WHY THEY MARRIED
"God doeth all things well, though by what strange, solemn, and murderous contrivances."
I
John Coxeter was sitting with his back to the engine in a first-classcarriage in the Paris-Boulogne night train. Not only Englishman, butEnglishman of a peculiarly definite class, that of the London civilservant, was written all over his spare, still active figure.
It was late September, and the rush homewards had begun; so Coxeter,being a man of precise and careful habit, had reserved a corner seat.Then, just before the train had started, a certain Mrs. Archdale, ayoung widowed lady with whom he was acquainted, had come up to him onthe Paris platform, and to her he had given up his seat.
Coxeter had willingly made the little sacrifice of his personal comfort,but he had felt annoyed when Mrs. Archdale in her turn had yielded thecorner place with foolish altruism to a French lad exchanging vociferousfarewells with his parents. When the train started the boy did not givethe seat back to the courteous Englishwoman to whom it belonged, andCoxeter, more vexed by the matter than it was worth, would have liked topunch the boy's head.
And yet, as he now looked straight before him, sitting upright in thecarriage which was rocking and jolting as only a French railway carriagecan rock and jolt, he realized that he himself had gained by the lad'slack of honesty. By having thus given away something which did notbelong to her, Mrs. Archdale was now seated, if uncomfortably hemmed inand encompassed on each side, just opposite to Coxeter himself.
Coxeter was well aware that to stare at a woman is the height of badbreeding, but unconsciously he drew a great distinction between what isgood taste to do when one is being observed, and that which one doeswhen no one can catch one doing it. Without making the slightest effort,in fact by looking straight before him, Nan Archdale fell into hisdirect line of vision, and he allowed his eyes to rest on her with anunwilling sense that there was nothing in the world he had rather theyrested on. Her appearance pleased his fastidious, rather old-fashionedtaste. Mrs. Archdale was wearing a long grey cloak. On her head waspoised a dark hat trimmed with Mercury wings; it rested lightly on thepale golden hair which formed so agreeable a contrast to her deep blueeyes.
Coxeter did not believe in luck; the word which means so much to manymen had no place in his vocabulary, or even in his imagination. But,still, the sudden appearance of Mrs. Archdale in the great Paris stationhad been an agreeable surprise, one of those incidents which, justbecause of their unexpectedness, make a man feel not only pleased withhimself, but at one with the world.
Before Mrs. Archdale had come up to the carriage door at which he wasstanding, several things had contributed to put Coxeter in anill-humour.
It had seemed to his critical British phlegm that he was surrounded,immersed against his will, in floods of emotion. Among his fellowtravellers the French element predominated. Heavens! how theytalked--jabbered would be the better word--laughed and cried! How theyhugged and embraced one another! Coxeter thanked God he was anEnglishman.
His feeling of bored disgust was intensified by the conduct of along-nosed, sallow man, who had put his luggage into the same carriageas that where Coxeter's seat had been reserved.
Strange how the peculiar characteristics common to the Jewish racesurvive, whatever be the accident of nationality. This man also wassaying good-bye, his wife being a dark, thin, eager-looking woman of avery common French type. Coxeter looked at them critically, he wonderedidly if the woman was Jewish too. On the whole he thought not. She washalf crying, half laughing, her hands now clasping her husband's arm,now travelling, with a gesture of tenderness, up to his fleshy face,while he seemed to tolerate rather than respond to her endearments andextravagant terms of affection. "_Adieu, mon petit homme adore!_" shefinally exclaimed, just as the tickets were being examined, and toCoxeter's surprise the adored one answered in a very English voice,albeit the utterance was slightly thick, "There, there! That'ull do, mydear girl. It's only for a fortnight after all."
Coxeter felt a pang of sincere pity for the poor fellow; a cad, nodoubt--but an English cad, cursed with an emotional French wife!
Then his attention had been most happily diverted by the unexpectedappearance of Mrs. Archdale. She had come up behind him very quietly,and he had heard her speak before actually seeing her. "Mr. Coxeter, areyou going back to England, or have you only come to see someone off?"
Not even then had Coxeter--to use a phrase which he himself would nothave used, for he avoided the use of slang--"given himself away." Overhis lantern-shaped face, across his thin, determined mouth, there hadstill lingered a trace of the supercilious smile with which he had beenlooking round him. And, as he had helped Mrs. Archdale into thecompartment, as he indicated to her the comfortable seat he had reservedfor himself, not even she--noted though she was for her powers ofsympathy and understanding--had divined the delicious tremor, thecurious state of mingled joy and discomfort into which her suddenpresence had thrown the man whom she had greeted a little doubtfully, byno means sure that he would welcome her companionship on a long journey.
And, indeed, in spite of the effect she produced upon him, in spite ofthe fact that she was the only human being who had ever had, or was everlikely to have, the power of making him feel humble, not quite satisfiedwith himself--Coxeter disapproved of Mrs. Archdale. At the presentmoment he disapproved of her rather more than usual, for if she meantto give up that corner seat, why had she not so arranged as to sit byhim? Instead, she was now talking to the French boy who occupied whatshould have been her seat.
But Nan Archdale, as all her friends called her, was always like that.Coxeter never saw her, never met her at the houses to which he wentsimply in order that he might meet her, without wondering why she wastedso much of the time she might have spent in talking to him, and aboveall in listening to him, in talking and listening to other people.
Four years ago, not long after their first acquaintance, he had made heran offer of marriage, impelled by something which had appeared at thetime quite outside himself and his usual wise, ponderate view of life.He had been relieved, as well as keenly hurt, when she had refused him.
Everything that concerned himself appeared to John Coxeter of suchmoment and importance that at the time it had seemed incredible that NanArchdale would be able to keep to herself the peculiar honour which hadbefallen her,--one, by the way, which Coxeter had never seriouslythought of conferring on any other woman. But as time went on he becameaware that she had actually kept the secret which was not hers tobetray, and, emboldened by the knowledge that she alone knew of hishumiliating bondship, he had again, after a certain interval, writtenand asked her if she would marry him. Again she had refused, in a kind,impersonal little note, and this last time she had gone so far as todeclare that in this matter she really knew far better than he didhimself what was good for him, and once more something deep in his hearthad said "Amen."
When he thought about it, and he went on thinking about it more than wasquite agreeable for his own comfort or peace of mind, Coxeter would tellhimself, with what he believed to be a vicarious pang of regret, thatMrs. Archdale had made a sad mistake as regarded her own interest. Hefelt sure she was not fit to live alone; he knew she ought to besurrounded by the kind of care and protection which only a husband canproperly bestow on a woman. He, Coxeter, would have known how to detachher from the unsuitable people by whom she was always surrounded.
Nan Archdale, and Coxeter was much concerned that it was so, had aninstinctive attraction for those poor souls who lead forlorn hopes, andof whom--they being unsuccessful in their fine endeavours--the worldnever hears. She also had a strange patience and tenderness for thosene'er-do-wells of whom even the kindest grow weary after a time. Nan hada mass of queer friends, old proteges for whom she worked unceasingly ina curious, detached fashion, which was quite her own, and utterly apartfrom any of the myriad philanthropic societies with which the world shelived in, and to which she belonged by birth, interests its prospero
usand intelligent leisure.
It was characteristic that Nan's liking for John Coxeter often took theform of asking him to help these queer, unsatisfactory people. Why, evenin this last week, while he had been in Paris, he had come into closerelation with one of Mrs. Archdale's "odd-come-shorts." This time theman was an inventor, and of all unpractical and useless things he hadpatented an appliance for saving life at sea!
Nan Archdale had given the man a note to Coxeter, and it wascharacteristic of the latter that, while resenting what Mrs. Archdalehad done, he had been at some pains when in Paris to see the man inquestion. The invention--as Coxeter had of course known would be thecase--was a ridiculous affair, but for Nan's sake he had agreed tosubmit it to the Admiralty expert whose business it is to consider andpronounce on such futile things. The queer little model which its makerbelieved would in time supersede the life-belts now carried on everyBritish ship, had but one merit, it was small and portable: at thepresent moment it lay curled up, looking like a cross between aserpent's cast skin and a child's spent balloon, in Coxeter'sportmanteau. Even while he had accepted the parcel with a coolly civilword of thanks, he had mentally composed the letter with which he wouldultimately dash the poor inventor's hopes.
To-night, however, sitting opposite to her, he felt glad that he hadbeen to see the man, and he looked forward to telling her about it.Scarcely consciously to himself, it always made Coxeter glad to feelthat he had given Nan pleasure, even pleasure of which he disapproved.
And yet how widely apart were these two people's sympathies andinterests! Putting Nan aside, John Coxeter was only concerned with twothings in life--his work at the Treasury and himself--and people onlyinterested him in relation to these two major problems of existence. NanArchdale was a citizen of the world--a freewoman of that dear kingdom ofromance which still contains so many fragrant byways and sunny oases forthose who have the will to find them. But for her freedom of thiskingdom she would have been a very sad woman, oppressed by the griefsand sorrows of that other world to which she also belonged, for Nan'shuman circle was ever widening, and in her strange heart there seemedalways room for those whom others rejected and despised.
