Chance: A Tale in Two Parts

by Joseph Conrad

  PART ONE, CHAPTER 6.

  FLORA.

  "A Very singular prohibition," remarked Mrs Fyne after a short silence."He seemed to love the child."

  She was puzzled. But I surmised that it might have been the sullennessof a man unconscious of guilt and standing at bay to fight his"persecutors," as he called them; or else the fear of a softer emotionweakening his defiant attitude; perhaps, even, it was a self-denyingordinance, in order to spare the girl the sight of her father in thedock, accused of cheating, sentenced as a swindler--proving thepossession of a certain moral delicacy.

  Mrs Fyne didn't know what to think. She supposed it might have beenmere callousness. But the people amongst whom the girl had fallen hadpositively not a grain of moral delicacy. Of that she was certain.Mrs Fyne could not undertake to give me an idea of their abominablevulgarity. Flora used to tell her something of her life in thathousehold, over there, down Limehouse way. It was incredible. Itpassed Mrs Fyne's comprehension. It was a sort of moral savagery whichshe could not have thought possible.

  I, on the contrary, thought it very possible. I could imagine easilyhow the poor girl must have been bewildered and hurt at her reception inthat household--envied for her past while delivered defenceless to thetender mercies of people without any fineness either of feeling or mind,unable to understand her misery, grossly curious, mistaking her mannerfor disdain, her silent shrinking for pride. The wife of the "odiousperson" was witless and fatuously conceited. Of the two girls of thehouse one was pious and the other a romp; both were coarse-minded--ifthey may be credited with any mind at all. The rather numerous men ofthe family were dense and grumpy, or dense and jocose. None in thatgrubbing lot had enough humanity to leave her alone. At first she wasmade much of, in an offensively patronising manner. The connection withthe great de Barral gratified their vanity even in the moment of thesmash. They dragged her to their place of worship, whatever it mighthave been, where the congregation stared at her, and they gave partiesto other beings like themselves at which they exhibited her with ignobleself-satisfaction. She did not know how to defend herself from theirimportunities, insolence and exigencies. She lived amongst them, apassive victim, quivering in every nerve, as if she were flayed. Afterthe trial her position became still worse. On the least occasion andeven on no occasions at all she was scolded, or else taunted with herdependence. The pious girl lectured her on her defects, the rompinggirl teased her with contemptuous references to her accomplishments, andwas always trying to pick insensate quarrels with her about some"fellow" or other. The mother backed up her girls invariably, addingher own silly, wounding remarks. I must say they were probably notaware of the ugliness of their conduct. They were nasty amongstthemselves as a matter of course; their disputes were nauseating inorigin, in manner, in the spirit of mean selfishness. These women, too,seemed to enjoy greatly any sort of row and were always ready to combinetogether to make awful scenes to the luckless girl on incredibly flimsypretences. Thus Flora on one occasion had been reduced to rage anddespair, had her most secret feelings lacerated, had obtained a view ofthe utmost baseness to which common human nature can descend--I won'tsay _a propos de bottes_ as the French would excellently put it butliterally _a propos_ of some mislaid cheap lace trimmings for anightgown the romping one was making for herself. Yes, that was theorigin of one of the grossest scenes which, in their repetition, musthave had a deplorable effect on the unformed character of the mostpitiful of de Barrel's victims. I have it from Mrs Fyne. The girlturned up at the Fynes' house at half-past nine on a cold, drizzlyevening. She had walked bareheaded, I believe, just as she ran out ofthe house, from somewhere in Poplar to the neighbourhood of SloaneSquare--without stopping, without drawing breath, if only for a sob.

  "We were having some people to dinner," said the anxious sister ofCaptain Anthony.

  She had heard the front door bell and wondered what it might mean. Theparlourmaid managed to whisper to her without attracting attention. Theservants had been frightened by the invasion of that wild girl in amuddy skirt and with wisps of damp hair sticking to her pale cheeks.But they had seen her before. This was not the first occasion, nor yetthe last.

  Directly she could slip away from her guests Mrs Fyne ran upstairs.

  "I found her in the night nursery crouching on the floor, her headresting on the cot of the youngest of my girls. The eldest was sittingup in bed looking at her across the room."

  Only a night-light was burning there. Mrs Fyne raised her up, took herover to Mr Fyne's little dressing-room on the other side of thelanding, to a fire by which she could dry herself, and left her there.She had to go back to her guests.

  A most disagreeable surprise it must have been to the Fynes. Afterwardsthey both went up and interviewed the girl. She jumped up at theirentrance. She had shaken her damp hair loose; her eyes were dry--withthe heat of rage.

  I can imagine little Fyne solemnly sympathetic, solemnly listening,solemnly retreating to the marital bedroom. Mrs Fyne pacified thegirl, and, fortunately, there was a bed which could be made up for herin the dressing-room.

