PART V. THE POINT OF HONOUR AND THE POINT OF PASSION
I
"May I come in?"
"Yes," said a voice within. "The door is open." It had a wooden latch.Mr. Travers lifted it while the voice of his wife continued as heentered. "Did you imagine I had locked myself in? Did you ever know melock myself in?"
Mr. Travers closed the door behind him. "No, it has never come to that,"he said in a tone that was not conciliatory. In that place which was aroom in a wooden hut and had a square opening without glass but with ahalf-closed shutter he could not distinguish his wife very well at once.She was sitting in an armchair and what he could see best was herfair hair all loose over the back of the chair. There was a momentof silence. The measured footsteps of two men pacing athwart thequarter-deck of the dead ship Emma commanded by the derelict shade ofJorgenson could be heard outside.
Jorgenson, on taking up his dead command, had a house of thin boardsbuilt on the after deck for his own accommodation and that of Lingardduring his flying visits to the Shore of Refuge. A narrow passagedivided it in two and Lingard's side was furnished with a camp bedstead,a rough desk, and a rattan armchair. On one of his visits Lingard hadbrought with him a black seaman's chest and left it there. Apart fromthese objects and a small looking-glass worth about half a crown andnailed to the wall there was nothing else in there whatever. What wason Jorgenson's side of the deckhouse no one had seen, but from externalevidence one could infer the existence of a set of razors.
The erection of that primitive deckhouse was a matter of proprietyrather than of necessity. It was proper that the white men should have aplace to themselves on board, but Lingard was perfectly accurate when hetold Mrs. Travers that he had never slept there once. His practice wasto sleep on deck. As to Jorgenson, if he did sleep at all he slept verylittle. It might have been said that he haunted rather than commandedthe Emma. His white form flitted here and there in the night or stoodfor hours, silent, contemplating the sombre glimmer of the lagoon. Mr.Travers' eyes accustomed gradually to the dusk of the place couldnow distinguish more of his wife's person than the great mass ofhoney-coloured hair. He saw her face, the dark eyebrows and her eyesthat seemed profoundly black in the half light. He said:
"You couldn't have done so here. There is neither lock nor bolt."
"Isn't there? I didn't notice. I would know how to protect myselfwithout locks and bolts."
"I am glad to hear it," said Mr. Travers in a sullen tone and fellsilent again surveying the woman in the chair. "Indulging your taste forfancy dress," he went on with faint irony.
Mrs. Travers clasped her hands behind her head. The wide sleevesslipping back bared her arms to her shoulders. She was wearing a Malaythin cotton jacket, cut low in the neck without a collar and fastenedwith wrought silver clasps from the throat downward. She had replacedher yachting skirt by a blue check sarong embroidered with threads ofgold. Mr. Travers' eyes travelling slowly down attached themselves tothe gleaming instep of an agitated foot from which hung a light leathersandal.
"I had no clothes with me but what I stood in," said Mrs. Travers. "Ifound my yachting costume too heavy. It was intolerable. I was soakedin dew when I arrived. So when these things were produced for myinspection. . . ."
"By enchantment," muttered Mr. Travers in a tone too heavy for sarcasm.
"No. Out of that chest. There are very fine stuffs there."
"No doubt," said Mr. Travers. "The man wouldn't be above plundering thenatives. . . ." He sat down heavily on the chest. "A most appropriatecostume for this farce," he continued. "But do you mean to wear it inopen daylight about the decks?"
"Indeed I do," said Mrs. Travers. "D'Alcacer has seen me already and hedidn't seem shocked."
"You should," said Mr. Travers, "try to get yourself presented with somebangles for your ankles so that you may jingle as you walk."
"Bangles are not necessities," said Mrs. Travers in a weary tone andwith the fixed upward look of a person unwilling to relinquish herdream. Mr. Travers dropped the subject to ask:
"And how long is this farce going to last?"
Mrs. Travers unclasped her hands, lowered her glance, and changed herwhole pose in a moment.
"What do you mean by farce? What farce?"
"The one which is being played at my expense."
"You believe that?"
"Not only believe. I feel deeply that it is so. At my expense. It's amost sinister thing," Mr. Travers pursued, still with downcast eyes andin an unforgiving tone. "I must tell you that when I saw you in thatcourtyard in a crowd of natives and leaning on that man's arm, it gaveme quite a shock."
"Did I, too, look sinister?" said Mrs. Travers, turning her headslightly toward her husband. "And yet I assure you that I was glad,profoundly glad, to see you safe from danger for a time at least. Togain time is everything. . . ."
"I ask myself," Mr. Travers meditated aloud, "was I ever in danger? AmI safe now? I don't know. I can't tell. No! All this seems an abominablefarce."