She had the power no human being had ever had--that of making JohnCoxeter jealous. This was the harder to bear inasmuch as he was wellaware that jealousy is a very ridiculous human failing, and one withwhich he had no sympathy or understanding when it affected--as itsometimes did--his acquaintances and colleagues. Fortunately forhimself, he was not retrospectively jealous--jealous that is of the deadman of whom certain people belonging to his and to Nan's circlesometimes spoke of as "poor Jim Archdale." Coxeter knew vaguely thatArchdale had been a bad lot, though never actually unkind to his wife;nay, more, during the short time their married life had lasted,Archdale, it seemed, had to a certain extent reformed.
Although he was unconscious of it, John Coxeter was a very materialhuman being, and this no doubt was why this woman had so compelling anattraction for him; for Nan Archdale appeared to be all spirit, and thatin spite of her eager, sympathetic concern in the lives which circledabout hers.
And yet? Yet there was certainly a strong, unspoken link between them,this man and woman who had so little in common the one with the other.They met often, if only because they both lived in Marylebone, that mostconventional quarter of old Georgian London, she in Wimpole Street, hein a flat in Wigmore Street. She always was glad to see him, and seemeda little sorry when he left her. Coxeter was one of the rare humanbeings to whom Nan ever spoke of herself and of her own concerns. But,in spite of that curious kindliness, she did not do what so many peoplewho knew John Coxeter instinctively did--ask his advice, and, what was,of course, more seldom done--take it. In fact he had sometimes angrilytold himself that Nan attached no weight to his opinion, and as time hadgone on he had almost given up offering her unsought advice.
John Coxeter attached great importance to health. He realized that aperfect physical condition is a great possession, and he tookconsiderable pains to keep himself what he called "fit." Now Mrs.Archdale was recklessly imprudent concerning her health, the health,that is, which was of so great a value to him, her friend. She took hermeals at such odd times; she did not seem to mind, hardly to know, whatshe ate and drank!
Of the many strange things Coxeter had known her to do, by far thestrangest, and one which he could scarcely think of without an inwardtremor, had happened only a few months ago.
Nan had been with an ailing friend, and the ailing friend's only son, inthe Highlands, and this friend, a foolish woman,--when recalling thematter Coxeter never omitted to call this lady a foolish woman--onsending her boy back to school, had given him what she had thought to bea dose of medicine out of the wrong bottle, a bottle marked "Poison."Nothing could be done, for the boy had started on his long railwayjourney south before the mistake had been discovered, and even Coxeter,when hearing the story told, had realized that had he been there hewould have been sorry, really sorry, for the foolish mother.
But Nan's sympathy--and on this point Coxeter always dwelt with aspecial sense of injury--had taken a practical shape. She had poured outa similar dose from the bottle marked "Poison" and had calmly drunk it,observing as she did so, "I don't believe it _is_ poison in the realsense of the word, but at any rate we shall soon be able to find outexactly what is happening to Dick."
Nothing, or at least nothing but a bad headache, had followed, and sofar had Nan been justified of her folly. But to Coxeter it was terribleto think of what might have happened, and he had not shared in anydegree the mingled amusement and admiration which the story, as toldafterwards by the culpable mother, had drawn forth. In fact, so deeplyhad he felt about it that he had not trusted himself to speak of thematter to Mrs. Archdale.
But Mrs. Archdale was not only reckless of her health; she was alsoreckless--perhaps uncaring would be the truer word--of something whichJohn Coxeter supposed every nice woman to value even more than herhealth or appearance, that is the curiously intangible, and yet soeasily frayed, human vesture termed reputation.
To John Coxeter the women of his own class, if worthy, that is, ofconsideration and respect, went clad in a delicate robe of ermine, andthe thought that this ermine should have even a shade cast on itsfairness was most repugnant to him. Now Nan Archdale was not as carefulin this matter of keeping her ermine unspoiled and delicately white asshe ought to have been, and this was the stranger inasmuch as evenCoxeter realized that there was about his friend a Una-like qualitywhich made her unafraid, because unsuspecting, of evil.
Another of the cardinal points of Coxeter's carefully thought-outphilosophy of life was that in this world no woman can touch pitchwithout being defiled. And yet on one occasion, at least, the woman whonow sat opposite to him had proved the falsity of this view. NanArchdale, apparently indifferent to the opinion of those who wished herwell, had allowed herself to be closely associated with one of thoseunfortunate members of her own sex who, at certain intervals in thehistory of the civilized world, become heroines of a drama of which eachact takes place in the Law Courts. Of these dramas every whispered word,every piece of "business"--to pursue the analogy to its logical end--isoverheard and visualized not by thousands but by millions,--in fact byall those of an age to read a newspaper.
Had the woman in the case been Mrs. Archdale's sister, Coxeter with agroan would have admitted that she owed her a duty, though a duty whichhe would fain have had her shirk or rather delegate to another. But thiswoman was no sister, not even a friend, simply an old acquaintanceknown to Nan, 'tis true, over many years. Nan had done what she haddone, had taken her in and sheltered her, going to the Court with herevery day, simply because there seemed absolutely no one else willing todo it.
When he had first heard of what Mrs. Archdale was undertaking to do,Coxeter had been so dismayed that he had felt called upon to expostulatewith her.
Very few words had passed between them. "Is it possible," he had asked,"that you think her innocent? That you believe her own story?"
To this Mrs. Archdale had answered with some distress, "I don't know, Ihaven't thought about it---- As she says she is--I hope she is. If she'snot, I'd rather not know it."
It had been a confused utterance, and somehow she had made him feelsorry that he had said anything. Afterwards, to his surprise andunwilling relief, he discovered that Mrs. Archdale had not suffered inreputation as he had expected her to do. But it made him feel, more thanever, that she needed a strong, wise man to take care of her, and tokeep her out of the mischief into which her unfortunategood-nature--that was the way Coxeter phrased it to himself--was so aptto lead her.
It was just after this incident that he had again asked her to marryhim, and that she had again refused him. But it was since then that hehad become really her friend.
* * * * *
At last Mrs. Archdale turned away, or else the French boy had come to anend of his eloquence. Perhaps she would now lean a little forward andspeak to him--the friend whom she had not seen for some weeks and whomshe had seemed so sincerely glad to see half an hour ago? But no; sheremained silent, her face full of thought.
Coxeter leant back; as a rule he never read in a train, for he was awarethat it is injurious to the eyesight to do so. But to-night he suddenlytold himself that after all he might just as well look at the Englishpaper he had bought at the station. He might at least see what sort ofcrossing they were going to have to-night. Not that he minded forhimself. He was a good sailor and always stayed on deck whatever theweather, but he hoped it would be smooth for Mrs. Archdale's sake. Itwas so unpleasant for a lady to have a rough passage.
Again, before opening the paper, he glanced across at her. She did notlook strong; that air of delicacy, combined as it was with perfecthealth--for Mrs. Archdale was never ill--was one of the things that madeher attractive to John Coxeter. When he was with a woman, he liked tofeel that he was taking care of her, and that she was more or lessdependent on his good offices. Somehow or other he always felt thisconcerning Nan Archdale, and that even when she was doing something ofwhich he disapproved and which he would fain have prevented her doing.
Coxeter turned round so that the light should fall on the page at whichhe had opened his newspaper, which, it need hardly be said, was the_Morning Post_. Presently there came to him the murmuring of two voices,Mrs. Archdale's clear, low utterances, and another's, guttural and full.
Ah! then he had been right; the fellow sitting there, on Nan's otherside, was a Jew: probably something financial, connected with the StockExchange. Coxeter of the Treasury looked at the man he took to be afinancier with considerable contempt. Coxeter prided himself on hisknowledge of human beings,--or rather of men, for even hisself-satisfaction did not go so far as to make him suppose that heentirely understood women; there had been a time when he had thoughtso, but that was a long while ago.
He began reading his newspaper. There was a most interesting article oneducation. After having glanced at this, he studied more carefullyvarious little items of social news which reminded him that he had beenaway from London for some weeks. Then, as he read on, the conversationbetween Nan Archdale and the man next to her became more audible to him.All the other people in the carriage were French, and so first one, andthen the other, window had been closed.
His ears had grown accustomed to the muffled, thundering sounds causedby the train, and gradually he became aware that Nan Archdale wasreceiving some singular confidences from the man with whom she was nowspeaking. The fellow was actually unrolling before her the whole of hisnot very interesting life, and by degrees Coxeter began rather tooverhear than to listen consciously to what was being said.
