do its work. A cold shudder randown my back. He had his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his armswere pressed close to his thin, upright body, and he shuffled across thecabin with his short steps. There was a red patch on each of his oldsoft cheeks as if somebody had been pinching them. He drooped his heada little, and looked with a sort of underhand expectation at the captainand Mrs Anthony standing close together at the other end of the saloon.The calculating horrible impudence of it! His daughter was there; andI am certain he had seen the captain putting his finger on his lips towarn me. And then he had coolly come out! He passed my imagination, Iassure you. After that one shiver his presence killed every faculty inme--wonder, horror, indignation. I felt nothing in particular just asif he were still the old gentleman who used to talk to me familiarlyevery day on deck. Would you believe it?"
"Mr Powell challenged my powers of wonder at this internal phenomenon,"went on Marlow after a slight pause. "But even if they had not beenfully engaged, together with all my powers of attention in following thefacts of the case, I would not have been astonished by his statementsabout himself. Taking into consideration his youth they were by nomeans incredible; or, at any rate, they were the least incredible partof the whole. They were also the least interesting part. The interestwas elsewhere, and there of course all he could do was to look at thesurface. The inwardness of what was passing before his eyes was hiddenfrom him, who had looked on, more impenetrably than from me who at adistance of years was listening to his words. That what presentlyhappened at this crisis in Flora de Barral's fate was beyond his powerof comment, seemed in a sense natural. And his own presence on thescene was so strangely motived that it was left for me to marvel aloneat this young man, a completely chance-comer, having brought it about onthat night."
Each situation created either by folly or wisdom has its psychologicalmoment. The behaviour of young Powell with its mixture of boyishimpulses combined with instinctive prudence, had not created it--I can'tsay that--but had discovered it to the very people involved. What wouldhave happened if he had made a noise about his discovery? But hedidn't. His head was full of Mrs Anthony and he behaved with adiscretion beyond his years. Some nice children often do; and surely itis not from reflection. They have their own inspirations. YoungPowell's inspiration consisted in being "enthusiastic" about MrsAnthony. `Enthusiastic' is really good. And he was amongst them like achild, sensitive, impressionable, plastic--but unable to find forhimself any sort of comment.
I don't know how much mine may be worth; but I believe that just thenthe tension of the false situation was at its highest. Of all the formsoffered to us by life it is the one demanding a couple to realise itfully, which is the most imperative. Pairing off is the fate ofmankind. And if
two beings thrown together, mutually attracted, resistthe necessity, fail in understanding and voluntarily stop short of the--the embrace, in the noblest meaning of the word, then they arecommitting a sin against life, the call of which is simple. Perhapssacred. And the punishment of it is an invasion of complexity, atormenting, forcibly tortuous involution of feelings, the deepest formof suffering from which indeed something significant may come at last,which may be criminal or heroic, may be madness or wisdom--or even astraight if despairing decision.
Powell on taking his eyes off the old gentleman noticed Captain Anthony,swarthy as an African, by the side of Flora whiter than the lilies, takehis 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." Thiswas to Mrs Anthony. He tried to smile at her. "Why do you lookstartled? This night is like any other night."
"Which," Powell again commented to me earnestly, "was a lie... Nowonder he sweated." You see from this the value of Powell's comments.Mrs Anthony then said: "Why are you sending me away?"
"Why! That you should go to sleep. That you should rest." And CaptainAnthony frowned. Then sharply, "You stay here, Mr Powell. I shallwant you presently."
As a matter of fact Powell had not moved. Flora did not mind hispresence. He himself had the feeling of being of no account to thosethree people. He was looking at Mrs Anthony as unabashed as theproverbial cat looking at a king. Mrs Anthony glanced at him. She didnot move, gripped by an inexplicable premonition. She had arrived atthe 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 whatmysterious influence; she felt herself being pushed back into thatsolitude, that moral loneliness, which had made all her lifeintolerable. And then, in that close communion established again withAnthony, she felt--as on that night in the garden--the force of hispersonal fascination. The passive quietness with which she looked athim gave her the appearance of a person bewitched--or, say, mesmericallyput to sleep--beyond any notion of her surroundings.
After telling Mr Powell not to go away the captain remained silent.Suddenly Mrs Anthony pushed back her loose hair with a decisive gestureof her arms and moved still nearer to him. "Here's papa up yet," shesaid, but she did not look towards Mr Smith. "Why is it? And you? Ican't go on like this, Roderick--between you two. Don't."
