While we were hove-to, the ‘Porcupine’
passed us. In all probability it would now get
to Aden ahead of us; and herein lay a development of
the history of Mrs. Falchion. I was standing
beside Belle Treherne as the ship came within hail
of us and signalled to see what was the matter.
Mrs. Falchion was not far from us. She was looking
intently at the vessel through marine-glasses, and
she did not put them down until it had passed.
Then she turned away with an abstracted light in her
eyes and a wintry smile; and the look and the smile
continued when she sat down in her deck-chair and
leaned her cheek meditatively on the marine-glass.
But I saw now that something was added to the expression
of her face a suggestion of brooding or
wonder. Belle Treherne, noticing the direction
of my glances, said: “Have you known Mrs.
Falchion long?”
“No, not long,” I replied.
“Only since she came on board.”
“She is very clever, I believe.”
I felt my face flushing, though, reasonably,
there was no occasion for it, and I said: “Yes,
she is one of the ablest women I have ever met.”
“She is beautiful, too very
beautiful.” This very frankly.
“Have you talked with her?” asked I.
“Yes, a little this morning,
for the first time. She did not speak much, however.”
Here Miss Treherne paused, and then added meditatively:
“Do you know, she impressed me as having singular
frankness and singular reserve as well? I think
I admired it. There is no feeling in her speech,
and yet it has great candour. I never before met
any one like her. She does not wear her heart
upon her sleeve, I imagine.”
A moment of irony came over me; that
desire to say what one really does not believe (a
feminine trait), and I replied: “Are both
those articles necessary to any one? A sleeve? well,
one must be clothed. But a heart? a
cumbrous thing, as I take it.”
Belle Treherne turned, and looked
me steadily in the eyes for an instant, as if she
had suddenly awakened from abstraction, and slowly
said, while she drew back slightly: “Dr.
Marmion, I am only a girl, I know, and inexperienced,
but I hoped most people of education and knowledge
of life were free from that kind of cynicism to be
read of in books.” Then something in her
thoughts seemed to chill her words and manner, and
her father coming up a moment after, she took his arm,
and walked away with a not very cordial bow to me.
The fact is, with a woman’s
quick intuition, she had read in my tone something
suggestive of my recent experience with Mrs. Falchion.
Her fine womanliness awoke; the purity of her thoughts,
rose in opposition to my flippancy and to me; and
I knew that I had raised a prejudice not easy to destroy.
This was on a Friday afternoon.
On the Saturday evening following,
the fancy-dress ball was to occur. The accident
to the machinery and our delay were almost forgotten
in the preparations therefor. I had little to
do; there was only one sick man on board, and my hand
could not cure his sickness. How he fared, my
uncomfortable mind, now bitterly alive to a sense of
duty, almost hesitated to inquire. Yet a change
had come. A reaction had set in for me.
Would it be permanent? I dared scarcely answer
that question, with Mrs. Falchion at my right hand
at table, with her voice at my ear. I was not
quite myself yet; I was struggling, as it were, with
the effects of a fantastic dream.
Still, I had determined upon my course.
I had made resolutions. I had ended the chapter
of dalliance. I had wished to go to 116 Intermediate
and let its occupant demand what satisfaction he would.
I wanted to say to Hungerford that I was an ass; but
that was even harder still. He was so thorough
and uncompromising in nature, so strong in moral fibre,
that I felt his sarcasm would be too outspoken for
me just at present. In this, however, I did not
give him credit for a fine sense of consideration,
as after events showed. Although there had been
no spoken understanding between us that Mrs. Falchion
was the wife of Boyd Madras, the mind of one was the
other’s also. I understood exactly why he
told me Boyd Madras’s story: it was a warning.
He was not the man to harp on things. He gave
the hint, and there the matter ended, so far as he
was concerned, until a time might come when he should
think it his duty to refer to the subject again.
Some time before, he had shown me the portrait of
the girl who had promised to be his wife. She,
of course, could trust him anywhere, everywhere.