The Jew, though English by birth, now lived in France. As a young man hehad failed in business in London, and then he had made a fresh startabroad, apparently impelled thereto by his great affection for hismother. The Jewish race, so Coxeter reminded himself, are admirable inevery relation of private life, and it was apparently in order that hismother might not have to alter her style of living that the person onwhom Mrs. Archdale was now fixing her attention had finally accepted apost in a Paris house of business--no, not financial, somethingconnected with the sweetmeat trade.
Coxeter gathered that the speaker had at last saved enough money to makea start for himself, and that now he was very prosperous. He spoke ofwhat he had done with legitimate pride, and when describing the strugglehe had gone through, the fellow used a very odd expression, "It wasn'tall jam!" he said. Now he was in a big way of business, going over toLondon every three months, partly in connection with his work, partly tosee his old mother.
Behind his newspaper Coxeter told himself that it was amazing any humanbeing should tell so much of his private concerns to a stranger. Evenmore amazing was it that a refined, rather peculiar, woman like NanArchdale should care to listen to such a commonplace story. Butlistening she was, saying a word here and there, asking, too, veryquaint, practical questions concerning the sweetmeat trade. Why, evenCoxeter became interested in spite of himself, for the Jew was anintelligent man, and as he talked on Coxeter learned with surprise thatthere is a romantic and exciting side even to making sweets.
"What a pity it is," he heard Nan say at last in her low, even voice,"that you can't now come back to England and settle down there. Surelyit would make your mother much happier, and you don't seem to like Parisso very much?"
"That is true," said the man, "but--well, unluckily there's an obstacleto my doing that----"
Coxeter looked up from his paper. The stranger's face had becometroubled, preoccupied, and his eyes were fixed, or so Coxeter fanciedthem to be, on Nan Archdale's left hand, the slender bare hand on whichthe only ring was her wedding ring.
Coxeter once more returned to his paper, but for some minutes he made noattempt to follow the dancing lines of print.
"I trust you won't be offended if I ask whether you are, or are not, amarried lady?" The sweetmeat man's voice had a curious note of shamedinterrogation threading itself through the words.
Coxeter felt surprised and rather shocked. This was what came ofallowing oneself to become familiar with an underbred stranger! But Nanhad apparently not so taken the impertinent question, for, "I am awidow," Coxeter heard her answer gently, in a voice that had no touch ofoffence in it.
And then, after a few moments, staring with frowning eyes at thespread-out sheet of newspaper before him, Coxeter, with increasingdistaste and revolt, became aware that Mrs. Archdale was now receivingvery untoward confidences--confidences which Coxeter had always imaginedwere never made save under the unspoken seal of secrecy by one man toanother. This objectionable stranger was telling Nan Archdale the storyof the woman who had seen him off at the station, and whose absurdphrase, "_Adieu, mon petit homme adore_," had rung so unpleasantly inhis, Coxeter's, ears.
The eavesdropper was well aware that such stories are among the everydayoccurrences of life, but his knowledge was largely theoretical; JohnCoxeter was not the sort of man to whom other men are willing to confidetheir shames, sorrows, or even successes in a field of which theaftermath is generally bitter.
In as far as such a tale can be told with decent ambiguity it was sotold by this man of whose refinement Coxeter had formed so poor anopinion, but still the fact that he was telling it remained--and it wasa fact which to such a man as Coxeter constituted an outrage on thedecencies of life.
Mrs. Archdale, by her foolish good-nature, had placed herself in such aposition as to be consulted in a case of conscience concerning a Jewishtradesman and his light o' love, and now the man was debating with heras with himself, as to whether he should marry this woman, as to whetherhe should force on his respectable English mother a Frenchdaughter-in-law of unmentionable antecedents! Coxeter gathered that theliaison had lasted ten years--that it had begun, in fact, very soonafter the man had first come to Paris.
In addition to his feeling of wrath that Nan Archdale should becomecognisant of so sordid a tale, there was associated a feeling of sham
ethat he, Coxeter, had overheard what it had not been meant that heshould hear.
Perforce the story went on to its melancholy and inconclusive end, andthen, suddenly, Coxeter became possessed with a desire to see NanArchdale's face. He glanced across at her. To his surprise her face wasexpressionless; but her left hand was no longer lying on her knee, itwas supporting her chin, and she was looking straight before her.
"I suppose," she said at last, "that you have made a proper provisionfor your--your friend? I mean in case of your death. I hope you have soarranged matters that if anything should happen to you, this poor womanwho loves you would not have to go back to the kind of life from whichyou took her." Even Coxeter divined that Nan had not found it easy tosay this thing.
"Why, no, I haven't done anything of that sort. I never thought of doingit; she's always been the delicate party. I am as strong as a horse!"
"Still--still, life's very uncertain." Mrs. Archdale was now lookingstraight into the face of the stranger on whom she was thrustingunsought advice.
"She has no claim on me, none at all----" the man spoke defensively. "Idon't think she'd expect anything of that sort. She's had a very goodtime with me. After all, I haven't treated her badly."
"I'm sure you haven't," Nan spoke very gently. "I am sure you have beenalways kind to her. But, if I may use the simile you used just now,life, even to the happiest, the most sheltered, of women, isn't alljam!"
The man looked at her with a doubting, shame-faced glance. "I expectyou're right," he said abruptly. "I ought to have thought of it. I'llmake my will when I'm in England this time--I ought to have done sobefore."
Suddenly Coxeter leant forward. He felt the time had come when he reallymust put an end to this most unseemly conversation.
"Mrs. Archdale?" he spoke loudly, insistently. She looked up, startledat the sharpness of the tone, and the man next her, whose eyes had beenfixed on her face with so moved and doubting a look, sat back. "I wantto tell you that I've seen your inventor, and that I've promised to puthis invention before the right quarter at the Admiralty."
In a moment Nan was all eagerness. "It really is a very wonderfulthing," she said; "I'm so grateful, Mr. Coxeter. Did you go and see ittried? _I_ did, last time I was in Paris; the man took me to aswimming-bath on the Seine--such an odd place--and there he tested itbefore me. I was really very much impressed. I do hope you will say aword for it. I am sure they would value your opinion."
Coxeter looked at her rather grimly. "No, I didn't see it tested." Tothink that she should have wasted even an hour of her time in such afoolish manner, and in such a queer place, too! "I didn't see the use ofdoing so, though of course the man was very anxious I should. I'mafraid the thing's no good. How could it be?" He smiled superciliously,and he saw her redden.
"How unfair that is!" she exclaimed. "How can you possibly tell whetherit's no good if you haven't seen it tried? Now I _have_ seen the thingtried."
There was such a tone of protest in her voice that Coxeter felt calledupon to defend himself. "I daresay the thing's all right in theory," hesaid quickly, "and I believe what he says about the ordinary life-belts;it's quite true, I mean, that they drown more people than they save: butthat's only because people don't know how to put them on. This thing's atoy--not practical at all." He spoke more irritably than he generallyallowed himself to speak, for he could see that the Jew was listening toall that they were saying.
All at once, Mrs. Archdale actually included the sweetmeat stranger intheir conversation, and Coxeter at last found himself at her requestmost unwillingly taking the absurd model out of his bag. "Of courseyou've got to imagine this in a rough sea," he said sulkily, playing thedevil's advocate, "and not in a fresh water river bath."
"Well, _I_ wouldn't mind trying it in a rough sea, Mr. Coxeter." Nansmiled as she spoke.
Coxeter wondered if she was really serious. Sometimes he suspected thatMrs. Archdale was making fun of him--but that surely was impossible.
II
When at last they reached Boulogne and went on board the packet,Coxeter's ill-humour vanished. It was cold, raw, and foggy, and most oftheir fellow-passengers at once hurried below, but Mrs. Archdale decidedto stay on the upper deck. This pleased her companion; now at last hewould have her to himself.
In his precise and formal way he went to a good deal of trouble to makeNan comfortable; and she, so accustomed to take thought for others,stood aside and watched him find a sheltered corner, secure with somedifficulty a deck chair, and then defend it with grim determinationagainst two or three people who tried to lay hands upon it.
At last he beckoned to her to sit down. "Where's your rug?" he asked.She answered meekly, "I haven't brought one."
He put his own rug,--large, light, warm, the best money could buy--roundher knees; and in the pleasure it gave him to wait on her thus he didnot utter aloud the reproof which had been on his lips. But she saw himshake his head over a more unaccountable omission--on the journey shehad somehow lost her gloves. He took his own off, and with a touch ofmasterfulness made her put them on, himself fastening the big bonebuttons over each of her small, childish wrists; but his manner while hedid all these things--he would have scorned himself had it beenotherwise--was impersonal, businesslike.
There are men whose every gesture in connection with a woman becomes aninstinctive caress. Such men, as every woman learns in time, are notgood "stayers," but they make the time go by very quickly--sometimes.
