III
Mrs. Travers, acutely aware of Lingard behind her, remained gazing overthe lagoon. After a time he stepped forward and placed himself besideher close to the rail. She went on staring at the sheet of water turnedto deep purple under the sunset sky.
"Why have you been avoiding me since we came back from the stockade?"she asked in a deadened voice.
"There is nothing to tell you till Rajah Hassim and his sister Immadareturn with some news," Lingard answered in the same tone. "Has myfriend succeeded? Will Belarab listen to any arguments? Will he consentto come out of his shell? Is he on his way back? I wish I knew! . . .Not a whisper comes from there! He may have started two days ago andhe may be now near the outskirts of the Settlement. Or he may have goneinto camp half way down, from some whim or other; or he may be alreadyarrived for all I know. We should not have seen him. The road from thehills does not lead along the beach."
He snatched nervously at the long glass and directed it at the darkstockade. The sun had sunk behind the forests leaving the contour of thetree-tops outlined by a thread of gold under a band of delicate greenlying across the lower sky. Higher up a faint crimson glow faded intothe darkened blue overhead. The shades of the evening deepened over thelagoon, clung to the sides of the Emma and to the forms of the furthershore. Lingard laid the glass down.
"Mr. d'Alcacer, too, seems to have been avoiding me," said Mrs. Travers."You are on very good terms with him, Captain Lingard."
"He is a very pleasant man," murmured Lingard, absently. "But he saysfunny things sometimes. He inquired the other day if there were anyplaying cards on board, and when I asked him if he liked card-playing,just for something to say, he told me with that queer smile of his thathe had read a story of some people condemned to death who passed thetime before execution playing card games with their guards."
"And what did you say?"
"I told him that there were probably cards on board somewhere--Jorgensonwould know. Then I asked him whether he looked on me as a gaoler. He wasquite startled and sorry for what he said."
"It wasn't very kind of you, Captain Lingard."
"It slipped out awkwardly and we made it up with a laugh."
Mrs. Travers leaned her elbows on the rail and put her head into herhands. Every attitude of that woman surprised Lingard by its enchantingeffect upon himself. He sighed, and the silence lasted for a long while.
"I wish I had understood every word that was said that morning."
"That morning," repeated Lingard. "What morning do you mean?"
"I mean the morning when I walked out of Belarab's stockade on your arm,Captain Lingard, at the head of the procession. It seemed to me that Iwas walking on a splendid stage in a scene from an opera, in a gorgeousshow fit to make an audience hold its breath. You can't possibly guesshow unreal all this seemed, and how artificial I felt myself. An opera,you know. . . ."
"I know. I was a gold digger at one time. Some of us used to come downto Melbourne with our pockets full of money. I daresay it was poorenough to what you must have seen, but once I went to a show like that.It was a story acted to music. All the people went singing through itright to the very end."
"How it must have jarred on your sense of reality," said Mrs. Travers,still not looking at him. "You don't remember the name of the opera?"
"No. I never troubled my head about it. We--our lot never did."
"I won't ask you what the story was like. It must have appeared toyou like the very defiance of all truth. Would real people go singingthrough their life anywhere except in a fairy tale?"
"These people didn't always sing for joy," said Lingard, simply. "Idon't know much about fairy tales."
"They are mostly about princesses," murmured Mrs. Travers.
Lingard didn't quite hear. He bent his ear for a moment but she wasn'tlooking at him and he didn't ask her to repeat her remark. "Fairy talesare for children, I believe," he said. "But that story with music I amtelling you of, Mrs. Travers, was not a tale for children. I assure youthat of the few shows I have seen that one was the most real to me. Morereal than anything in life."
Mrs. Travers, remembering the fatal inanity of most opera librettos, wastouched by these words as if there had been something pathetic in thisreadiness of response; as if she had heard a starved man talking of thedelight of a crust of dry bread. "I suppose you forgot yourself in thatstory, whatever it was," she remarked in a detached tone.
"Yes, it carried me away. But I suppose you know the feeling."