There was that in his tone which made his wife continue to look at himwith awakened interest. It was obvious that he suffered from a distresswhich was not the effect of fear; and Mrs. Travers' face expressed realconcern till he added in a freezing manner: "The question, however, isas to your discretion."
She leaned back again in the chair and let her hands rest quietly in herlap. "Would you have preferred me to remain outside, in the yacht, inthe near neighbourhood of these wild men who captured you? Or do youthink that they, too, were got up to carry on a farce?"
"Most decidedly." Mr. Travers raised his head, though of course not hisvoice. "You ought to have remained in the yacht amongst white men, yourservants, the sailing-master, the crew whose duty it was to. . . . Whowould have been ready to die for you."
"I wonder why they should have--and why I should have asked them forthat sacrifice. However, I have no doubt they would have died. Or wouldyou have preferred me to take up my quarters on board that man's brig?We were all fairly safe there. The real reason why I insisted on comingin here was to be nearer to you--to see for myself what could be or wasbeing done. . . . But really if you want me to explain my motives then Imay just as well say nothing. I couldn't remain outside for days withoutnews, in a state of horrible doubt. We couldn't even tell whether youand d'Alcacer were still alive till we arrived here. You might have beenactually murdered on the sandbank, after Rajah Hassim and that girl hadgone away; or killed while going up the river. And I wanted to know atonce, as soon as possible. It was a matter of impulse. I went off inwhat I stood in without delaying a moment."
"Yes," said Mr. Travers. "And without even thinking of having afew things put up for me in a bag. No doubt you were in a state ofexcitement. Unless you took such a tragic view that it seemed to youhardly worth while to bother about my clothes."
"It was absolutely the impulse of the moment. I could have done nothingelse. Won't you give me credit for it?"
Mr. Travers raised his eyes again to his wife's face. He saw it calm,her attitude reposeful. Till then his tone had been resentful, dull,without sarcasm. But now he became slightly pompous.
"No. As a matter of fact, as a matter of experience, I can't credityou with the possession of feelings appropriate to your origin, socialposition, and the ideas of the class to which you belong. It was theheaviest disappointment of my life. I had made up my mind not to mentionit as long as I lived. This, however, seems an occasion which you haveprovoked yourself. It isn't at all a solemn occasion. I don't look uponit as solemn at all. It's very disagreeable and humiliating. But ithas presented itself. You have never taken a serious interest in theactivities of my life which of course are its distinction and its value.And why you should be carried away suddenly by a feeling toward the mereman I don't understand."
"Therefore you don't approve," Mrs. Travers commented in an eventone. "But I assure you, you may safely. My feeling was of the mostconventional nature, exactly as if the whole world were looking on.After all, we are husband and wife. It'
s eminently fitting that I shouldbe concerned about your fate. Even the man you distrust and dislike somuch (the warmest feeling, let me tell you, that I ever saw you display)even that man found my conduct perfectly proper. His own word. Proper.So eminently proper that it altogether silenced his objections."
Mr. Travers shifted uneasily on his seat.
"It's my belief, Edith, that if you had been a man you would have leda most irregular life. You would have been a frank adventurer. I meanmorally. It has been a great grief to me. You have a scorn in you forthe serious side of life, for the ideas and the ambitions of the socialsphere to which you belong."
He stopped because his wife had clasped again her hands behind her headand was no longer looking at him.
"It's perfectly obvious," he began again. "We have been living amongstmost distinguished men and women and your attitude to them has beenalways so--so negative! You would never recognize the importance ofachievements, of acquired positions. I don't remember you ever admiringfrankly any political or social success. I ask myself what after all youcould possibly have expected from life."
"I could never have expected to hear such a speech from you. As to whatI did expect! . . . I must have been very stupid."
"No, you are anything but that," declared Mr. Travers, conscientiously."It isn't stupidity." He hesitated for a moment. "It's a kind ofwilfulness, I think. I preferred not to think about this grievousdifference in our points of view, which, you will admit, I could nothave possibly foreseen before we. . . ."
A sort of solemn embarrassment had come over Mr. Travers. Mrs. Travers,leaning her chin on the palm of her hand, stared at the bare matchboardside of the hut.
"Do you charge me with profound girlish duplicity?" she asked, verysoftly.
The inside of the deckhouse was full of stagnant heat perfumed bya slight scent which seemed to emanate from the loose mass of Mrs.Travers' hair. Mr. Travers evaded the direct question which struck himas lacking fineness even to the point of impropriety.
"I must suppose that I was not in the calm possession of my insight andjudgment in those days," he said. "I--I was not in a critical state ofmind at the time," he admitted further; but even after going so farhe did not look up at his wife and therefore missed something likethe ghost of a smile on Mrs. Travers' lips. That smile was tinged withscepticism which was too deep-seated for anything but the faintestexpression. Therefore she said nothing, and Mr. Travers went on as ifthinking aloud:
"Your conduct was, of course, above reproach; but you made for yourselfa detestable reputation of mental superiority, expressed ironically. Youinspired mistrust in the best people. You were never popular."