With Coxeter every minute lasted sixty seconds. But Nan Archdale foundherself looking at him with unwonted kindliness. At last she said, alittle tremulously, and with a wondering tone in her voice, "You're verykind to me, Mr. Coxeter." Those who spend their lives in speeding otherson their way are generally allowed to trudge along alone; so at leastthis woman had found it to be. Coxeter made no answer to herwords--perhaps he did not hear them.
Even in the few minutes which had elapsed since they came on board, thefog had deepened. The shadowy figures moving about the deck only tooksubstance when they stepped into the circle of brightness cast by aswinging globe of light which hung just above Nan Archdale's head.Coxeter moved forward and took up his place in front of the deck-chair,protecting its occupant from the jostling of the crowd, for thesheltered place he had found stood but a little way back from thepassage between the land gangway and the iron staircase leading to thelower deck.
There were more passengers that night than usual. They passed, aseemingly endless procession, moving slowly out of the darkness into thecircle of light and then again into the white, engulfing mist.
At last the deck became clear of moving figures; the cold, raw fog haddriven almost everyone below. But Coxeter felt curiously content, ratherabsurdly happy. This was to him a great adventure....
He took out his watch. If the boat started to time they would be off inanother five minutes. He told himself that this was turning out a verypleasant journey; as a rule when crossing the Channel one meets tiresomepeople one knows, and they insist on talking to one. And then, just ashe was thinking this, there suddenly surged forward out of the foggymist two people, a newly married couple named Rendel, with whom both heand Mrs. Archdale were acquainted, at whose wedding indeed they had bothbeen present some six or seven weeks ago. So absorbed in earnest talkwith one another were the bride and bridegroom that they did not seem tosee where they were going; but when close to Mrs. Archdale they stoppedshort, and turned towards one another, still talking so eagerly as to bequite oblivious of possible eavesdroppers.
John Coxeter, standing back in the shadow, felt a sudden gust of enviouspain. They were evidently on their way home from their honeymoon, thesehappy young people, blessed with good looks, money, health, and love;their marriage had been the outcome of quite a pretty romance.
But stay,--what was this they were saying? Both he and Nan unwillinglyheard the quick interchange of words, the wife's shrill, angryutterances, the husband's good-humoured expostulations. "I won't stay onthe boat, Bob. I don't see why we should
risk our lives in order thatyou may be back in town to-morrow. I know it's not safe--my great-uncle,the Admiral, always said that the worst storm at sea was not as bad asquite a small fog!" Then the gruff answer: "My dear child, don't be afool! The boat wouldn't start if there was the slightest danger. Youheard what that man told us. The fog was much worse this morning, andthe boat was only an hour late!" "Well, you can do as you like, but _I_won't cross to-night. Where's the use of taking any risk? Mother'suncle, the Admiral----" and Coxeter heard with shocked approval theman's "Damn your great-uncle, the Admiral!"
There they stood, not more than three yards off, the pretty, angrylittle spitfire looking up at her indignant, helpless husband. Coxeter,if disgusted, was amused; there was also the comfort of knowing thatthey would certainly pretend not to see him, even if by chance theyrecognized him, intent as they were on their absurd difference.
"I shall go back and spend the night at the station hotel. No, youneedn't trouble to find Stockton for me--there's no time." Coxeter andNan heard the laughing gibe, "Then you don't mind your poor maid beingdrowned as well as your poor husband," but the bride went on as if hehadn't spoken--"I've quite enough money with me; you needn't give meanything--_good-bye_."
She disappeared into the fog in the direction of the gangway, andCoxeter moved hastily to one side. He wished to save Bob Rendel theannoyance of recognizing him; but then, with amazing suddenness,something happened which made Coxeter realize that after all women wereeven more inexplicable, unreasonable beings than even he had alwaysknown them to be.
There came the quick patter of feet over the damp deck, and Mrs. Rendelwas back again, close to where her husband was standing.
"I've made up my mind to stay on the boat," she said quietly. "I thinkyou are very unwise, as well as very obstinate, to cross in this fog;but if you won't give way, then I'd rather be with you, and share thedanger."
Bob Rendel laughed, not very kindly, and together they went across tothe stair leading below.
Coxeter opened his mouth to speak, then he closed it again. What ascene! What a commentary on married life! And these two people weresupposed to be "in love" with one another.
The little episode had shocked him, jarred his contentment. "If youdon't mind, I'll go and smoke a pipe," he said stiffly.
Mrs. Archdale looked up. "Oh yes, please do," and yet she felt suddenlybereft of something warm, enveloping, kindly. The words formedthemselves on her lips, "Don't go too far away," but she did not speakthem aloud. But, as if in answer to her unspoken request, Coxeter calledout, "I'm just here, close by, if you want anything," and thecommonplace words gave her a curious feeling of security,--a feeling,though she herself was unaware of it, which her own care and tendernessfor others often afforded to those round whom she threw the shelteringmantle of her kindness.
Perhaps because he was so near, John Coxeter remained in her thoughts.Almost alone of those human beings with whom life brought her incontact, he made no demand on her sympathy, and very little on her time.In fact, his first offer of marriage had taken her so much by surpriseas to strike her as slightly absurd; she had also felt it, at the time,to be an offence, for she had given him no right to encroach on theinner shrine of her being.
Trying to account for what he had done, she had supposed that JohnCoxeter, being a man who evidently ordered his life according to somekind of system, had believed himself ripe for the honourable estate ofmarriage, and had chosen her as being "suitable."
When writing her cold letter of refusal, she had expected to hear withina few weeks of his engagement to some "nice" girl. But time had gone byand nothing of the sort had happened. Coxeter's second offer, conveyed,as had been the first, in a formal letter, had found her in a verydifferent mood, for it had followed very closely on that done by her ofwhich he, John Coxeter, had so greatly disapproved. She had been touchedthis second time and not at all offended, and gradually they had becomefriends. It was after his second offer that Nan began making use of him,not so much for herself as on behalf of other people.
Nan Archdale led her life without reference to what those about herconsidered appropriate or desirable; and years had gone by since theboldest busybody among them would have ventured a word of rebuke. Hersocial background was composed of happy, prosperous people. They had butlittle to do with her, however, save when by some amazing mischancethings went wrong with them; when all went well they were apt to forgetNan Archdale. But John Coxeter, though essentially one of them by birthand instinct, and though it had been through them that she had first methim, never forgot her.
Yet though they had become, in a sense, intimate, he made on her none ofthose demands which endear a man to a woman. Living up on a pleasanttableland of self-approval, he never touched the heights or depths whichgo to form the relief map of most human beings' lives. He always did hisduty and generally enjoyed doing it, and he had no patience, onlycontempt, for those who shirked theirs.
The passion of love, that greatest of the Protean riddles set by natureto civilized man and woman, played no part, or so Nan Archdale believed,in John Coxeter's life. At the time she had received the letter in whichhe had first asked her to marry him, there had come to her, seen throughthe softening mists of time, a sharp, poignant remembrance of JimArchdale's offer, "If you won't have me, Nan, I'll do somethingdesperate! You'll be sorry then!" So poor Jim Archdale had conqueredher; and looking back, when she recalled their brief married life, sheforgot the selfishness and remembered only the love, the love which hadmade Jim so dependent on her presence and her sympathy.
But if John Coxeter were incapable of love, she now knew him to be agood friend, and it was the friend--so she believed, and was grateful tohim for it,--who had asked her to accept what he had quixoticallysupposed would be the shelter of his name when she had done that thingof which he had disapproved.
To-night Nan could not help wondering if he would ever again ask her tomarry him. She thought not--she hoped not. She told herself quiteseriously that he was one of those men who are far happier unwedded. Hisstandard, not so much of feminine virtue as of feminine behaviour, wastoo high. Take what had happened just now; she had listened indulgently,tenderly, to the quarrel of the newly married couple, but she had seenthe effect it had produced on John Coxeter. To him it had been atragedy, and an ugly, ignoble tragedy to boot.
* * * * *
The deck was now clear of passengers. Out in the open sea the fog hadbecome so thick as to be impenetrable, and the boat seemed to be gropingits way, heralded by the mournful screaming of the siren. Mrs. Archdalefelt drowsy; she leant back and closed her eyes. Coxeter was close by,puffing steadily at his pipe. She felt a pleasant sensation of security.
She was roused, rather startled, by a man bending over her, while avoice said gruffly, "I think, ma'am, that you'd better get into shelter.The deck saloon is close by. Allow me to lead you to it."
Nan rose obediently. With the petty officer on one side and Coxeter onthe other, she made a slow progress across the deck, and so to thelarge, brilliantly lighted saloon. There the fog had been successfullyshut out, and some fifteen to twenty people sat on the velvet benches;among them was the sweetmeat merchant to whom Nan had talked in thetrain.
Coxeter found a comfortable place for Nan rather apart from the others,and sitting down he began to talk to her. The fog-horn, which wastrumpeting more loudly, more insistently than ever, did not, he thought,interfere with their conversation as much as it might have done.