"No. I never knew anything of the kind, not even when I was a chit ofa girl." Lingard seemed to accept this statement as an assertion ofsuperiority. He inclined his head slightly. Moreover, she might havesaid what she liked. What pleased him most was her not looking at him;for it enabled him to contemplate with perfect freedom the curve of hercheek, her small ear half hidden by the clear mesh of fine hair,the fascination of her uncovered neck. And her whole person was animpossible, an amazing and solid marvel which somehow was not so muchconvincing to the eye as to something within him that was apparentlyindependent of his senses. Not even for a moment did he think of her asremote. Untouchable--possibly! But remote--no. Whether consciously orunconsciously he took her spiritually for granted. It was materiallythat she was a wonder of the sort that is at the same time familiar andsacred.
"No," Mrs. Travers began again, abruptly. "I never forgot myself in astory. It was not in me. I have not even been able to forget myself onthat morning on shore which was part of my own story."
"You carried yourself first rate," said Lingard, smiling at the nape ofher neck, her ear, the film of escaped hair, the modelling of the cornerof her eye. He could see the flutter of the dark eyelashes: and thedelicate flush on her cheek had rather the effect of scent than ofcolour.
"You approved of my behaviour."
"Just right, I tell you. My word, weren't they all struck of a heap whenthey made out what you were."
"I ought to feel flattered. I will confess to you that I felt only halfdisguised and was half angry and wholly uncomfortable. What helped me, Isuppose, was that I wanted to please. . . ."
"I don't mean to say that they were exactly pleased," broke in Lingard,conscientiously. "They were startled more."
"I wanted to please you," dropped Mrs. Travers, negligently. A faint,hoarse, and impatient call of a bird was heard from the woods as ifcalling to the oncoming night. Lingard's face grew hot in the deepeningdusk. The delicate lemon yellow and ethereal green tints had vanishedfrom the sky and the red glow darkened menacingly. The sun had setbehind the black pall of the forest, no longer edged with a line ofgold. "Yes, I was absurdly self-conscious," continued Mrs. Travers in aconversational tone. "And it was the effect of these clothes that youmade me put on over some of my European--I almost said disguise; becauseyou know in the present more perfect costume I feel curiously at home;and yet I can't say that these things really fit me. The sleeves of thissilk under-jacket are rather tight. My shoulders feel bound, too, and asto the sarong it is scandalously short. According to rule it should havebeen long enough to fall over my feet. But I like freedom of movement. Ihave had very little of what I liked in life."
"I can hardly believe that," said Lingard. "If it wasn't for your sayingso. . . ."
"I wouldn't say so to everybody," she said, turning her head for amoment to Lingard and turning it away again to the dusk which seemed tocome floating over the black lagoon. Far away in its depth a couple offeeble lights twinkled; it was impossible to say whether on the shoreor on the edge of the more distant forest. Overhead the stars werebeginning to come out, but faint yet, as if too remote to be reflectedin the lagoon. Only to the west a setting planet shone through the redfog of the sunset glow. "It was supposed not to be good for me to havemuch freedom of action. So at least I was told. But I have a suspicionthat it was only unpleasing to other people."
"I should have thought," began Lingard, then hesitated and stopped. Itseemed to him inconceivable that everybody should not have loved to mak
ethat woman happy. And he was impressed by the bitterness of her tone.Mrs. Travers did not seem curious to know what he wanted to say andafter a time she added, "I don't mean only when I was a child. I don'tremember that very well. I daresay I was very objectionable as a child."
Lingard tried to imagine her as a child. The idea was novel to him.Her perfection seemed to have come into the world complete, mature, andwithout any hesitation or weakness. He had nothing in his experiencethat could help him to imagine a child of that class. The children heknew played about the village street and ran on the beach. He had beenone of them. He had seen other children, of course, since, but hehad not been in touch with them except visually and they had not beenEnglish children. Her childhood, like his own, had been passed inEngland, and that very fact made it almost impossible for him to imagineit. He could not even tell whether it was in town or in the country, orwhether as a child she had even seen the sea. And how could a child ofthat kind be objectionable? But he remembered that a child disapprovedof could be very unhappy, and he said:
"I am sorry."