Anthony interrupted her as if something had untied his tongue.
"Oh yes. Here's your father. And ... Why not. Perhaps it is just aswell you came out. Between us two? Is that it? I won't pretend Idon't understand. I am not blind. But I can't fight any longer forwhat 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 touchyou--because I give up. I can't say we had much talk about it, yourfather and I, but, the long and the short of it is, that I must learn tolive without you--which I have told you was impossible. I was speakingthe truth. But I have done fighting, or waiting, or hoping. Yes. Youshall go."
At this point Mr Powell who (he confessed to me) was listening withuncomprehending 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 destroyhis absorption in the scene before his eyes, and before his ears too,because just then Captain Anthony raised his voice grimly. Perhaps hetoo had heard the chuckle of the old man.
"Your father has found an argument which makes me pause, if it does notconvince me. No! I can't answer it. I--I don't want to answer it. Isimply 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 pedalhad been put down, "only it shall take a little time. I have never liedto you. Never. I renounce not only my chance but my life. In a fewdays, directly we get into port, the very moment we do, I, who have saidI could never let you go, I shall let you go."
To the innocent beholder Anthony seemed at this point to becomephysically exhausted. My view is that the utter falseness of his, I maysay, aspirations, the vanity of grasping the empty air, had come to himwith an overwhelming force, leaving him disarmed before the other's madand sinister sincerity. As he had said himself he could not fight forwhat he did not possess; he could not face such a thing as this for thesake of his mere magnanimity. The normal alone can overcome theabnormal. He could not even reproach that man over there. "I ownmyself beaten," he said in a firmer tone. "You are free. I let you offsince I must."
Powell, the onlooker, affirms that at these incomprehensible words MrsAnthony stiffened into the very image of astonishment, with a frightenedstare 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 (hewas not looking at her), not only him but also the more distant (andequally unprepared) young man, catch their breath: "But I don't want tobe let off," she cried.
She was so still that one asked oneself whether the cry had come fromher. The restless shuffle behind Powell's back stopped short, theintermittent shadowy chuckling ceased too. Young Powell, glancinground, saw Mr Smith raise his head with his faded eyes very still,puckered at the corners, like a man perceiving something coming at himfrom a great distance. And Mrs Anthony's voice reached Powell's ears,entreating and indignant.
"You can't cast me off like this, Roderick. I won't go away from you.I won't--"
Powell turned about and discovered then that what Mr Smith waspuckering his eyes at, was the sight of his daughter clinging roundCaptain Anthony's neck--a sight not in itself improper, but which hadthe power to move young Powell with a bashfully profound emotion. Itwas different from his emotion while spying at the revelations of theskylight, but in this case too he felt the discomfort, if not the guilt,of an unseen beholder. Experience was being piled-up on his youngshoulders. Mrs Anthony's hair hung back in a dark mass like the hairof a drowned woman. She looked as if she would let go and sink to thefloor if the captain were to withhold his sustaining arm. But thecaptain obviously had no such intention. Standing firm and still hegazed with sombre eyes at Mr Smith. For a time the low convulsivesobbing of Mr Smith's daughter was the only sound to trouble thesilence. The strength of Anthony's clasp pressing Flora to his breastcould not be doubted even at that distance, and suddenly, awakening tohis opportunity, he began to partly support her, partly carry her in thedirection of her cabin. His head was bent over her solicitously, thenrecollecting himself, with a glance full of unwonted fire, his voiceringing in a note unknown to Mr Powell, he cried to him, "Don't you goon deck yet. I want you to stay down here till I come back. There aresome instructions I want to give you."
And before the young man could answer, Anthony had disappeared in thestern-cabin, burdened and exulting.
"Instructions," commented Mr Powell. "That was all right. Verylikely; but they would be such instructions as, I thought to myself, noship's officer perhaps had ever been given before. It made me feel alittle sick to think what they would be dealing with, probably. Butthere! Everything that happens on board ship on the high seas has gotto be dealt with somehow. There are no special people to fly to forassistance. And there I was with that old man left in my charge. Whenhe noticed me looking at him he started to shuffle again athwart thesaloon. He kept his hands rammed in his pockets, he was as stiff-backedas ever, only his head hung down. After a bit he says in his gentlesoft tone: `Did you see it?'"