"We shan't be there till morning," Coxeter heard a man say, "tillmorning doth appear, at this rate!"
"I suppose we're all right. There's no _real_ danger in a fog--not inthe Channel; there never has been an accident on the Channelpassage--not an accident of any serious kind."
"Yes, there was--to one of the Dieppe boats--a very bad accident!"
And then several of those present joined in the discussion. The man whohad recalled the Dieppe boat accident could be heard, self-assertive,pragmatical, his vo
ice raised above the voices around him. "I've beenall over the world in my time, and when I'm caught in a fog at sea Ialways get up, dress, and go up on deck, however sleepy I may be."
Coxeter, sitting apart by Nan's side, listened with some amusement. Hisrather thin sense of humour was roused by the fact that the peoplearound him were talking in so absurd a manner. This delay was notpleasant; it might even mean that he would be a few hours late at theTreasury, a thing he had never once been after a holiday, for Coxeterprided himself on his punctuality in the little as well as the greatthings of life. But, of course, all traffic in the Channel would bedelayed by this fog, and his absence would be accounted for by the fact.
Sitting there, close to Mrs. Archdale, with no one sufficiently near toattract her attention, or, what was more likely, to appeal to her forsympathy, he felt he could well afford to wait till the fog cleared off.As for the loud, insistent screaming of the siren, that sound whichapparently got on the nerves of most of those present in the decksaloon, of course it was a disagreeable noise, but then they all knew itwas a necessary precaution, so why make a fuss about it?
Coxeter turned and looked at his companion, and as he looked at her hefelt a little possessive thrill of pride. Mrs. Archdale alone among thepeople there seemed content and at ease, indeed she was now smiling,smiling very brightly and sweetly, and, following the direction of hereyes, he saw that they rested on a child lying asleep in its mother'sarms....
Perhaps after all it was a good thing that Nan was so detached frommaterial things. Before that burst of foolish talk provoked by the fog,he had been speaking to her about a matter very interesting tohimself--something connected with his work, something, by the way, ofwhich he would not have thought of speaking to any other woman; but thenMrs. Archdale, as Coxeter had good reason to know, was exceptionallydiscreet.... She had evidently been very much interested in all he hadtold her, and he had enjoyed the conversation.
Coxeter became dimly conscious of what it would mean to him to have Nanto come back to when work, and the couple of hours he usually spent athis club, were over. Perhaps if Nan were waiting for him, he would notwish to stay as long as two hours at his club. But then of course hewould want Nan all to himself. Jealous? Certainly not. He was far toosensible a man to feel jealous, but he would expect his wife to put himfirst--a very long way in front of anybody else. It might beold-fashioned, but he was that sort of man.
* * * * *
Coxeter's thoughts leapt back into the present with disagreeableabruptness. Their Jewish fellow-traveller, the man who had thrust onMrs. Archdale such unseemly confidences, had got up. He was now headingstraight for the place where Mrs. Archdale was sitting.
Coxeter quickly decided that the fellow must not be allowed to bore Mrs.Archdale. She was in his, Coxeter's, care to-night, and he alone had aright to her interest and attention. So he got up and walked down thesaloon. To his surprise the other, on seeing him come near, stoppeddead. "I want to speak to you," he said in a low voice,"Mr.--er--Coxeter."
Coxeter looked at him, surprised, then reminded himself that his fullname, "John Coxeter," was painted on his portmanteau. Also that Mrs.Archdale had called him "Mr. Coxeter" at least once, when discussingthat life-saving toy. Still, sharp, observant fellows, Jews! One shouldalways be on one's guard with them. "Yes?" he said interrogatively.
"Well, Mr. Coxeter, I want to ask you to do me a little favour. Thetruth is I've just made my will--only a few lines--and I want you to bemy second witness. I've no objection, none in the world, to your seeingwhat I want you to witness."
He spoke very deliberately, as if he had prepared the form of words inwhich he made his strange request, and as he spoke he held out a sheetof paper apparently torn out of a notebook. "I asked that gentleman overthere"--he jerked his thumb over his shoulder--"to be my first witness,and he kindly consented. I'd be much obliged if you'd sign your namejust here. I'll also ask you to take charge of it--only a smallenvelope, as you see. It's addressed to my mother. I've made herexecutor and residuary legatee."
Coxeter felt a strong impulse to refuse. He never mixed himself up withother people's affairs; he always refused to do so on principle.
The man standing opposite to him divined what was passing through hismind, and broke in, "Only just while we're on this boat. You can tear itup and chuck the pieces away once we're on land again--" he spokenervously, and with contemptuous amazement Coxeter told himself that thefellow was _afraid_. "Surely you don't think there's any danger?" heasked. "D'you mean you've made this will because you think something mayhappen to the boat?"
The other nodded, "Accidents do happen"; he smiled rather foolishly ashe said the words, pronouncing the last one, as Coxeter noted withdisapproval, "habben." He was holding out a fountain pen; he had aningratiating manner, and Coxeter, to his own surprise, suddenly gaveway.
"All right," he said, and taking the paper in his hand he glanced overit. He had no desire to pry into any man's private affairs, but hewasn't going to sign anything without first reading it.
This odd little will consisted of only two sentences, written in aclear, clerkly hand. The first bequeathed an annuity of L240 (sixthousand francs) to Leonie Lenoir, of Rue Lafayette, Paris; the secondappointed the testator's mother, Mrs. Solomon Munich, of Scott Terrace,Maida Vale, residuary legatee and executor. The will was signed "VictorMunich."
"Very well, I'll sign it," said Coxeter, at last, "and I'll take chargeof it till we're on land. But look here--I won't keep it a momentlonger!" Then, perhaps a little ashamed of his ungraciousness, "I say,Mr. Munich, if I were you I'd go below and take a stiffish glass ofbrandy and water. I once had a fright, I was nearly run over by abrewer's dray at Charing Cross, and I did that--took some brandy Imean--" he jerked the words out, conscious that the other's sallow facehad reddened.
Then he signed his name at the bottom of the sheet of paper, and busiedhimself with putting the envelope carefully into his pocketbook."There," he said, with the slight supercilious smile which was his mostmarked physical peculiarity, but of which he was quite unconscious,"your will is quite safe now! If we meet at Folkestone I'll hand it youback; if we miss one another in the--er--fog I'll destroy it, asarranged."
He turned and began walking back to where Nan Archdale was sitting. Whata very odd thing! How extraordinary, how unexpected!
Then a light broke in on him. Why, of course, it was Nan who had broughtthis about! She had touched up the Jew fellow's conscience, frightenedhim about that woman--the woman who had so absurdly termed him her"_petit homme adore_." That's what came of mixing up in other people'sbusiness; but Coxeter's eyes nevertheless rested on the sitting figureof his friend with a certain curious indulgence. Odd, sentimental,sensitive creatures--women! But brave--not lacking in moral courageanyway.
As he came close up to her, Mrs. Archdale moved a little, making roomfor him to sit down by her. It was a graceful, welcoming gesture, andJohn Coxeter's pulse began to quicken.... He told himself that this alsowas an extraordinary thing--this journey with the woman he had wished tomake his wife. He felt her to be so tantalizingly near, and yet in asense so very far away.
His eyes fell on her right hand, still encased in his large brown glove.As he had buttoned that glove, he had touched her soft wrist, and a wildimpulse had come to him to bend yet a little closer and press his lipsto the white triangle of yielding flesh. Of course he had resisted thetemptation, reminding himself sternly that it was a caddish thing evento have thought of taking advantage of Nan's confiding friendliness. Yetnow he wondered whether he had been a fool not to do it. Other men didthose things.
* * * * *
There came a dragging, grating sound, the boat shuddering as if inresponse. Coxeter had the odd sensation that he was being gently butirresistibly pushed round, and yet he sat quite still, with nothing inthe saloon changed in relation to himself.
Someone near him exclaimed in a matter-of-fact voice, "We've struck;we're on a
rock." Everyone stood up, and he saw an awful look of doubt,of unease, cross the faces of the men and women about him.
The fog-horn ceased trumpeting, and there rose confused sounds, loudhoarse shouts and thin shrill cries, accompanying the dull thundercaused by the tramping of feet. Then the lights went out, all but theyellow flame of a small oil lamp which none of them had known was there.
The glass-panelled door opened widely, and a burly figure holding atorch, which flared up in the still, moist air, was outlined against thesteamy waves of fog.
"Come out of here!" he cried; and then, as some people tried to pushpast him, "Steady, keep cool! There'll be room in the boats for everysoul on board," and Coxeter, looking at the pale, glistening face, toldhimself that the man was lying, and that he knew he lied.
They stumbled out, one by one, and joined the great company which wasnow swarming over the upper deck, each man and woman forlorn and lonelyas human beings must ever be when individually face to face with death.