Mrs. Falchion had seen the change
in me, and, I am sure, guessed the new direction of
my thoughts, and knew that I wished to take refuge
in a new companionship a thing, indeed,
not easily to be achieved, as I felt now; for no girl
of delicate and proud temper would complacently regard
a hasty transference of attention from another to herself.
Besides, it would be neither courteous nor reasonable
to break with Mrs. Falchion abruptly. The error
was mine, not hers. She had not my knowledge of
the immediate circumstances, which made my position
morally untenable. She showed unembarrassed ignorance
of the change. At the same time I caught a tone
of voice and a manner which showed she was not actually
oblivious, but was touched in that nerve called vanity;
and from this much feminine hatred springs.
I made up my mind to begin a course
of scientific reading, and was seated in my cabin,
vainly trying to digest a treatise on the pathology
of the nervous system, when Hungerford appeared at
the door. With a nod, he entered, threw himself
down on the cabin sofa, and asked for a match.
After a pause, he said: “Marmion, Boyd Madras,
alias Charles Boyd, has recognised me.”
I rose to get a cigar, thus turning
my face from him, and said: “Well?”
“Well, there isn’t anything
very startling. I suppose he wishes I had left
him in the dingey on No Man’s Sea. He’s
a fool.”
“Indeed, why?”
“Marmion, are your brains softening?
Why does he shadow a woman who wouldn’t lift
her finger to save him from battle, murder, or sudden
death?”
“From the code,” I said, in half soliloquy.
“From the what?”
“Oh, never mind, Hungerford. I suppose
he is shadowing Mrs. Falchion?”
He eyed me closely.
“I mean the woman that chucked
his name; that turned her back on him when he was
in trouble; that hopes he is dead, if she doesn’t
believe that he is actually; that would, no doubt,
treat him as a burglar if he went to her, got down
on his knees, and said: ’Mercy, my girl,
I’ve come back to you a penitent prodigal.
Henceforth I shall be as straight as the sun, so help
me Heaven and your love and forgiveness!’”
Hungerford paused, as if expecting
me to reply; but, leaning forward on my knees and
smoking hard, I remained silent. This seemed to
anger him, for he said a little roughly: “Why
doesn’t he come out and give you blazes on the
promenade deck, and corner her down with a mighty cheek,
and levy on her for a thousand pounds? Both you
and she would think more of him. Women don’t
dislike being bullied, if it is done in the right
way haven’t I seen it the world over,
from lubra to dowager? I tell you, man sinning
or not was meant to be woman’s master
and lover, and just as much one as the other.”
At this point Hungerford’s manner
underwent a slight change, and he continued:
“Marmion, I wouldn’t have come near you,
only I noticed you have altered your course, and are
likely to go on a fresh tack. It isn’t
my habit to worry a man. I gave you a signal,
and you didn’t respond at first. Well,
we have come within hail again; and now, don’t
you think that you might help to straighten this tangle,
and try to arrange a reconciliation between those
two?
“The scheme is worth trying.
Nobody need know but you and me. It wouldn’t
be much of a sacrifice to her to give him a taste of
the thing she swore to do how does it run? ’to
have and to hold from this day forward’? I
can’t recall it; but it’s whether the wind
blows fair or foul, or the keel scrapes the land or
gives to the rock, till the sea gulps one of ’em
down for ever. That’s the sense of the thing,
Marmion, and the contract holds between the two, straight
on into the eternal belly. Whatever happens,
a husband is a husband, and a wife a wife. It
seems to me that, in the sight of Heaven, it’s
he that’s running fair in the teeth of the wind,
every timber straining, and she that’s riding
with it, well coaled, flags flying, in an open channel,
and passing the derelict without so much as, ‘Ahoy
there!’”
Now, at this distance of time, I look
back, and see Hungerford, “the rowdy sailor,”
as he called himself, lying there, his dark grey eyes
turned full on me; and I am convinced that no honester,
more sturdy-minded man ever reefed a sail, took his
turn upon the bridge, or walked the dry land in the
business of life. It did not surprise me, a year
after, when I saw in public prints that he was the
hero of but that must be told elsewhere.
I was about to answer him then as I knew he would
wish, when a steward appeared and said: “Mr.