  "But what could one do after all!" concluded Mrs Fyne.

  And this stereotyped exclamation, expressing the difficulty of theproblem and the readiness (at any rate) of good intentions, made me, asusual, feel more kindly towards her.

  Next morning, very early, long before Fyne had to start for his office,the "odious personage" turned up, not exactly unexpected perhaps, butstartling all the same, if only by the promptness of his action. Fromwhat Flora herself related to Mrs Fyne, it seems that without beingvery perceptibly less "odious" than his family he had in a rathermysterious fashion interposed his authority for the protection of thegirl. "Not that he cares," explained Flora. "I am sure he does not. Icould not stand being liked by any of these people. If I thought heliked me I would drown myself rather than go back with him."

  For of course he had come to take "Florrie" home. The scene was thedining-room--breakfast interrupted, dishes growing cold, little Fyne'stoast growing leathery, Fyne out of his chair with his back to the fire,the newspaper on the carpet, servants shut out, Mrs Fyne rigid in herplace with the girl sitting beside her--the "odious person," who hadbustled in with hardly a greeting, looking from Fyne to Mrs Fyne asthough he were inwardly amused at something he knew of them; and thenbeginning ironically his discourse. He did not apologise for disturbingFyne and his "good lady" at breakfast, because he knew they did not want(with a nod at the girl) to have more of her than could be helped. Hecame the first possible moment because he had his business to attend to.He wasn't drawing a tip-top salary (this staring at Fyne) in aluxuriously furnished office. Not he. He had risen to be an employerof labour and was bound to give a good example.

  I believe the fellow was aware of, and enjoyed quietly, theconsternation his presence brought to the bosom of Mr and Mrs Fyne.He turned briskly to the girl. Mrs Fyne confessed to me that they hadremained all three silent and inanimate. He turned to the girl: "What'sthis game, Florrie? You had better give it up. If you expect me to runall over London looking for you every time you happen to have a tiffwith your auntie and cousins you are mistaken. I can't afford it."

  Tiff--was the sort of definition to take one's breath away, havingregard to the fact that both the word convict and the word pauper hadbeen used a moment before Flora de Barral ran away from the quarrelabout the lace trimmings. Yes, these very words! So at least the girlhad told Mrs Fyne the evening before. The word tiff in connection withher tale had a peculiar savour, a paralysing effect. Nobody made asound. The relative of de Barral proceeded uninterrupted to a displayof magnanimity. "Auntie told me to tell you she's sorry--there! AndAmelia (the romping sister) shan't worry you again. I'll see to that.You ought to be satisfied. Remember your position."

  Emboldened by the utter stillness pervading the room he addressedhimself to Mrs Fyne with stolid effrontery:

  "What I say is that people should be good-natured. She can't
standbeing chaffed. She puts on her grand airs. She won't take a bit of ajoke from people as good as herself anyway. We are a plain lot. Wedon't like it. And that's how trouble begins."

  Insensible to the stony stare of three pairs of eyes, which, if thestories of our childhood as to the power of the human eye are true,ought to have been enough to daunt a tiger, that unabashed manufacturerfrom the East-End fastened his fangs, figuratively speaking, into thepoor girl and prepared to drag her away for a prey to his cubs of bothsexes. "Auntie has thought of sending you your hat and coat. I've gotthem outside in the cab."

  Mrs Fyne looked mechanically out of the window. A four-wheeler stoodbefore the gate under the weeping sky. The driver in his conical capeand tarpaulin hat, streamed with water. The drooping horse looked asthough it had been fished out, half unconscious, from a pond. Mrs Fynefound some relief in looking at that miserable sight, away from the roomin which the voice of the amiable visitor resounded with a vulgarintonation exhorting the strayed sheep to return to the delightful fold."Come, Florrie, make a move. I can't wait on you all day here."

  Mrs Fyne heard all this without turning her head away from the window.Fyne on the hearthrug had to listen and to look on too. I shall not tryto form a surmise as to the real nature of the suspense. Their verygoodness must have made it very anxious. The girl's hands were lying inher lap; her head was lowered as if in deep thought; and the other wenton delivering a sort of homily. Ingratitude was condemned in it, thesinfulness of pride was pointed out--together with the proverbial factthat it "goes before a fall." There were also some sound remarks as tothe danger of nonsensical notions and the disadvantages of a quicktemper. It sets one's best friends against one. "And if anybody everwanted friends in the world it's you, my girl." Even respect forparental authority was invoked. "In the first hour of his trouble yourfather wrote to me to take care of you--don't forget it. Yes, to me,just a plain man, rather than to any of his fine West-End friends. Youcan't get over that. And a father's a father no matter what a mess he'sgot himself into. You ain't going to throw over your own father--areyou?"