Coxeter's right hand gripped firmly Mrs. Archdale's arm. She waspressing closely to his side, shrinking back from the rough crowdsurging about them, and he was filled with a fierce protectivetenderness which left no room in his mind for any thought of self. Hisone thought was how to preserve his companion from contact with some ofthose about them; wild-eyed, already distraught creatures, swayed with aterror which set them apart from the mass of quiet, apparently dazedpeople who stood patiently waiting to do what they were told.
Close to Nan and Coxeter two men were talking Spanish; they weregesticulating, and seemed to be disagreeing angrily as to what course topursue. Presently one of them suddenly produced a long knife whichglittered in the torchlight; with it he made a gesture as if to show theother that he meant to cut his way through the crowd towards the spot,now railed off with rope barriers, where the boats were being got readyfor the water.
With a quick movement Coxeter unbuttoned his cloak and drew Nan withinits folds; putting his arms round her he held her, loosely and yet howfirmly clasped to his breast. "I can't help it," he mutteredapologetically. "Forgive me!" As only answer she seemed to draw yetcloser to him, and then she lay, still and silent, within his shelteringarms,--and at that moment he remembered to be glad he had not kissed herwrist.
They two stood there, encompassed by a living wall, and yet howstrangely alone. The fog had become less dense, or else the resintorches which flared up all about them cleared the air.
From the captain's bridge there whistled every quarter minute a highrocket, and soon from behind the wall of fog came in answer distantsignals full of a mingled mockery and hope to the people waiting there.
But for John Coxeter the drama of his own soul took precedence of thatgoing on round him. Had he been alone he would have shared to the fullthe awful, exasperating feeling of being trapped, of there being nothingto be done, which possessed all the thinking minds about him. But he wasnot alone----
Nan, lying on his breast, seemed to pour virtue into him--to make himextraordinarily alive. Never had he felt death, extinction so near, andyet there seemed to be something outside himself, a spirit informing,uplifting, and conquering the flesh.
Perceptions, sympathies, which had lain dormant during the whole of histhirty-nine years of life, now sprang into being. His imaginationawoke. He saw that it was this woman, now standing, with such completetrust in the niceness of his honour, heart to heart with him, who hadmade the best of that at once solitary and companioned journey which wecall life. He had thought her to be a fool; he now saw that, if a fool,she had been a divine fool, ever engaged while on her pilgrimage withthe only things that now mattered. How great was the sum of herachievement compared with his. She had been a beacon diffusing light andwarmth; he a shadow among shadows. If to-night he were engulfed in theunknown, for so death was visioned by John Coxeter, who would miss him,who would feel the poorer for his sudden obliteration?
* * * * *
Coxeter came back into the present; he looked round him, and for thefirst time he felt the disabling clutch of physical fear. The life-beltswere being given out, and there came to him a horrid vision of thepeople round him as they might be an hour hence, drowned, heads down,legs up, done to death by those monstrous yellow bracelets which theywere now putting on with such clumsy, feverish eagerness.
He was touched on the arm, and a husky voice, with which he was by nowfamiliar, said urgently, "Mr. Coxeter--see, I've brought your bag outof the saloon." The man whose name he knew to be Victor Munich wasstanding at his elbow. "Look here, don't take offence, Mr. Coxeter, Ithink better of the----" he hesitated--"the life-saver that you've gotin this bag of yours than you do. I'm willing to give you a fancy pricefor it--what would you say to a thousand pounds? I daresay I shan't haveoccasion to use it, but of course I take that risk."
Coxeter, with a quick, unobtrusive movement, released Mrs. Archdale. Heturned and stared, not pleasantly, at the man who was making him so oddan offer. Damn the fellow's impudence! "The life-saver is not for sale,"he said shortly.
Nan had heard but little of the quick colloquy. She did not connect itwith the fact that the strong protecting arms which had been about herwere now withdrawn,--and the tears came into her eyes. She felt both ina physical and in a spiritual sense suddenly alone. John Coxeter, theone human being who ever attempted to place himself on a more intimate,personal plane with her, happened, by a strange irony of fate, to be hercompanion in this awful adventure. But even he had now turned away fromher....
Nay, that was not quite true. He was again looking down at her, and shefelt his hand groping for hers. As he found and clasped it, he made amovement as if he wished again to draw her towards him. Gently sheresisted, and at once she felt that he responded to her feeling ofrecoil, and Nan, with a confused sense of shame and anger, was now hurtby his submission. Most men in his place would have made short work ofher resistance,--would have taken her, masterfully, into the shelter ofhis arms.
There came a little stir among the people on the deck. Coxeter heard avoice call out in would-be-cheery tones, "Now then, ladies! Please stepout--ladies and children only. Look sharp!" A sailor close by whisperedgruffly to his mate, "I'll stick to her anyhow. No crowded boats for me!I expect she'll be a good hour settling--perhaps a bit longer."
As the first boat-load swung into the water, some of the people aboutthem gave a little cheer. Coxeter thought, but he will never be quitesure, that in that cheer Nan joined. There was a delay of a minute; thenagain the captain's voice rang out, this time in a sharper, moreperemptory tone, "Now, ladies, look sharp! Come along, please."
Coxeter unclasped Nan's hand--he did not know how tightly he had beenholding it. He loved her. God, how he loved her! And now he must sendher away--away into the shrouding fog--away, just as he had found her.If what he had overheard were true, might he not be sending Nan to aworse fate than that of staying to take the risk with him?
But the very man who had spoken so doubtfully of the boats just now cameforward. "You'd best hurry your lady forward, sir. There's no time tolose." There was an anxious, warning note in the rough voice.
"You must go now," said Coxeter heavily. "I shall be all right, Mrs.Archdale," for she was making no movement forward. "There'll be plentyof room for the men in the next boat. I'd walk across the deck with you,but I'm afraid they won't allow that." He spoke in his usualmatter-of-fact, rather dry tone, and Nan looked up at him doubtingly.Did he really wish her to leave him?
Flickering streaks of light fell on his face. It was convulsed withfeeling,--with what had become an agony of renunciation. She withdrewher eyes, feeling a shamed, exultant pang of joy. "I'll wait tillthere's room for you, too, Mr. Coxeter." She breathed rather thanactually uttered the words aloud.
Another woman standing close by was saying the same thing to hercompanion, but in far more eager, more vociferous tones. "Is it likelythat I should go away now and leave you, Bob? Of course not--don't beridiculous!" But the Rendels pushed forward,
and finally both foundplaces in this, the last boat but one.
Victor Munich was still standing close to John Coxeter, and Mrs.Archdale, glancing at his sallow, terror-stricken face, felt a thrill ofgenerous pity for the man. "Mr. Coxeter," she whispered, "do give himthat life-saver! Did he not ask you for it just now? We don't want it."
Coxeter bent down and unstrapped his portmanteau. He handed to Nan theodd, toy-like thing by which he had set so little store, but which nowhe let go with a touch of reluctance. He saw her move close to the manwhose name she did not know. "Here is the life-saver," she said kindly;"I heard you say you would like it."
"But you?"--he stammered--"how about you?"
"I don't want it. I shall be all right. I shouldn't put it on in anycase."
He took it then, avidly; and they saw him go forward with a quick,stealthy movement to the place where the last boat was being got readyfor the water.
"There's plenty of room for you and the lady now, sir!" Coxeter hurriedNan across the deck, but suddenly they were pushed roughly back. Therope barriers had been cut, and a hand-to-hand struggle was taking placeround the boat,--an ugly scrimmage to which as little reference aspossible was made at the wreck inquiry afterwards. To those who lookedon it was a horrible, an unnerving sight; and this time Coxeter withsudden strength took Nan back into his arms. He felt her trembling,shuddering against him,--what she had just seen had loosed fear from itsleash.
"I'm frightened," she moaned. "Oh, Mr. Coxeter, I'm so horriblyfrightened of those men! Are they all gone?"
"Yes," he said grimly, "most of them managed to get into the boat. Don'tbe frightened. I think we're safer here than we should be with thoseruffians."
Another man would have found easy terms of endearment and comfort foralmost any woman so thrust on his protection and care, but the verydepth of Coxeter's feeling seemed to make him dumb,--that and hisanguished fear lest by his fault, by his own want of quickness, she hadperhaps missed her chance of being saved.
But what he was lacking another man supplied. This was the captain, andNan, listening to the cheering, commonplace words, felt her nerve, hercourage, come back.
"Stayed with your husband?" he said, coming up to them. "Quite right,mum! Don't you be frightened. Look at me and my men, we're notfrightened--not a bit of it! My boat will last right enough for us to bepicked off ten times over. I tell you quite fairly and squarely, if I'dmy wife aboard I'd 'a kept her with me. I'd rather be on this boat ofmine than I would be out there, on the open water, in this fog." But ashe walked back to the place where stood the rocket apparatus, Coxeterheard him mutter, "The brutes! Not all seconds or thirds either. I wishI had 'em here, I'd give 'em what for!"