Boyd, 116 Intermediate, wishes you would come to him,
sir, if you would be so kind.”
Hungerford rose, and, as I made ready
to go, urged quietly: “You’ve got
the charts and soundings, Marmion, steam ahead!”
and, with a swift but kindly clench of my shoulder,
he left me. In that moment there came a cowardly
feeling, a sense of shamefacedness, and then, hard
upon it, and overwhelming it, a determination to serve
Boyd Madras so far as lay in my power, and to be a
man, and not a coward or an idler.
When I found him he was prostrate.
In his eyes there was no anger, no indignation, nor
sullenness all of which he might reasonably
have felt; and instantly I was ashamed of the thought
which, as I came to him, flashed through my mind,
that he might do some violent thing. Not that
I had any fear of violence; but I had an active dislike
of awkward circumstances. I felt his fluttering
pulse, and noted the blue line on his warped lips.
I gave him some medicine, and then sat down. There
was a silence. What could I say? A dozen
thoughts came to my mind, but I rejected them.
It was difficult to open up the subject. At last
he put his hand upon my arm and spoke:
“You told me one night that
you would help me if you could. I ought to have
accepted your offer at first; it would have been better. No,
please don’t speak just yet. I think I know
what you would say. I knew that you meant all
you urged upon me; that you liked me. I was once
worthy of men’s liking, perhaps, and I had good
comrades; but that is all over. You have not
come near me lately, but it wasn’t because you
felt any neglect, or wished to take back your words;
but because of something else....
I understand it all. She has great power.
She always had. She is very beautiful. I
remember when but I will not call it back
before you, though, God knows, I go over it all every
day and every night, until it seems that only the
memory of her is real, and that she herself is a ghost.
I ought not to have crossed her path again, even unknown
to her. But I have done it, and now I cannot go
out of that path without kneeling before her once
again, as I did long ago. Having seen her, breathed
the same air, I must speak or die; perhaps it will
be both. That is a power she has: she can
bend one to her will, although she often, involuntarily,
wills things that are death to others. One must
care for her, you understand; it is natural, even when
it is torture to do so.”
He put his hand on his side and moved
as if in pain. I reached over and felt his pulse,
then took his hand and pressed it, saying: “I
will be your friend now, Madras, in so far as I can.”
He looked up at me gratefully, and
replied: “I know that I know
that. It is more than I deserve.”
Then he began to speak of his past.
He told me of Hungerford’s kindness to him on
the ‘Dancing Kate’, of his luckless days
at Port Darwin, of his search for his wife, his writing
to her, and her refusal to see him. He did not
rail against her. He apologised for her, and reproached
himself. “She is most singular,” he
continued, “and different from most women.
She never said she loved me, and she never did, I know.
Her father urged her to marry me; he thought I was
a good man.”
Here he laughed a little bitterly.
“But it was a bad day for her. She never
loved any one, I think, and she cannot understand what
love is, though many have cared for her. She
is silent where herself is concerned. I think
there was some trouble not love, I am sure
of that which vexed her, and made her a
little severe at times; something connected with her
life, or her father’s life, in Samoa. One
can only guess, but white men take what are called
native wives there very often and who can
tell? Her father but that is her secret!...
While I was right before the world, she was a good
wife to me in her way. When I went wrong, she
treated me as if I were dead, and took her old name.
But if I could speak to her quietly once more, perhaps
she would listen. It would be no good at all
to write. Perhaps she would never begin the world
with me again, but I should like to hear her say, ’I
forgive you. Good-bye.’ There would
be some comfort in a kind farewell from her. You
can see that, Dr. Marmion?”
He paused, waiting for me to speak.
“Yes, I can see that,” I said; and then
I added: “Why did you not speak to her before
you both came on board at Colombo?”
“I had no chance. I only
saw her in the street, an hour before the ship sailed.
I had scarcely time to take my passage.”
Pain here checked his utterance, and
when he recovered, he turned again to me, and continued:
“To-morrow night there is to be a fancy-dress
ball on board. I have been thinking. I could
go in a good disguise. I could speak to her,
and attract no notice; and if she will not listen to
me, why, then, that ends it. I shall know the
worst, and to know the worst is good.”