There were in Powell's head no special words to fit the horror of hisfeelings. So he said--he had to say something, "Good God! What wereyou thinking of, Mr Smith, to try to..." And then he left off. Hedared not utter the awful word poison. Mr Smith stopped his prowl.
"Think! What do you know of thinking? I don't think. There issomething in my head that thinks. The thoughts in men, it's like beingdrunk with liquor or--You can't stop them. A man who thinks will thinkanything.
No. But have you seen it. Have you?"
"I tell you I have! I am certain!" said Powell forcibly. "I waslooking at you all the time. You've done something to the drink in thatglass."
Then Powell lost his breath somehow. Mr Smith looked at him curiously,with mistrust.
"My good young man, I don't know what you are talking about. I askyou--have you seen? Who would have believed it? with her arms round hisneck. When! Oh! Ha! Ha! You did see! Didn't you? It wasn't adelusion--was it? Her arms round ... But I have never wholly trustedher."
"Then I flew out at him, said Mr Powell. I told him he was jolly luckyto have fallen upon Captain Anthony. A man in a million. He startedagain shuffling to and fro. `You too,' he said mournfully, keeping hiseyes 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 thepapers while they were getting up a conspiracy. And I have been doingtime. And now I am brought low.' His voice died down to a mere breath.`Brought low.'"
He took his hands out of his pocket, dragged the cap down on his headand stuck them back into his pockets, exactly as if preparing himself togo out into a great wind. "But not so low as to put up with thisdisgrace, to see her, fast in this fellow's clutches, without doingsomething. She wouldn't listen to me. Frightened? Silly? I had tothink of some way to get her out of this. Did _you_ think she cared forhim? No! Would anybody have thought so? No! She pretended it was formy sake. She couldn't understand that if I hadn't been an old man Iwould have flown at his throat months ago. As it was I was temptedevery time he looked at her. My girl. Ough! Any man but this. Andall the time the wicked little fool was lying to me. It was their plot,their conspiracy! These conspiracies are the devil. She has beenleading me on, till she has fairly put my head under the heel of thatjailer, of that scoundrel, of her husband... Treachery! Bringing melow. Lower than herself. In the dirt. That's what it means. Doesn'tit? Under his heel!"
He paused in his restless shuffle and again, seizing his cap with bothhands, dragged it furiously right down on his ears. Powell had losthimself in listening to these broken ravings, in looking at that oldfeverish face when, suddenly, quick as lightning, Mr Smith spun round,snatched up the captain's glass and with a stifled, hurried exclamation,"Here's luck," tossed the liquor down his throat.
"I know now the meaning of the word `Consternation,'" went on MrPowell. "That was exactly my state of mind. I thought to myselfdirectly: There's nothing in that drink. I have been dreaming, I havemade the awfullest mistake!"
Mr Smith put the glass down. He stood before Powell unharmed, quieteddown, in a listening attitude, his head inclined on one side, chewinghis thin lips. Suddenly he blinked queerly, grabbed Powell's shoulderand collapsed, subsiding all at once as though he had gone soft allover, as a piece of silk stuff collapses. Powell seized his arminstinctively and checked his fall; but as soon as Mr Smith was fairlyon the floor he jerked himself free and backed away. Almost as quick herushed forward again and tried to lift up the body. But directly heraised his shoulders he knew that the man was dead! Dead!
He lowered him down gently. He stood over him without fear or any otherfeeling, almost indifferent, far away, as it were. And then he madeanother 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 tooloud; but he made a great effort of self-control. "I am waiting for myorders, sir," he said outside that door distinctly, in a steady tone.
It was very still in there; still as death. Then he heard a shuffle offeet and the captain's voice "All right. Coming." He leaned his backagainst the bulkhead as you see a drunken man sometimes propped upagainst a wall, half doubled up. In that attitude the captain foundhim, when he came out, pulling the door to after him quickly. At onceAnthony 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 tojustify himself. "I couldn't stop him," he whispered shakily. "He wastoo quick for me. He drank it up and fell down." But the captain wasnot listening. He was looking down at Mr Smith, thinking perhaps thatit was a mere chance his own body was not lying there. They did notwant to speak. They made signs to each other with their eyes. Thecaptain grasped Powell's shoulder as if in a vice and glanced at MrsAnthony's cabin door, and it was enough. He knew that the young manunderstood him. Rather! Silence! Silence for ever about this. Theirvery glances became stealthy. Powell looked from the body to the doorof the dead man's state-room. The captain nodded and let him go; andthen Powell crept over, hooked the door open and crept back with fearfulglances towards Mrs Anthony's cabin. They stooped over the corpse.Captain Anthony lifted up the shoulders.