  It was difficult to say whether he was more absurd than cruel or morecruel than absurd. Mrs Fyne, with the fine ear of a woman, seemed todetect a jeering intention in his meanly unctuous tone, something morevile than mere cruelty. She glanced quickly over her shoulder and sawthe girl raise her two hands to her head, then let them fall again onher lap. Fyne in front of the fire was like the victim of an unholyspell--bereft of motion and speech but obviously in pain. It was ashort pause of perfect silence, and then that "odious creature" (he musthave been really a remarkable individual in his way) struck out intosarcasm.

  "Well?..." Again a silence. "If you have fixed it up with the lady andgentleman present here for your board and lodging you had better say so.I don't want to interfere in a bargain I know nothing of. But I wonderhow your father will take it when he comes out--or don't you expect himever to come out?"

  At that moment, Mrs Fyne told me she met the girl's eyes. There wasthat in them which made her shut her own. She also felt as though shewould have liked to put her fingers in her ears. She restrainedherself, however; and the "plain man" passed in his appallingversatility from sarcasm to veiled menace.

  "You have--eh? Well and good. But before I go home let me ask you, mygirl, to think if by any chance you throwing us over like this won't berather bad for your father later on? Just think it over."

  He looked at his victim with an air of cunning mystery. She jumped upso suddenly that he started back. Mrs Fyne rose too, and even thespell was removed from her husband. But the girl dropped again into thechair and turned her head to look at Mrs Fyne. This time it was noaccidental meeting of fugitive glances. It was a deliberatecommunication. To my question as to its nature Mrs Fyne said she didnot know. "Was it appealing?" I suggested. "No," she said. "Was itfrightened, angry, crushed, resigned?"

  "No! No! Nothing of these." But it had frightened her. Sheremembered it to this day. She had been ever since fancying she coulddetect the lingering reflection of that look in all the girl's glances.In the attentive, in the casual--even in the grateful glances--in theexpression of the softest moods.

  "Has she her soft moods, then?" I asked with interest.

  Mrs Fyne, much moved by her recollections, heeded not my inquiry. Allher mental energy was concentrated on the nature of that memorableglance. The general tradition of mankind teaches us that glances occupya considerable place in the self-expression of women. Mrs Fyne wastrying honestly to give me some idea, as much perhaps to satisfy her ownuneasiness as my curiosity. She was frowning in the effort as you seesometimes a child do (what is delightful in women is that they so oftenresemble intelligent children--I mean the crustiest, the sourest, themost battered of them do--at times). She was frowning, I say, and I wasbeginning to smile faintly at her when all at once she came out withsomething totally unexpected.

  "It was horribly merry," she said.

  I suppose she must have been satisfied by my sudden gravity because shelooked at me in a friendly manner.

  "Yes, Mrs Fyne," I said, smiling no longer. "I see. It would havebeen horrible even on the stage."

  "Ah!" she interrupted me--and I really believe her change of attitudeback to folded arms was meant to check a shudder. "But it wasn't on thestage, and it was not with her lips that she laughed."

  "Yes. It must have been horrible," I assented. "And then she had to goaway ultimately--I suppose. You didn't say anything?"

  "No," said Mrs Fyne. "I rang the bell and told one of the maids to goand bring the hat and coat out of the cab. And then we waited."

  I don't think that there ever was such waiting unless possibly in a jailat some moment or other on the morning of an execution. The servantappeared with the hat and coat, and then, still as on the morning of anexecution, when the condemned, I believe, is offered a breakfast, MrsFyne, anxious that the white-faced girl should swallow something warm(if she could) before leaving her house for an interminable drivethrough raw cold air in a damp four-wheeler--Mrs Fyne broke the awfulsilence: "You really must try to eat something," in her best resolutemanner. She turned to the "odious person" with the same determination."Perhaps you will sit down and have a cup of coffee, too."

  The worthy "employer of labour" sat down. He might have been awed byMrs Fyne's peremptory manner--for she did not think of conciliating himthen. He sat down, provisionally, like a man who finds himself muchagainst his will in doubtful company. He accepted ungraciously the cuphanded to him by Mrs Fyne, took an unwilling sip or two and put it downas if there were some moral contamination in the coffee of these"swells." Between whiles he directed mysteriously inexpressive glancesat little Fyne, who, I gather, had no breakfast that morning at all.Neither had the girl. She never moved her hands from her lap till herappointed guardian got up, leaving his cup half full.

  "Well. If you don't mean to take advantage of this lady's kind offer Imay just as well take you home at once. I want to begin my day--I do."

  After a few more dumb, leaden-footed minutes while Flora was putting onher hat and jacket, the Fynes without moving, without saying anything,saw these two leave the room.