“Yes,” said I; “and what do you
wish me to do?”
“I wish to go in a disguise,
of course; to dress in your cabin, if you will let
me. I cannot dress here, it would attract attention;
and I am not a first-class passenger.”
“I fear,” I replied, “that
it is impossible for me to assist you to the privileges
of a first-class passenger. You see, I am an officer
of the ship. But still I can help you. You
shall leave this cabin to-night. I will arrange
so that you may transfer yourself to one in the first-class
section.... No, not a word; it must be as I wish
in this. You are ill; I can do you that kindness
at least, and then, by right, you can attend the ball,
and, after it, your being among the first-class passengers
can make little difference; for you will have met
and spoken then, either to peace or otherwise.”
I had very grave doubts of any reconciliation;
the substance of my notable conversation with Mrs.
Falchion was so prominent in my mind. I feared
she would only reproduce the case of Anson and his
wife. I was also afraid of a possible scene which
showed that I was not yet able to judge of her resources.
After a time, in which we sat silent, I said to Madras:
“But suppose she should be frightened? should should
make a scene?”
He raised himself to a sitting posture.
“I feel better,” he said. Then, answering
my question: “You do not know her quite.
She will not stir a muscle. She has nerve.
I have seen her in positions of great peril and trial.
She is not emotional, though I truly think she will
wake one day and find her heart all fire but not for
me. Still, I say that all will be quite comfortable,
so far as any demonstration on her part is concerned.
She will not be melodramatic, I do assure you.”
“And the disguise your dress?”
inquired I.
He rose from the berth slowly, and,
opening a portmanteau, drew from it a cloth of white
and red, fringed with gold. It was of beautiful
texture, and made into the form of a toga or mantle.
He said: “I was a seller of such stuffs
in Colombo, and these I brought with me, because I
could not dispose of them without sacrifice when I
left hurriedly. I have made them into a mantle.
I could go as a noble Roman, perhaps!”
Then a slight, ironical smile crossed his lips, and
he stretched out his thin but shapely arms, as if
in derision of himself.
“You will go as Menelaus the Greek,” said
I.
“I as Menelaus the Greek?” The smile became
a little grim.
“Yes, as Menelaus; and I will
go as Paris.” I doubt not that my voice
showed a good deal of self-scorn at the moment; but
there was a kind of luxury in self-abasement before
him. “Your wife, I know, intends to go
as Helen of Troy. It is all mumming. Let
it stand so, as Menelaus and Helen and Paris before
there was any Trojan war, and as if there never could
be any as if Paris went back discomfited,
and the other two were reconciled.”
His voice was low and broken.
“I know you exaggerate matters, and condemn
yourself beyond reason,” he replied. “I
will do as you say. But, Dr. Marmion, it will
not be all mumming, as you shall see.”
A strange look came upon his face
at this. I could not construe it; and, after
a few words of explanation regarding his transference
to the forward part of the ship, I left him.
I found the purser, made the necessary arrangements
for him, and then sought my cabin, humbled in many
ways. I went troubled to bed. After a long
wakefulness, I dozed away into that disturbed vestibule
of sleep where the world’s happenings mingle
with the visions of unconsciousness. I seemed
to see a man’s heart beating in his bosom in
growing agonies, until, with one last immense
palpitation, it burst, and life was gone.
Then the dream changed, and I saw a man in the sea,
drowning, who seemed never to drown entirely, his
hands ever beating the air and the mocking water.
I thought that I tried many times to throw him a lighted
buoy in the half-shadow, but some one held me back,
and I knew that a woman’s arms were round me.
But at last the drowning man looked
up and saw the woman so, and, with a last quiver of
the arms, he sank from sight. When he was gone,
the woman’s arms dropped away from me; but when
I turned to speak to her, she, too, had gone.
I awoke.
Two stewards were talking in the passage,
and one was saying, “She’ll get under
way by daybreak, and it will be a race with the ‘Porcupine’
to Aden. How the engines are kicking below!”