Mr Powell shuddered. "I'll never forget that interminable journeyacross the saloon, step by step, holding our breath. For part of theway the drawn half of the curtain concealed us from view had MrsAnthony opened her door; but I didn't draw a free breath till after welaid the body down on the swinging cot. The reflection of the saloonlight left most of the cabin in the shadow. Mr Smith's rigid, extendedbody looked shadowy too, shadowy and alive. You know he always carriedhimself as stiff as a poker. We stood by the cot as though waiting forhim to make us a sign that he wanted to be left alone. The captainthrew his arm over my shoulder and said in my very ear: `The steward'llfind him in the morning.'
"I made no answer. It was for him to say. It was perhaps the best way.It's no use talking about my thoughts. They were not concerned withmyself, nor yet with that old man who terrified me more now than when hewas alive. Him whom I pitied was the captain. He whispered: `I amcertain of you, Mr Powell. You had better go on deck now. As tome...' and I saw him raise his hands to his head as if distracted. Buthis last words before we stole out that cabin stick to my mind with thevery tone of his mutter--to himself, not to me:--
"No! No! I am not going to stumble now over that corpse."
"This is what our Mr Powell had to tell me," said Marlow, changing histone. I was glad to learn that Flora de Barral had been saved from_that_ sinister shadow at least falling upon her path.
We sat silent then, my mind running on the end of de Barral, on theirresistible pressure of imaginary griefs, crushing conscience,scruples, prudence, under their ever-expanding volume; on the sombre andvenomous irony in the obsession which had mastered that old man.
"Well," I said.
"The steward found him," Mr Powell roused himself. "He went in therewith a cup of tea at five and of course dropped it. I was on watchagain. He reeled up to me on deck pale as death. I had been expectingit; and yet I could hardly speak. `Go and tell the captain quietly,' Imanaged to say. He ran off muttering `My God! My God!' and I'm hangedif he didn't get hysterical while trying to tell the captain, and startscreaming in the saloon, `Fully dressed! Dead! Fully dressed!' MrsAnthony ran out of course but she didn't get hysterical. Franklin, whowas there too, told me that she hid her face on the captain's breast andthen he went out and left them there. It was days before Mrs Anthonywas seen on deck. The first time I spoke to her she gave me her handand said, `My poor father was quite fond of you, Mr Powell.' Shestarted wiping her eyes and I fled to the other side of the deck. Onewould like to forget all this had ever come near her."
But clearly he could not, because after lighting his pipe he beganmusing aloud: "Very strong stuff it must have been. I wonder where hegot it. It could hardly be at a common chemist. Well, he had it fromsomewhere--a mere pinch it must have been, no more."
"I have my theory," observed Marlow, "which to a certain extent doesaway with the added horror of a coldly premeditated crime. Chance hadstepped in there too. It was not Mr Smith who obtained the poison. Itwas the Great de Barral. And it was not meant for the obscure,magnanimous conqueror of Flora de Barral; it was meant for the notoriousfinancier whose enterprises had nothing to do with magnanimity. He hadhis physician in h
is days of greatness. I even seem to remember thatthe man was called at the trial on some small point or other. I canimagine that de Barral went to him when he saw, as he could hardly helpseeing, the possibility of a `triumph of envious rivals'--a heavysentence."
I doubt if for love or even for money, but I think possibly, from pitythat man provided him with what Mr Powell called "strong stuff." Fromwhat Powell saw of the very act I am fairly certain it must have beencontained in a capsule and that he had it about him on the last day ofhis trial, perhaps secured by a stitch in his waistcoat pocket. Hedidn't use it. Why? Did he think of his child at the last moment? Wasit want of courage? We can't tell. But he found it in his clothes whenhe came out of jail. It had escaped investigation if there was any.Chance had armed him. And chance alone, the chance of Mr Powell'slife, forced him to turn the abominable weapon against himself.
I imparted my theory to Mr Powell who accepted it at once as, in asense, favourable to the father of Mrs Anthony. Then he waved hishand. "Don't let us think of it."