Mrs. Travers laughed a little. Within the muslin cage forms had turnedto blurred shadows. Amongst them the form of d'Alcacer arose and moved.The systematic or else the morbid dumbness of Mr. Travers bored andexasperated him, though, as a matter of fact, that gentleman's speecheshad never had the power either to entertain or to soothe his mind.
"It's very nice of you. You have a great capacity for sympathy, butafter all I am not certain on which side your sympathies lie. With me,or those much-tried people," said Mrs. Travers.
"With the child," said Lingard, disregarding the bantering tone. "Achild can have a very bad time of it all to itself."
"What can you know of it?" she asked.
"I have my own feelings," he answered in some surprise.
Mrs. Travers, with her back to him, was covered with confusion. Neithercould she depict to herself his childhood as if he, too, had comeinto the world in the fullness of his strength and his purpose. Shediscovered a certain naiveness in herself and laughed a little. He madeno sound.
"Don't be angry," she said. "I wouldn't dream of laughing at yourfeelings. Indeed your feelings are the most serious thing that ever camein my way. I couldn't help laughing at myself--at a funny discovery Imade."
"In the days of your childhood?" she heard Lingard's deep voice askingafter a pause.
"Oh, no. Ages afterward. No child could have made that discovery. Doyou know the greatest difference there is between us? It is this: That Ihave been living since my childhood in front of a show and that Inever have been taken in for a moment by its tinsel and its noise orby anything that went on on the stage. Do you understand what I mean,Captain Lingard?"
There was a moment of silence. "What does it matter? We are no childrennow." There was an infinite gentleness in Lingard's deep tones. "But ifyou have been unhappy then don't tell me that it has not been made up toyou since. Surely you have only to make a sign. A woman like you."
"You think I could frighten the whole world on to its knees?"
"No, not frighten." The suggestion of a laugh in the deadened voicepassed off in a catch of the breath. Then he was heard beginningsoberly: "Your husband. . . ." He hesitated a little and she took theopportunity to say coldly:
"His name is Mr. Travers."
Lingard didn't know how to take it. He imagined himself to have beenguilty of some sort of presumption. But how on earth was he to call theman? After all he was her husband. That idea was disagreeable to himbecause the man was also inimical in a particularly unreasonable andgalling manner. At the same time he was aware that he didn't care abit for his enmity and had an idea that he would not have cared for hisfriendship either. And suddenly he felt very much annoyed.
"Yes. That's the man I mean," he said in a contemptuous tone. "I don'tparticularly like the name and I am sure I don't want to talk about himmore than I can help. If he hadn't been your husband I wouldn't have putup with his manners for an hour. Do you know what would have happened tohim if he hadn't been your husband?"
"No," said Mrs. Travers. "Do you, Captain Lingard?"
"Not exactly," he admitted. "Something he wouldn't have liked, you maybe sure."
"While of course he likes this very much," she observed. Lingard gave anabrupt laugh.
"I don't think it's in my power to do anything that he would like," hesaid in a serious tone. "Forgive me my frankness, Mrs. Travers, but hemakes it very difficult sometimes for me to keep civil. Whatever I havehad to put up with in life I have never had to put up with contempt."
"I quite believe that," said Mrs. Travers. "Don't your friends call youKing Tom?"
"Nobody that I care for. I have no friends. Oh, yes, they call methat . . ."
"You have no friends?"
"Not I," he said with decision. "A man like me has no chums."
"It's quite possible," murmured Mrs. Travers to herself.
"No, not even Jorgenson. Old crazy Jorgenson. He calls me King Tom, too.You see what that's worth."
"Yes, I see. Or rather I have heard. That poor man has no tone, and somuch depends on that. Now suppose I were to call you King Tom nowand then between ourselves," Mrs. Travers' voice proposed, distantlytentative in the night that invested her person with a colourlessvagueness of form.