* * * * *
Later, when reading the narratives supplied by some of the passengerswho perforce had remained on the doomed boat, Coxeter was surprised tolearn how many thrilling experiences he had apparently missed during thelong four hours which elapsed before their rescue. And yet the time ofwaiting and suspense probably appeared as long to him as it did to anyof the fifty odd souls who stayed, all close together, on the upperdeck waiting with what seemed a stolid resignation for what might nextbefall them.
From the captain, Coxeter, leaving Mrs. Archdale for a moment, hadextracted the truth. They had drifted down the French coast. They wereon a dangerous reef of rock, and the rising of the wind, the lifting ofthe fog, for which they all looked so eagerly, might be the signal forthe breaking up of the boat. On the other hand, the boat might hold fordays. It was all a chance.
Coxeter kept what he had learnt to himself, but he was filled with adull, aching sensation of suspense. His remorse that he had not hurriedMrs. Archdale into one of the first boats became almost intolerable. Whyhad he not placed her in the care even of the Jew, Victor Munich, whowas actually seated in the last boat before the scramble round it hadbegun?
More fortunate than he, Mrs. Archdale found occupation in tending thefew forlorn women who had been thrust back. He watched her moving amongthem with an admiration no longer unwilling; she looked bright, happy,almost gay, and the people to whom she talked, to whom she listened,caught something of her spirit. Coxeter would have liked to follow herexample, but though he saw that some of the men round him were eager totalk and to discuss the situation, his tongue refused to form words ofcommonplace cheer.
When with the coming of the dawn the fog lifted, Nan came up to Coxeteras he stood apart, while the other passengers were crowding round a firewhich had been lit on the open deck. Together in silence they watchedthe rolling away of the enshrouding mist; together they caught sight ofthe fleet of French fishing boats from which was to come succour.
As he turned and clasped her hand, he heard her say, more to herselfthan to him, "I did not think we should be saved."
III
John Coxeter was standing in the library of Mrs. Archdale's home inWimpole Street. Two nights had elapsed since their arrival in London,and now he was to see her for the first time since they had parted onthe Charing Cross platform, in the presence of the crowd of peoplecomprised of unknown sympathisers, acquaintances, and friends who hadcome to meet them.
He looked round him with a curious sense of unfamiliarity. The colouringof the room was grey and white, with touches of deep-toned mahogany. Itwas Nan's favourite sitting-room, though it still looked what it hadbeen ever since Nan could remember it--a man's room. In his day herfather had been a collector of books, medals, and engravings connectedwith the severer type of eighteenth-century art and letters.
In a sense this room always pleased Coxeter's fancy, partly because itimplied a great many things that money and even modern culture cannotbuy. But now, this morning--for it was still early, and he was on hisway to his office for the first time since what an aunt of his hadcalled his mysterious preservation from death--he seemed to seeeverything in this room in another light. Everything which had once beento him important had become, if not worthless, then unessential.
He had sometimes secretly wondered why Mrs. Archdale, possessed as shewas of considerable means, had not altered the old house, had not madeit pretty as her friends' houses and rooms were pretty; but to-day he nolonger wondered at this. His knowledge of the fleetingness of life, andof the unimportance of all he had once thought so important, was toovividly present....
She came into the room, and he saw that she was dressed in a morefeminine kind of garment than that in which he generally saw her. Itwas white, and though girdled with a black ribbon, it made her look veryyoung, almost girlish.
For a moment they looked at one another in constraint. Mrs. Archdalealso had altered, altered far less than John Coxeter, but she was aware,as he was not aware, of the changes which long nearness to death hadbrought her; and for almost the first time in her life she was moreabsorbed in her own sensations than in those of the person with her.
Seeing John Coxeter standing there waiting for her, looking so like hisold self, so absolutely unchanged, confused her and made her feeldesperately shy.
She held out her hand, but Coxeter scarcely touched it. After havingheld her so long in his arms, he did not care to take her hand in formalgreeting. She mistook his gesture, thought that he was annoyed at havingreceived no word from her since they had parted. The long day in betweenhad been to Nan Archdale full of nervous horror, for relations, friends,acquaintances had come in troops to see her, and would not be denied.
Already she had received two or three angry notes from people whothought they loved her, and who were bitterly incensed that she hadrefused to see them when they had rushed to hear her account of anadventure which might so easily have happened to them. She made themistake of confusing Coxeter with these selfish people.
"I am so sorry," she said in a low voice, "that when you calledyesterday I was supposed to be asleep. I have been most anxious to seeyou"--she waited a moment and then added his name--"Mr. Coxeter. I knewthat you would have the latest news, and that you would tell it me."
"The
re is news," he said, "of all the boats; good news--with theexception of the last boat----" His voice sounded strangely to himself.
"Oh, but that must be all right too, Mr. Coxeter! The captain said theboats might drift about for a long time."
Coxeter shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he said. "In fact"--he waiteda moment, and she came close up to him.
"Tell me," she commanded in a low voice, "tell me what you know. Theysay I ought to put it all out of my mind, but I can think of nothingelse. Whenever I close my eyes I see the awful struggle that went onround that last boat!" She gave a quick, convulsive sob.
Coxeter was dismayed. How wildly she spoke, how unlike herself sheseemed to-day--how unlike what she had been during the whole of theirterrible ordeal.
Already that ordeal had become, to him, something to be treasured. Thereis no lack of physical courage in the breed of Englishmen to which JohnCoxeter belonged. Pain, entirely unassociated with shame, holds outcomparatively little terror to such as he. There was something rueful inthe look he gave her.
"The last boat was run down in the fog," he said briefly. "Some of thebodies have been washed up on the French coast."
She looked at him apprehensively. "Any of the people we had spoken to?Any of those who were with us in the railway carriage?"
"Yes, I'm sorry to say that one of the bodies washed up is that of theperson who sat next to you."
"That poor French boy?"
Coxeter shook his head. "No, no--he's all right; at least I believe he'sall right. It--the body I mean--was that of your other neighbour;" headded, unnecessarily, "the man who made sweets."
And then for the first time Coxeter saw Nan Archdale really moved out ofherself. What he had just said had had the power to touch her, to causeher greater anguish than anything which had happened during the longhours of terror they had gone through. She turned and, moving as ifblindly, pressed her hand to her face as if to shut out some terribleand pitiful sight.
"Ah!" she exclaimed in a low voice, "I shall never forgive myself overthat! Do you know I had a kind of instinct that I ought to ask that manthe name, the address"--her voice quivered and broke--"of his friend--ofthat poor young woman who saw him off at the Paris station."
Till this moment Coxeter had not known that Nan had been aware of whathad, to himself, been so odious, so ridiculous, and so grotesque, ascene. But now he felt differently about this, as about everything elsethat touched on the quick of life. For the first time he understood,even sympathized with, Nan's concern for that majority of human beingswho are born to suffering and who are bare to the storm....
"Look here," he said awkwardly, "don't be unhappy. It's all right. Thatman spoke to me on the boat--he did what you wished, he made a willproviding for that woman; I took charge of it for him. As a matter offact I went and saw his old mother yesterday. She behaved splendidly."
"Then the life-saver was no good after all?"
"No good," he said, and he avoided looking at her. "At least so it wouldseem, but who can tell?"
Nan's eyes filled with tears; something beckoning, appealing seemed topass from her to him....
The door suddenly opened.
"Mrs. Eaton, ma'am. She says she only heard what happened, to-day, andshe's sure you will see her."
Before Mrs. Archdale could answer, a woman had pushed her way past themaid into the room. "Nan? Poor darling! What an awful thing! I _am_ gladI came so early; now you will be able to tell me all about it!"
The visitor, looking round her, saw John Coxeter, and seemed surprised.Fortunately she did not know him, and, feeling as if, had he stayed, hemust have struck the woman, he escaped from the room.
* * * * *
As Coxeter went through the hall, filled with a perplexity and pain veryalien from his positive nature, a good-looking, clean-shaven man, whogave him a quick measured glance, passed by. With him there had been noparleying at the door as in Coxeter's own case.
"Who's that?" he asked, with a scowl, of the servant.
"The doctor, sir," and he felt absurdly relieved. "We sent for himyesterday, for Mrs. Archdale seemed very bad last night." The servantdropped her voice, "It's the doctor, sir, as says Mrs. Archdale oughtn'tto see visitors. You see it was in all the papers about the shipwreck,sir, and of course Mrs. Archdale's friends all come and see her to hearabout it. They've never stopped. The doctor, he says that she ought tohave stayed in bed and been quite quiet. But what would be the good ofthat, seeing she don't seem able to sleep? I suppose you've not sufferedthat way yourself, sir?"
The young woman was staring furtively at Coxeter, but, noting his coldmanner and imperturbable face, she felt that he was indeed adisappointing hero of romance--not at all the sort of gentleman withwhom one would care to be shipwrecked, if it came to a matter of choice.
"No," he said solemnly, "I can't say that I have."