I acquiesced and very soon he observed dreamily:
"I was with Captain and Mrs Anthony sailing all over the world for nearon six years. Almost as long as Franklin."
"Oh yes! What about Franklin?" I asked.
Powell smiled. "He left the _Ferndale_ a year or so afterwards, and Itook his place. Captain Anthony recommended him for a command. Youdon'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 thinkshe ever let out a whisper against him but Captain Anthony could readher thoughts."
And again Powell seemed to lose himself in the past. I asked, forsuddenly the vision of the Fynes passed through my mind.
"Any children?"
Powell gave a start. "No! No! Never had any children," and againsubsided, puffing at his short briar pipe.
"Where are they now?" I inquired next as if anxious to ascertain thatall 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 ofintrusion on their spotless home. Powell looked round at me slowly, hispipe smouldering in his hand.
"Don't you know?" he uttered in a deep voice.
"Know what?"
"That the _Ferndale_ was lost this four years or more. Sunk.Collision. And Captain Anthony went down with her."
"You don't say so!" I cried quite affected as if I had known CaptainAnthony personally. "Was--was Mrs Anthony lost too?"
"You might as well ask if I was lost," Mr Powell rejoined so testily asto surprise me. "You see me here,--don't you."
He was quite huffy, but noticing my wondering stare he smoothed hisruffled plumes. And in a musing tone.
"Yes. Good men go out as if there was no use for them in the world. Itseems as if there were things that, as the Turks say, are written. Orelse fate has a try and sometimes misses its mark. You remember thatclose shave we had of being run down at night, I told you of, my firstvoyage with them. This go it was just at dawn. A flat calm and a fogthick enough to slice with a knife. Only there were no explosives onboard. I was on deck and I remember the cursed, murderous thing loomingup alongside and Captain Anthony (we were both on deck) calling out,`Good God! What's this! Shout for all hands, Powell, to savethemselves. There's no dynamite on board now. I am going to get thewife!...' I yelled, all the watch on deck yelled. Crash!"
Mr Powell gasped at the recollection. "It was a Belgian Green Starliner, the _Westland_," he went on, "commanded by one of thosestop-for-nothing skippers. Flaherty was his name and I hope he will diewithout absolution. She cut half through the old _Ferndale_ and afterthe blow there was a silence like death. Next I heard the captain backon deck shouting, `Set your engines slow ahead,' and a howl of `Yes,yes,' answering him from her forecastle; and then a whole crowd ofpeople up there began making a row in the fog. They were throwing ropesdown to us in dozens, I must say. I and the captain fastened one ofthem under Mrs Anthony's arms: I remember she had a sort of dim smileon her face."
"Haul up carefully," I shouted to the people on the steamer's deck."You've got a woman on that line."
The captain saw her landed up there safe. And then we made a rush roundour decks to see no one was left behind. As we got back the captainsays: "Here she's gone at last, Powell; the dear old thing! Run down atsea."
"Indeed she is gone," I said. "But it might have been worse. Shin upthis rope, sir, for God's sake. I will steady it for you."
"What are you thinking about," he says angrily. "It isn't my turn. Upwith you."
These were the last words he ever spoke on earth I suppose. I knew hemeant to be the last to leave his ship, so I swarmed up as quick as Icould, and those damned lunatics up there grab at me from above, lug mein, drag me along aft through the row and the riot of the silliestexcitement I ever did see. Somebody hails from the bridge, "Have yougot them all on board?" and a dozen silly asses start yelling alltogether, "All saved! All saved," and then that accursed Irishman onthe bridge, with me roaring No! No! till I thought my head would burst,rings his engines astern. He rings the engines astern--I fighting likemad to make myself heard! And of course...
I saw tears, a shower of them fall down Mr Powell's face. His voicebroke.
"The _Ferndale_ went down like a stone and Captain Anthony went downwith her, the finest man's soul that ever left a sailor's body. I ravedlike a maniac, like a devil, with a lot of fools crowding round me andasking, `Aren't you the captain?'
"I wasn't fit to tie the shoe-strings of the man you have drowned," Iscreamed at them... Well! Well! I could see for myself that it was nogood 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 togo and tell her! That Flaherty, God forgive him, comes to me as whiteas a sheet, "I think you are the proper person." God forgive him. Iwished to die a hundred times. A lot of kind ladies, passengers, werechattering excitedly around Mrs Anthony--a real parrot house. Theship's doctor went before me. He whispers right and left and then therefalls a sudden hush. Yes, I wished myself dead. But Mrs Anthony was abrick.