She waited in the stillness, her elbows on the rail and her face in herhands as if she had already forgotten what she had said. She heard ather elbow the deep murmur of:
"Let's hear you say it."
She never moved the least bit. The sombre lagoon sparkled faintly withthe reflection of the stars.
"Oh, yes, I will let you hear it," she said into the starlit space in avoice of unaccented gentleness which changed subtly as she went on. "Ihope you will never regret that you came out of your friendless mysteryto speak to me, King Tom. How many days ago it was! And here is anotherday gone. Tell me how many more of them there must be? Of these blindingdays and nights without a sound."
"Be patient," he murmured. "Don't ask me for the impossible."
"How do you or I know what is possible?" she whispered with a strangescorn. "You wouldn't dare guess. But I tell you that every day thatpasses is more impossible to me than the day before."
The passion of that whisper went like a stab into his breast. "What amI to tell you?" he murmured, as if with despair. "Remember that everysunset makes it a day less. Do you think I want you here?"
A bitter little laugh floated out into the starlight. Mrs. Travers heardLingard move suddenly away from her side. She didn't change her pose bya hair's breadth. Presently she heard d'Alcacer coming out of the Cage.His cultivated voice asked half playfully:
"Have you had a satisfactory conversation? May I be told something ofit?"
"Mr. d'Alcacer, you are curious."
"Well, in our position, I confess. . . . You are our only refuge,remember."
"You want to know what we were talking about," said Mrs. Travers,altering slowly her position so as to confront d'Alcacer whose face wasalmost undistinguishable. "Oh, well, then, we talked about opera, therealities and illusions of the stage, of dresses, of people's names, andthings of that sort."
"Nothing of importance," he said courteously. Mrs. Travers moved forwardand he stepped to one side. Inside the Cage two Malay hands were hanginground lanterns, the light of which fell on Mr. Travers' bowed head as hesat in his chair.
When they were all assembled for the evening meal Jorgenson strolled upfrom nowhere in particular as his habit was, and speaking through themuslin announced that Captain Lingard begged to be excused from joiningthe company that evening. Then he strolled away. From that moment tillthey got up from the table and the camp bedsteads were brought in nottwenty words passed between the members of the party within the net. Thestrangeness of their situation made all attempts to exchange ideas veryarduous; and apart from that each had thoughts which it was distinctlyuseless to communicate to the others. Mr. Travers had abandoned himselfto his sense of injury. He did not s
o much brood as rage inwardly ina dull, dispirited way. The impossibility of asserting himself in anymanner galled his very soul. D'Alcacer was extremely puzzled. Detachedin a sense from the life of men perhaps as much even as Jorgensonhimself, he took yet a reasonable interest in the course of events andhad not lost all his sense of self-preservation. Without being able toappreciate the exact values of the situation he was not one of those menwho are ever completely in the dark in any given set of circumstances.Without being humorous he was a good-humoured man. His habitual, gentlesmile was a true expression. More of a European than of a Spaniard hehad that truly aristocratic nature which is inclined to credit everyhonest man with something of its own nobility and in its judgment isaltogether independent of class feeling. He believed Lingard to be anhonest man and he never troubled his head to classify him, except inthe sense that he found him an interesting character. He had a sort ofesteem for the outward personality and the bearing of that seaman. Hefound in him also the distinction of being nothing of a type. He was aspecimen to be judged only by its own worth. With his natural gift ofinsight d'Alcacer told himself that many overseas adventurers of historywere probably less worthy because obviously they must have been lesssimple. He didn't, however, impart those thoughts formally to Mrs.Travers. In fact he avoided discussing Lingard with Mrs. Travers who, hethought, was quite intelligent enough to appreciate the exact shade ofhis attitude. If that shade was fine, Mrs. Travers was fine, too; andthere was no need to discuss the colours of this adventure. Moreover,she herself seemed to avoid all direct discussion of the Lingard elementin their fate. D'Alcacer was fine enough to be aware that those twoseemed to understand each other in a way that was not obvious even tothemselves. Whenever he saw them together he was always much tempted toobserve them. And he yielded to the temptation. The fact of one'slife depending on the phases of an obscure action authorizes a certainlatitude of behaviour. He had seen them together repeatedly, communingopenly or apart, and there was in their way of joining each other,in their poses and their ways of separating, something special andcharacteristic and pertaining to themselves only, as if they had beenmade for each other.