He looked thoughtfully out into what had never been to him a "longunlovely street," and which just now was the only place in the worldwhere he desired to stay. Coxeter, always so sure of himself, and ofwhat was the best and wisest thing to do in every circumstance of life,felt for the first time unable to cope with a situation presented to hisnotice.
As he was hesitating, a carriage drove up, and a footman came forwardwith a card, while the occupant of the carriage called out, makinganxious inquiries as to Mrs. Archdale's condition, and promising to callagain the same afternoon.
Coxeter suddenly told himself that it behoved him to see the doctor, andascertain from him whether Mrs. Archdale was really ill.
He crossed the street, and began pacing up and down, and unconsciouslyhe quickened his steps as he went over every moment of his briefinterview with Nan. All that was himself--and there was a good deal moreof John Coxeter than even he was at all aware of--had gone out to her ina rapture of memory and longing, but she, or so it seemed to him, hadpurposely made herself remote.
At last, after what seemed a very long time, the doctor came out of Mrs.Archdale's house and began walking quickly down the street.
Coxeter crossed over and touched him on the arm. "If I may," he said, "Ishould like a word with you. I want to ask you--I mean I trust that Mrs.Archdale is recovering from the effect of the terrible experience shewent through the other night." He spoke awkwardly, stiffly. "I saw herfor a few minutes just before you came, and I was sorry to find her veryunlike herself."
The doctor went on walking; he looked coldly at Coxeter.
"It's a great pity that Mrs. Archdale's friends can't leave her alone!As to being unlike herself, you and I would probably be very unlikeourselves if we had gone through what this poor lady had just gonethrough!"
"You see, I was with her on the boat. We were not travelling together,"Coxeter corrected himself hastily, "I happened to meet her merely on thejourney. My name is Coxeter."
The other man's manner entirely altered. He slackened in his quick walk."I beg your pardon," he said; "of course I had no notion who you were.She says you saved her life! That but for you she would have been inthat boat--the boat that was lost."
Coxeter tried to say something in denial of this surprising statement,but the doctor hurried on, "I may tell you that I'm very worried aboutMrs. Archdale--in fact seriously concerned at her condition. If you haveany influence with her, I beg you to persuade her to refuse herself tothe endless busybodies who want to hear her account of what happened.She won't have a trained nurse, but there ought to be someone onguard--a human watchdog warranted to snarl and bite!"
"Do you think she ought to go away from London?" asked Coxeter in a lowvoice.
"No, I don't think that--at least not for the present," the medical manfrowned thoughtfully. "What she wants is to be taken out of herself. IfI could prescribe what I believe would be the best thing for her, Ishould advise that she go away to some other part of London with someonewho will never speak to her of what happened, and yet who will alwayslisten to her when she wants to talk about it--some sensible,commonplace pe
rson who could distract her mind without tiring her, andwho would make her do things she has never done before. If she was anordinary smart lady, I should prescribe philanthropy"--he made a slightgrimace--"make her go and see some of my poorer patients--come intocontact with a little _real_ trouble. But that would be no change toMrs. Archdale. No; what she wants is someone who will force her to beselfish--who will take her up the Monument one day, and to a music-hallthe next, motor her out to Richmond Park, make her take a good longwalk, and then sit by the sofa and hold her hand if she feels likecrying----" He stopped, a little ashamed of his energy.
"Thank you," said Coxeter very seriously, "I'm much obliged to you fortelling me this. I can see the sense of what you say."
"You know, in spite of her quiet manner, Mrs. Archdale's a nervous,sensitive woman"--the doctor was looking narrowly at Coxeter as hespoke.
"She was perfectly calm and--and very brave at the time----"
"That means nothing! Pluck's not a matter of nerve--it ought to be, butit isn't! But I admit you're a remarkable example of the presence of theone coupled with the absence of the other. You don't seem a penny theworse, and yet it must have been a very terrible experience."
"You see, it came at the end of my holiday," said Coxeter gravely, "and,as a matter of fact"--he hesitated--"I feel quite well, in fact,remarkably well. Do you see any objection to my calling again, I meanto-day, on Mrs. Archdale? I might put what you have just said beforeher."
"Yes, do! Do that by all means! Seeing how well you have come throughit"--the doctor could not help smiling a slightly satiricalsmile--"ought to be a lesson to Mrs. Archdale. It ought to show her thatafter all she is perhaps making a great deal of fuss about nothing."
"Hardly that," said Coxeter with a frown.
They had now come to the corner of Queen Anne Street. He put out hishand hesitatingly. The doctor took it, and, oddly enough, held it for amoment while he spoke.
"Think over what I've said, Mr. Coxeter. It's a matter of hours. Mrs.Archdale ought to be taken in hand at once." Then he went off, crossingthe street. "Pity the man's such a dry stick," he said to himself;"now's his chance, if he only knew it!"
John Coxeter walked straight on. He had written the day before to saythat he would be at his office as usual this morning, but now the factquite slipped his mind.
Wild thoughts were surging through his brain; they were running awaywith him and to such unexpected places!
The Monument? He had never thought of going up the Monument; he wouldformerly have thought it a sad waste of time, but now the Monumentbecame to John Coxeter a place of pilgrimage, a spot of secret healing.A man had once told him that the best way to see the City was at night,but that if you were taking a lady you should choose a Sunday morning,and go there on the top of a 'bus. He had thought the man who said thisvery eccentric, but now he remembered the advice and thought it wellworth following.
By the time Coxeter turned into Cavendish Square he had travelled farfurther than the Monument. He was in Richmond Park; Nan's hand wasthrust through his arm, as it had been while they had watched the firstboat fill slowly with the women and children.
* * * * *
To lovers who remember, the streets of a great town, far more thancountry roads and lanes, hold over the long years precious, poignantmemories, for a background of stones and mortar has about it a characterof permanence which holds captive and echoes the scenes and wordsenacted and uttered there.
Coxeter has not often occasion to go the little round he went thatmorning, but when some accidental circumstance causes him to do so, hefinds himself again in the heart of that kingdom of romance from whichhe was so long an alien, and of which he has now become a naturalizedsubject. As most of us know, many ways lead to the kingdom of romance;Coxeter found his way there by a water-way.
And so it is that when he reaches the turning into Queen Anne Streetthere seems to rise round him the atmosphere of what Londoners call theCity--the City as it is at night, uncannily deserted save for theghosts and lovers who haunt its solitary thoroughfares after the bustleof the day is stilled. It was then that he and Nan first learnt towander there. From there he travels on into golden sunlight; he is againin Richmond Park as it was during the whole of that beautiful October.
Walking up the west side of Cavendish Square, Coxeter again becomesabsorbed in his great adventure,--a far greater adventure than that withwhich his friends and acquaintances still associate his name. With somesurprise, even perhaps with some discomfiture, he sees himself--for hehas not wholly cast out the old Adam--he sees himself as he was thatmemorable morning, carried, that is, wholly out of his usual wise,ponderate self. Perhaps he even wonders a little how he could ever havefound courage to do what he did--he who has always thought so much, in ahidden way, of the world's opinion and of what people will say.
He could still tell you which lamp-post he was striding past when herealized, with a thrill of relief, that in any case Nan Archdale wouldnot treat him as would almost certainly do one of those women whom hehad honoured with his cold approval something less than a week ago. Anyone of those women would have regarded what he was now going to ask Nanto do as an outrage on the conventions of life. But Nan Archdale wouldbe guided only by what she herself thought right and seemly....
And then, as he turns again into Wimpole Street, as he comes near towhat was once his wife's house, his long steady stride becomes slower.Unwillingly he is living again those doubtful moments when he knocked ather door, when he gave the surprised maid the confused explanation thathe had a message from the doctor for Mrs. Archdale. He hears the youngwoman say, "Mrs. Archdale is just going out, sir. The doctor thought sheought to take a walk;" and his muttered answer, "I won't keep her amoment...."
Again he feels the exultant, breathless thrill which seized him when sheslipped, neither of them exactly knew how, into his arms, and when thesentences he had prepared, the arguments he meant to use, in his hurriedrush up the long street, were all forgotten. He hears himself imploringher to come away with him now, at once. Is she not dressed to go out?Instinct teaches him for the first time to make to her the one appeal towhich she ever responds. He had meant to tell her what the doctor hadsaid--to let that explain his great temerity--but instead he tells heronly that he wants her, that he cannot go on living apart from her. Isthere any good reason why they should not start now, this moment, forDoctors' Commons, in order to see how soon they can be married?
So it is that when John Coxeter stands in Wimpole Street, so typical aLondoner belonging to the leisured and conventional class that none ofthe people passing by even glance his way, he lives again through theimmortal moment when she said, "Very well."
* * * * *
To this day, so transforming is the miracle of love, Nan Coxeterbelieves that during their curious honeymoon it was she who was takingcare of John, not he of her.
Studies in love and in terror Page 5