Here Mr Powell fairly burst into tears. "No one could help lovingCaptain Anthony. I leave you to imagine what he was to her. Yet beforethe week was out it was she who was helping me to pull myself together."
"Is Mrs Anthony in England now?" I asked after a while.
He wiped his eyes without any false shame. "Oh yes." He began to lookfor matches, and while diving for the box under the table added: "Andnot very far from here either. That little village up there--you know."
"No! Really! Oh I see!"
Mr Powell smoked austerely, very detached. But I could not let him offlike this. The sly beggar. So this was the secret of his passion forsailing about the river, the reason of his fondness for that creek.
"And I suppose," I said, "that you are still as `enthusiastic' as ever.Eh? If I were you I would just mention my enthusiasm to Mrs Anthony.Why not?"
He caught his falling pipe neatly. But if what the French call_effarement_ was ever expressed on a human countenance it was on thisoccasion, testifying to his modesty, his sensibility and his innocence.He looked afraid of somebody overhearing my audacious--almostsacrilegious hint--as if there had not been a mile and a half of lonelymarshland and dykes between us and the nearest human habitation. Andthen perhaps he remembered the soothing fact for he allowed a gleam tolight up his eyes, like the reflection of some inward fire tended in thesanctuary of his heart by a devotion as pure as that of any vestal.
It flashed and went out. He smiled a bashful smile, sighed:
"Pah! Foolishness. You ought to know better," he said, more sad thanannoyed. "But I forgot that you never knew Captain Anthony," he addedindulgently.
I reminded him that I knew Mrs Anthony; even before he--an old friendnow--had ever set eyes on her. And as he tol
d me that Mrs Anthony hadheard of our meetings I wondered whether she would care to see me. MrPowell volunteered no opinion then; but next time we lay in the creek hesaid, "She will be very pleased. You had better go to-day."
The afternoon was well advanced before I approached the cottage. Theamenity of a fine day in its decline surrounded me with a beneficent, acalming influence; I felt it in the silence of the shady lane, in thepure air, in the blue sky. It is difficult to retain the memory of theconflicts, miseries, temptations and crimes of men's self-seekingexistence when one is alone with the charming serenity of theunconscious nature. Breathing the dreamless peace around thepicturesque cottage I was approaching, it seemed to me that it mustreign everywhere, over all the globe of water and land and in the heartsof all the dwellers on this earth.
Flora came down to the garden-gate to meet me, no longer the perverselytempting, sorrowful, wisp of white mist drifting in the complicated baddream of existence: Neither did she look like a forsaken elf. Istammered out stupidly, "Again in the country, Miss ... Mrs.." Shewas very good, returned the pressure of my hand, but we were slightlyembarrassed. Then we laughed a little. Then we became grave.
I am no lover of day-breaks. You know how thin, equivocal, is the lightof the dawn. But she was now her true self, she was like a finetranquil afternoon--and not so very far advanced either. A woman notmuch over thirty, with a dazzling complexion and a little colour, a lotof hair, a smooth brow, a fine chin, and only the eyes of the Flora ofthe old days, absolutely unchanged.
In the room into which she led me we found a Miss Somebody--I didn'tcatch the name,--an unobtrusive, even an indistinct, middle-aged personin black. A companion. All very proper. She came and went and evensat down at times in the room, but a little apart, with some sewing. Bythe time she had brought in a lighted lamp I had heard all the detailswhich really matter in this story. Between me and her who was onceFlora de Barral the conversation was not likely to keep strictly to theweather.
The lamp had a rosy shade; and its glow wreathed her in perpetualblushes, made her appear wonderfully young as she sat before me in adeep, high-backed armchair. I asked:
"Tell me what is it you said in that famous letter which so upset MrsFyne, and caused little Fyne to interfere in this offensive manner?"
"It was simply crude," she said earnestly. "I was feeling reckless andI 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 herbrother but that I had no scruples whatever in marrying him."
She paused, hesitating, then with a shy half-laugh:
"I really believed I was selling myself, Mr Marlow. And I was proud ofit. What I suffered afterwards I couldn't tell you; because I onlydiscovered my love for my poor Roderick through agonies of rage andhumiliation. I came to suspect him of despising me; but I could not putit to the test because of my father. Oh! I would not have been tooproud. 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 wasdistracting. It frightened me. Oh! I have been miserable! That nightwhen my poor father died suddenly I am certain they had some sort ofdiscussion, about me. But I did not want to hold out any longer againstmy own heart! I could not."