What he couldn't understand was why Mrs. Travers should have put off hisnatural curiosity as to her latest conference with the Man of Fate byan incredible statement as to the nature of the conversation. Talk aboutdresses, opera, people's names. He couldn't take this seriously. Shemight have invented, he thought, something more plausible; or simplyhave told him that this was not for him to know. She ought to have knownthat he would not have been offended. Couldn't she have seen alreadythat he accepted the complexion of mystery in her relation to that mancompletely, unquestionably; as though it had been something preordainedfrom the very beginning of things? But he was not annoyed with Mrs.Travers. After all it might have been true. She would talk exactly asshe liked, and even incredibly, if it so pleased her, and make the manhang on her lips. And likewise she was capable of making the man talkabout anything by a power of inspiration for reasons simple or perverse.Opera! Dresses! Yes--about Shakespeare and the musical glasses! For amere whim or for the deepest purpose. Women worthy of the name were likethat. They were very wonderful. They rose to the occasion and sometimesabove the occasion when things were bound to occur that would be comicor tragic (as it happened) but generally charged with trouble even toinnocent beholders. D'Alcacer thought these thoughts without bitternessand even without irony. With his half-secret social reputation as a manof one great passion in a world of mere intrigues he liked all women.He liked them in their sentiment and in their hardness, in the tragiccharacter of their foolish or clever impulses, at which he looked with asort of tender seriousness.
He didn't take a favourable view of the position but he considered Mrs.Travers' statement about operas and dresses as a warning to keep off thesubject. For this reason he remained silent through the meal.
When the bustle of clearing away the table was over he strolled towardMrs. Travers and remarked very quietly:
"I think that in keeping away from us this evening the Man of Fate waswell inspired. We dined like a lot of Carthusian monks."
"You allude to our silence?"
"It was most scrupulous. If we had taken an eternal vow we couldn't havekept it better."
"Did you feel bored?"
"Pas du tout," d'Alcacer assured her with whimsical gravity. "I feltnothing. I sat in a state of blessed vacuity. I believe I was thehappiest of us three. Unless you, too, Mrs. Travers. . . ."
"It's absolutely no use your fishing for my thoughts, Mr. d'Alcacer. IfI were to let you see them you would be appalled."
"Thoughts really are but a shape of feelings. Let me congratulate youon the impassive mask you can put on those horrors you say you nurse inyour breast. It was impossible to tell anything by your face."
"You will always say flattering things."
"Madame, my flatteries come from the very bottom of my heart. I havegiven up long ago all desire to please. And I was not trying to get atyour thoughts. Whatever else you may expect from me you may count on myabsolute respect for your privacy. But I suppose with a mask such as youcan make for yourself you really don't care. The Man of Fate, I noticed,is not nearly as good at it as you are."
"What a pretentious name. Do you call him by it to his face, Mr.d'Alcacer?"
"No, I haven't the cheek," confessed d'Alcacer, equably. "And, besides,it's too momentous for daily use. And he is so simple that he mightmistake it for a joke and nothing could be further from my thoughts.Mrs. Travers, I will confess to you that I don't feel jocular in theleast. But what can he know about people of our sort? And when I reflecthow little people of our sort can know of such a man I am quite contentto address him as Captain Lingard. It's common and soothing and mostrespectable and satisfactory; for Captain is the most empty of alltitles. What is a Captain? Anybody can be a Captain; and for Lingardit's a name like any other. Whereas what he deserves is somethingspecial, significant, and expressive, that would match his person, hissimple and romantic person."