"I was bored," murmured Mrs. Travers in a reminiscent tone and with herchin resting in the hollow of her hand.
Mr. Travers got up from the seaman's chest as unexpectedly as if he hadbeen stung by a wasp, but, of course, with a much slower and more solemnmotion.
"The matter with you, Edith, is that at heart you are perfectlyprimitive." Mrs. Travers stood up, too, with a supple, leisurelymovement, and raising her hands to her hair turned half away with apensive remark:
"Imperfectly civilized."
"Imperfectly disciplined," corrected Mr. Travers after a moment ofdreary meditation.
She let her arms fall and turned her head.
"No, don't say that," she protested with strange earnestness. "I am themost severely disciplined person in the world. I am tempted to say thatmy discipline has stopped at nothing short of killing myself. I supposeyou can hardly understand what I mean."
Mr. Travers made a slight grimace at the floor.
"I shall not try," he said. "It sounds like something that a barbarian,hating the delicate complexities and the restraints of a nobler life,might have said. From you it strikes me as wilful bad taste. . . .I have often wondered at your tastes. You have always likedextreme opinions, exotic costumes, lawless characters, romanticpersonalities--like d'Alcacer . . ."
"Poor Mr. d'Alcacer," murmured Mrs. Travers.
"A man without any ideas of duty or usefulness," said Mr. Travers,acidly. "What are you pitying him for?"
"Why! For finding himself in this position out of mere good-nature.He had nothing to expect from joining our voyage, no advantage for hispolitical ambitions or anything of the kind. I suppose you asked him onboard to break our tete-a-tete which must have grown wearisome to you."
"I am never bored," declared Mr. Travers. "D'Alcacer seemed glad tocome. And, being a Spaniard, the horrible waste of time cannot matter tohim in the least."
"Waste of time!" repeated Mrs. Travers, indignantly.
"He may yet have to pay for his good nature with his life."
Mr. Travers could not conceal a movement of anger.
"Ah! I forgot those assumptions," he said between his clenched teeth."He is a mere Spaniard. He takes this farcical conspiracy with perfectnonchalance. Decayed races have their own philosophy."
"He takes it with a dignity of his own."
"I don't know what you call his dignity. I should call it lack ofself-respect."
"Why? Because he is quiet and courteous, and reserves his judgment. Andallow me to tell you, Martin, that you are not taking our troubles verywell."
"You can't expect from me all those foreign affectations. I am not inthe habit of compromising with my feelings."
Mrs. Travers turned completely round and faced her husband. "You sulk,"she said. . . . Mr. Travers jerked his head back a little as if to letthe word go past.--"I am outraged," he declared. Mrs. Travers recognizedthere something like real suffering.--"I assure you," she said,seriously (for she was accessible to pity), "I assure you that thisstrange Lingard has no idea of your importance. He doesn't know anythingof your social and political position and still less of your greatambitions." Mr. Travers listened with some attention.--"Couldn't youhave enlightened him?" he asked.--"It would have been no use; his mindis fixed upon his own position and upon his own sense of power. He isa man of the lower classes. . . ."--"He is a brute," said Mr. Travers,obstinately, and for a moment those two looked straight into eachother's eyes.--"Oh," said Mrs. Travers, slowly, "you are determined notto compromise with your feelings!" An undertone of scorn crept into hervoice. "But shall I tell you what I think? I think," and she advancedher head slightly toward the pale, unshaven face that confronted herdark eyes, "I think that for all your blind scorn you judge the manwell enough to feel that you can indulge your indignation with perfectsafety. Do you hear? With perfect safety!" Directly she had spoken sheregretted these words. Really it was unreasonable to take Mr. Travers'tricks of character more passionately on this spot of the EasternArchipelago full of obscure plots and warring motives than in the moreartificial atmosphere of the town. After all what she wanted was simplyto save his life, not to make him understand anything. Mr. Traversopened his mouth and without uttering a word shut it again. His wifeturned toward the looking-glass nailed to the wall. She heard his voicebehind her.
"Edith, where's the truth in all this?"
She detected the anguish of a slow mind with an instinctive dread ofobscure places wherein new discoveries can be made. She looked over hershoulder to say:
"It's on the surface, I assure you. Altogether on the surface."
She turned again to the looking-glass where her own face met her withdark eyes and a fair mist of hair above the smooth forehead; but herwords had produced no soothing effect.
"But what does it mean?" cried Mr. Travers. "Why doesn't the fellowapologize? Why are we kept here? Are we being kept here? Why don't weget away? Why doesn't he take me back on board my yacht? What does hewant from me? How did he procure our release from these people on shorewho he says intended to cut our throats? Why did they give us up to himinstead?"