She stopped short, then impulsively:
"Truth will out, Mr Marlow."
"Yes," I said.
She went on musingly.
"Sorrow and happiness were mingled at first like darkness and light.For months I lived in a dusk of feelings. But it was quiet. It waswarm..."
Again she paused, then going back in her thoughts. "No! There was noharm in that letter. It was simply foolish. What did I know of lifethen? Nothing. But Mrs Fyne ought to have known better. She wrote aletter to her brother, a little later. Years afterwards Roderickallowed me to glance at it. I found in it this sentence: `For years Itried to make a friend of that girl; but I warn you once more that shehas the nature of a heartless adventuress' ... `Adventuress!' repeatedFlora slowly. `So be it. I have had a fine adventure.'"
"It was fine, then," I said interested.
"The finest in the world! Only think! I loved and I was loved,untroubled, at peace, without remorse, without fear. All the world, alllife were transformed for me. And how much I have seen! How goodpeople were to me! Roderick was so much liked everywhere. Yes, I haveknown kindness and safety. The most familiar things appeared lighted upwith a new light, clothed with a loveliness I had never suspected. Thesea itself! ... You are a sailor. You have lived your life on it. Butdo you know how beautiful it is, how strong, how charming, how friendly,how mighty..."
I listened amazed and touched. She was silent only a little while.
"It was too good to last. But nothing can rob me of it now... Don'tthink 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, beyonddesperation. Yes. You remember that. And later on, too. There was atime on board the _Ferndale_ when the only moments of relief I knew werewhen I made Mr Powell talk to me a little on the poop. You like him?--Don't you?"
"Excellent fellow," I said warmly. "You see him often?"
"Of course. I hardly know another soul in the world. I am alone. Andhe has plenty of time on his hands. His aunt died a few years ago.He's doing nothing, I believe."
"He is fond of the sea," I remarked. "He loves it."
"He seems to have given it up," she murmured.
"I wonder why?"
She remained silent. "Perhaps it is because he loves something elsebetter," I went on. "Come, Mrs Anthony, don't let me carry away fromhere the idea that you are a selfish person, hugging the memory of yourpast happiness, like a rich man his treasure, forgetting the poor at thegate."
I rose to go, for it was getting late. She got up in some agitation andwent out with me into the fragrant darkness of the garden. She detainedmy hand for a moment and then in the very voice of the Flora of olddays, with the exact intonation, showing the old mistrust, the old doubtof herself, the old scar of the blow received in childhood, pathetic andfunny, she murmured, "Do you think it possible that he should care forme?"
"Just ask him yourself. You are brave."
"Oh, I am brave enough," she said with a sigh.
"Then do. For if you don't you will be wronging that patient mancruelly."
I departed leaving her dumb. Next day, seeing Powell makingpreparations to go ashore, I asked him to give my regards to MrsAnthony. He promised he would.
"Listen, Powell," I said. "We got to know each other by chance?"
"Oh, quite!" he admitted, adjusting his hat.
"And the science of life consists in seizing every chance that presentsitself," I pursued. "Do you believe that?"
"Gospel truth," he declared innocently.
"Well, don't forget it."
"Oh, I! I don't expect now anything to present itself," he said,jumping ashore.
He didn't turn up at high water. I set my sail and just as I had castoff from the bank, round the black barn, in the dusk, two figuresappeared and stood silent, indistinct.
"Is that you, Powell?" I hailed.
"And Mrs Anthony," his voice came impressively through the silence ofthe great marsh. "I am not sailing to-night. I have to see MrsAnthony home."
"Then I must even go alone," I cried.
Flora's voice wished me "_bon voyage_" in a most friendly but tremuloustone.
"You shall hear from me before long," shouted Powell, suddenly, just asmy boat had cleared the mouth of the creek.
"This was yesterday," added Marlow, lolling in the armchair lazily. "Ihaven't heard yet; but I expect to hear any moment... What on earth areyou grinning at in this sarcastic manner? I am not afraid of going tochurch with a friend. Hang it all, for all my belief in Chance I am notexactly a pagan..."
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Chance: A Tale in Two Parts Page 13