He perceived that Mrs. Travers was looking at him intently. Theyhastened to turn their eyes away from each other.
"He would like your appreciation," Mrs. Travers let drop negligently.
"I am afraid he would despise it."
"Despise it! Why, that sort of thing is the very breath of hisnostrils."
"You seem to understand him, Mrs. Travers. Women have a singularcapacity for understanding. I mean subjects that interest them; becausewhen their imagination is stimulated they are not afraid of letting itgo. A man is more mistrustful of himself, but women are born muchmore reckless. They push on and on under the protection of secrecy andsilence, and the greater the obscurity of what they wish to explore thegreater their courage."
"Do you mean seriously to tell me that you consider me a creature ofdarkness?"
"I spoke in general," remonstrated d'Alcacer. "Anything else wouldhave been an impertinence. Yes, obscurity is women's best friend. Theirdaring loves it; but a sudden flash of light disconcerts them. Generallyspeaking, if they don't get exactly at the truth they always manage tocome pretty near to it."
Mrs. Travers had listened with silent attention and she allowed thesilence to continue for some time after d'Alcacer had ceased. When shespoke it was to say in an unconcerned tone that as to this subject shehad had special opportunities. Her self-possessed interlocutormanaged to repress a movement of real curiosity under an assumptionof conventional interest. "Indeed," he exclaimed, politely. "A specialopportunity. How did you manage to create it?"
This was too much for Mrs. Travers. "I! Create it!" she exclaimed,indignantly, but under her breath. "How on earth do you think I couldhave done it?"
Mr. d'Alcacer, as if communing with himself, was heard to murmurunrepentantly that indeed women seldom knew how they had "done it," towhich Mrs. Travers in a weary tone returned the remark that no twomen were dense in the same way. To this Mr. d'Alcacer assented withoutdifficulty. "Yes, our brand presents more varieties. This,
from acertain point of view, is obviously to our advantage. We interest. . . .Not that I imagine myself interesting to you, Mrs. Travers. But whatabout the Man of Fate?"
"Oh, yes," breathed out Mrs. Travers.
"I see! Immensely!" said d'Alcacer in a tone of mysteriousunderstanding. "Was his stupidity so colossal?"
"It was indistinguishable from great visions that were in no sense meanand made up for him a world of his own."
"I guessed that much," muttered d'Alcacer to himself. "But that, youknow, Mrs. Travers, that isn't good news at all to me. World of dreams,eh? That's very bad, very dangerous. It's almost fatal, Mrs. Travers."
"Why all this dismay? Why do you object to a world of dreams?"
"Because I dislike the prospect of being made a sacrifice of by thoseMoors. I am not an optimist like our friend there," he continued in alow tone nodding toward the dismal figure of Mr. Travers huddled up inthe chair. "I don't regard all this as a farce and I have discoveredin myself a strong objection to having my throat cut by those gorgeousbarbarians after a lot of fatuous talk. Don't ask me why, Mrs. Travers.Put it down to an absurd weakness."
Mrs. Travers made a slight movement in her chair, raising her hands toher head, and in the dim light of the lanterns d'Alcacer saw the mass ofher clear gleaming hair fall down and spread itself over her shoulders.She seized half of it in her hands which looked very white, and with herhead inclined a little on one side she began to make a plait.
"You are terrifying," he said after watching the movement of her fingersfor a while.
"Yes . . . ?" she accentuated interrogatively.
"You have the awfulness of the predestined. You, too, are the prey ofdreams."
"Not of the Moors, then," she uttered, calmly, beginning the otherplait. D'Alcacer followed the operation to the end. Close against her,her diaphanous shadow on the muslin reproduced her slightest movements.D'Alcacer turned his eyes away.
"No! No barbarian shall touch you. Because if it comes to that I believe_he_ would be capable of killing you himself."
A minute elapsed before he stole a glance in her direction. She wasleaning back again, her hands had fallen on her lap and her head with aplait of hair on each side of her face, her head incredibly changed incharacter and suggesting something medieval, ascetic, drooped dreamilyon her breast.