Mrs. Travers began to twist her hair on her head.
"Matters of high policy and of local politics. Conflict of personalinterests, mistrust between the parties, intrigues of individuals--youought to know how that sort of thing works. His diplomacy made
use ofall that. The first thing to do was not to liberate you but to get youinto his keeping. He is a very great man here and let me tell you thatyour safety depends on his dexterity in the use of his prestige ratherthan on his power which he cannot use. If you would let him talk toyou I am sure he would tell you as much as it is possible for him todisclose."
"I don't want to be told about any of his rascalities. But haven't youbeen taken into his confidence?"
"Completely," admitted Mrs. Travers, peering into the smalllooking-glass.
"What is the influence you brought to bear upon this man? It looks to meas if our fate were in your hands."
"Your fate is not in my hands. It is not even in his hands. There is amoral situation here which must be solved."
"Ethics of blackmail," commented Mr. Travers with unexpected sarcasm. Itflashed through his wife's mind that perhaps she didn't know him so wellas she had supposed. It was as if the polished and solemn crust of hardproprieties had cracked slightly, here and there, under the strain,disclosing the mere wrongheadedness of a common mortal. But it wasonly manner that had cracked a little; the marvellous stupidity ofhis conceit remained the same. She thought that this discussion wasperfectly useless, and as she finished putting up her hair she said: "Ithink we had better go on deck now."
"You propose to go out on deck like this?" muttered Mr. Travers withdowncast eyes.
"Like this? Certainly. It's no longer a novelty. Who is going to beshocked?"
Mr. Travers made no reply. What she had said of his attitude was verytrue. He sulked at the enormous offensiveness of men, things, andevents; of words and even of glances which he seemed to feel physicallyresting on his skin like a pain, like a degrading contact. He managednot to wince. But he sulked. His wife continued, "And let me tellyou that those clothes are fit for a princess--I mean they are of thequality, material and style custom prescribes for the highest in theland, a far-distant land where I am informed women rule as much as themen. In fact they were meant to be presented to an actual princess indue course. They were selected with the greatest care for that childImmada. Captain Lingard. . . ."
Mr. Travers made an inarticulate noise partaking of a groan and a grunt.
"Well, I must call him by some name and this I thought would be theleast offensive for you to hear. After all, the man exists. But he isknown also on a certain portion of the earth's surface as King Tom.D'Alcacer is greatly taken by that name. It seems to him wonderfullywell adapted to the man, in its familiarity and deference. And if youprefer. . . ."
"I would prefer to hear nothing," said Mr. Travers, distinctly. "Not asingle word. Not even from you, till I am a free agent again. But wordsdon't touch me. Nothing can touch me; neither your sinister warnings northe moods of levity which you think proper to display before a man whoselife, according to you, hangs on a thread."
"I never forget it for a moment," said Mrs. Travers. "And I not onlyknow that it does but I also know the strength of the thread. It is awonderful thread. You may say if you like it has been spun by the samefate which made you what you are."
Mr. Travers felt awfully offended. He had never heard anybody, let alonehis own self, addressed in such terms. The tone seemed to question hisvery quality. He reflected with shocked amazement that he had lived withthat woman for eight years! And he said to her gloomily:
"You talk like a pagan."
It was a very strong condemnation which apparently Mrs. Travers hadfailed to hear for she pursued with animation:
"But really, you can't expect me to meditate on it all the time or shutmyself up here and mourn the circumstances from morning to night. Itwould be morbid. Let us go on deck."
"And you look simply heathenish in this costume," Mr. Travers went onas though he had not been interrupted, and with an accent of deliberatedisgust.
Her heart was heavy but everything he said seemed to force the toneof levity on to her lips. "As long as I don't look like a guy," sheremarked, negligently, and then caught the direction of his lurid starewhich as a matter of fact was fastened on her bare feet. She checkedherself, "Oh, yes, if you prefer it I will put on my stockings. But youknow I must be very careful of them. It's the only pair I have here. Ihave washed them this morning in that bathroom which is built over thestern. They are now drying over the rail just outside. Perhaps you willbe good enough to pass them to me when you go on deck."
Mr. Travers spun round and went on deck without a word. As soon as shewas alone Mrs. Travers pressed her hands to her temples, a gesture ofdistress which relieved her by its sincerity. The measured footsteps oftwo men came to her plainly from the deck, rhythmic and double witha suggestion of tranquil and friendly intercourse. She distinguishedparticularly the footfalls of the man whose life's orbit was most remotefrom her own. And yet the orbits had cut! A few days ago she couldnot have even conceived of his existence, and now he was the man whosefootsteps, it seemed to her, her ears could single unerringly in thetramp of a crowd. It was, indeed, a fabulous thing. In the half light ofher over-heated shelter she let an irresolute, frightened smile pass offher lips before she, too, went on deck.