D'Alcacer waited, holding his breath. She didn't move. In the dim gleamof jewelled clasps, the faint sheen of gold embroideries and the shimmerof silks, she was like a figure in a faded painting. Only her neckappeared dazzlingly white in the smoky redness of the light. D'Alcacer'swonder approached a feeling of awe. He was on the point of moving awayquietly when Mrs. Travers, without stirring in the least, let him hearthe words:
"I have told him that every day seemed more difficult to live. Don't yousee how impossible this is?"
D'Alcacer glanced rapidly across the Cage where Mr. Travers seemed tobe asleep all in a heap and presenting a ruffled appearance like a sickbird. Nothing was distinct of him but the bald patch on the top of hishead.
"Yes," he murmured, "it is most unfortunate. . . . I understand youranxiety, Mrs. Travers, but . . ."
"I am frightened," she said.
He reflected a moment. "What answer did you get?" he asked, softly.
"The answer was: 'Patience.'"
D'Alcacer laughed a little.--"You may well laugh," murmured Mrs. Traversin a tone of anguish.--"That's why I did," he whispered. "Patience!Didn't he see the horror of it?"--"I don't know. He walked away," saidMrs. Travers. She looked immovably at her hands clasped in her lap,and then with a burst of distress, "Mr. d'Alcacer, what is going tohappen?"--"Ah, you are asking yourself the question at last. _That_will happen which cannot be avoided; and perhaps you know best what itis."--"No. I am still asking myself what he will do."--"Ah, that is notfor me to know," declared d'Alcacer. "I can't tell you what he will do,but I know what will happen to him."--"To him, you say! To him!" shecried.--"He will break his heart," said d'Alcacer, distinctly, bendinga little over the chair with a slight gasp at his own audacity--andwaited.
"Croyez-vous?" came at last from Mrs. Travers in an accent so coldlylanguid that d'Alcacer felt a shudder run down his spine.
Was it possible that she was that kind of woman, he asked himself.Did she see nothing in the world outside herself? Was she above thecommonest kind of compassion? He couldn't suspect Mrs. Travers ofstupidity; but she might have been heartless and, like some women ofher class, quite unable to recognize any emotion in the world except herown. D'Alcacer was shocked and at the same time he was relieved becausehe confessed to himself that he had ventured very far. However, in herhumanity she was not vulgar enough to be offended. She was not the slaveof small meannesses. This thought pleased d'Alcacer who had schooledhimself not to expect too much from people. But he didn't know what todo next. After what he had ventured to say and after the manner inwhich she had met his audacity the only thing to do was to change theconversation. Mrs. Travers remained perfectly still. "I will pretendthat I think she is asleep," he thought to himself, meditating a retreaton tip-toe.
He didn't know that Mrs. Travers was simply trying to recover the fullcommand of her faculties. His words had given her a terrible shock.After managing to utter this defensive "croyez-vous" which came out ofher lips cold and faint as if in a last effort of dying strength, shefelt herself turn rigid and speechless. She was thinking, stiff all overwith emotion: "D'Alcacer has seen it! How much more has he been able tosee?" She didn't ask herself that question in fear or shame but witha reckless resignation. Out of that shock came a sensation of peace. Aglowing warmth passed through all her limbs. If d'Alcacer had peeredby that smoky light into her face he might have seen on her lips afatalistic smile come and go. But d'Alcacer would not have dreamed ofdoing such a thing, and, besides, his attention just then was drawn inanother direction. He had heard subdued exclamations, had noticed a stiron the decks of the Emma, and even some sort of noise outside the ship.
"These are strange sounds," he said.
"Yes, I hear," Mrs. Travers murmured, uneasily.
Vague shapes glided outside the Cage, barefooted, almost noiseless,whispering Malay words secretly.
"It seems as though a boat had come alongside," observed d'Alcacer,lending an attentive ear. "I wonder what it means. In ourposition. . . ."
"It may mean anything," interrupted Mrs. Travers.
"Jaffir is here," said a voice in the darkness of the after end of theship. Then there were some more words in which d'Alcacer's attentive earcaught the word "surat."
"A message of some sort has come," he said. "They will be callingCaptain Lingard. I wonder what thoughts or what dreams this call willinterrupt." He spoke lightly, looking now at Mrs. Travers who hadaltered her position in the chair; and by their tones and attitudesthese two might have been on board the yacht sailing the sea in perfectsafety. "You, of course, are the one who will be told. Don't you feel asort of excitement, Mrs. Travers?"
"I have been lately exhorted to patience," she said in the same easytone. "I can wait and I imagine I shall have to wait till the morning."
"It can't be very late yet," he said. "Time with us has been standingstill for ever so long. And yet this may be the hour of fate."
"Is this the feeling you have at this particular moment?"
"I have had that feeling for a considerable number of moments already.At first it was exciting. Now I am only moderately anxious. I haveemployed my time in going over all my past life."
"Can one really do that?"
"Yes. I can't say I have been bored to extinction. I am still alive, asyou see; but I have done with that and I feel extremely idle. There isonly one thing I would like to do. I want to find a few words that couldconvey to you my gratitude for all your friendliness in the past, at thetime when you let me see so much of you in London. I felt alwaysthat you took me on my own terms and that so kindly that often I feltinclined to think better of myself. But I am afraid I am wearying you,Mrs. Travers."
&nbs
p; "I assure you you have never done that--in the past. And as to thepresent moment I beg you not to go away. Stay by me please. We are notgoing to pretend that we are sleepy at this early hour."
D'Alcacer brought a stool close to the long chair and sat down on it."Oh, yes, the possible hour of fate," he said. "I have a request tomake, Mrs. Travers. I don't ask you to betray anything. What would bethe good? The issue when it comes will be plain enough. But I shouldlike to get a warning, just something that would give me time to pullmyself together, to compose myself as it were. I want you to promise methat if the balance tips against us you will give me a sign. You could,for instance, seize the opportunity when I am looking at you to put yourleft hand to your forehead like this. It is a gesture that I have neverseen you make, and so. . . ."
"Jorgenson!" Lingard's voice was heard forward where the light of alantern appeared suddenly. Then, after a pause, Lingard was heard again:"Here!"
Then the silent minutes began to go by. Mrs. Travers reclining in herchair and d'Alcacer sitting on the stool waited motionless without aword. Presently through the subdued murmurs and agitation pervading thedark deck of the Emma Mrs. Travers heard a firm footstep, and, lanternin hand, Lingard appeared outside the muslin cage.
"Will you come out and speak to me?" he said, loudly. "Not you. Thelady," he added in an authoritative tone as d'Alcacer rose hastily fromthe stool. "I want Mrs. Travers."
"Of course," muttered d'Alcacer to himself and as he opened the door ofthe Cage to let Mrs. Travers slip through he whispered to her, "This isthe hour of fate."
She brushed past him swiftly without the slightest sign that she hadheard the words. On the after deck between the Cage and the deckhouseLingard waited, lantern in hand. Nobody else was visible about; butd'Alcacer felt in the air the presence of silent and excited beingshovering outside the circle of light. Lingard raised the lantern as Mrs.Travers approached and d'Alcacer heard him say:
"I have had news which you ought to know. Let us go into the deckhouse."
D'Alcacer saw their heads lighted up by the raised lantern surrounded bythe depths of shadow with an effect of a marvellous and symbolic vision.He heard Mrs. Travers say "I would rather not hear your news," in atone that made that sensitive observer purse up his lips in wonder. Hethought that she was over-wrought, that the situation had grown too muchfor her nerves. But this was not the tone of a frightened person. Itflashed through his mind that she had become self-conscious, and therehe stopped in his speculation. That friend of women remained discreeteven in his thoughts. He stepped backward further into the Cage andwithout surprise saw Mrs. Travers follow Lingard into the deckhouse.