  "She never looked back at us," said Mrs Fyne. "She just followed himout. I've never had such a crushing impression of the miserabledependence of girls--of women. This was an extreme case. But a youngman--any man--could have gone to break stones on the roads or somethingof that kind--or enlisted--or--"

  It was very true. Women can't go forth on the high roads and by-ways topick up a living even when dignity, independence, or existence itselfare at stake. But what made me interrupt Mrs Fyne's tirade was myprofound surprise at the fact of that respectable citizen being sowilling to keep in his home the poor girl for whom it seemed there wasno place in the world. And not only willing but anxious. I couldn'tcredit him with generous impulses. For it seemed obvious to me fromwhat I had learned that, to put it mildly, he was no
t an impulsiveperson.

  "I confess that I can't understand his motive," I exclaimed.

  "This is exactly what John wondered at, at first," said Mrs Fyne. Bythat time an intimacy--if not exactly confidence--had sprung up betweenus which permitted her in this discussion to refer to her husband asJohn. "You know he had not opened his lips all that time," she pursued."I don't blame his restraint. On the contrary. What could he havesaid? I could see he was observing the man very thoughtfully."

  "And so, Mr Fyne listened, observed and meditated," I said. "That's anexcellent way of coming to a conclusion. And may I ask at whatconclusion he had managed to arrive? On what ground did he cease towonder at the inexplicable? For I can't admit humanity to be theexplanation. It would be too monstrous."

  It was nothing of the sort, Mrs Fyne assured me with some resentment,as though I had aspersed little Fyne's sanity. Fyne very sensibly hadset himself the mental task of discovering the self-interest. I shouldnot have thought him capable of so much cynicism. He said to himselfthat for people of that sort (religious fears or the vanity ofrighteousness put aside) money--not great wealth, but, money, just alittle money--is the measure of virtue, of expediency, of wisdom--ofpretty well everything. But the girl was absolutely destitute. Thefather was in prison after the most terribly complete and disgracefulsmash of modern times. And then it dawned upon Fyne that this was justit. The great smash, in the great dust of vanishing millions! Was itpossible that they all had vanished to the last penny? Wasn't there,somewhere, something palpable; some fragment of the fabric left?

  "That's it," had exclaimed Fyne, startling his wife by this explosiveunsealing of his lips less than half an hour after the departure of deBarral's cousin with de Barral's daughter. It was still in thedining-room, very near the time for him to go forth affronting theelements in order to put in another day's work in his country's service.All he could say at the moment in elucidation of this breakdown fromhis usual placid solemnity was:

  "The fellow imagines that de Barral has got some plunder put awaysomewhere."

  This being the theory arrived at by Fyne, his comment on it was that agood many bankrupts had been known to have taken such a precaution. Itwas possible in de Barral's case. Fyne went so far in his display ofcynical pessimism as to say that it was extremely probable.

  He explained at length to Mrs Fyne that de Barral certainly did nottake anyone into his confidence. But the beastly relative had made uphis low mind that it was so. He was selfish and pitiless in hisstupidity, but he had clearly conceived the notion of making a claim onde Barral when de Barral came out of prison on the strength of having"looked after" (as he would have himself expressed it) his daughter. Henursed his hopes, such as they were, in secret, and it is to be supposedkept them even from his wife.

  I could see it very well. That belief accounted for his mysterious airwhile he interfered in favour of the girl. He was the only protectorshe had. It was as though Flora had been fated to be always surroundedby treachery and lies stifling every better impulse, every instinctiveaspiration of her soul to trust and to love. It would have been enoughto drive a fine nature into the madness of universal suspicion--into anysort of madness. I don't know how far a sense of humour will stand byone. To the foot of the gallows, perhaps. But from my recollection ofFlora de Barral I feared that she hadn't much sense of humour. She hadcried at the desertion of the absurd Fyne dog. That animal wascertainly free from duplicity. He was frank and simple and ridiculous.The indignation of the girl at his unhypocritical behaviour had beenfunny but not humorous.

  As you may imagine I was not very anxious to resume the discussion onthe justice, expediency, effectiveness or what not, of Fyne's journey toLondon. It isn't that I was unfaithful to little Fyne out in the porchwith the dog. (They kept amazingly quiet there. Could they have goneto sleep?) What I felt was that either my sagacity or my consciencewould come out damaged from that campaign. And no man will willinglyput himself in the way of moral damage. I did not want a war with MrsFyne. I much preferred to hear something more of the girl. I said:

  "And so she went away with that respectable ruffian." Mrs Fyne movedher shoulders slightly--"What else could she have done?" I agreed withher by another hopeless gesture. It isn't so easy for a girl like Florade Barral to become a factory hand, a pathetic seamstress or even abarmaid. She wouldn't have known how to begin. She was the captive ofthe meanest conceivable fate. And she wasn't mean enough for it. It isto be remarked that a good many people are born curiously unfitted forthe fate awaiting them on this earth. As I don't want you to think thatI am unduly partial to the girl we shall say that she failed decidedlyto endear herself to that simple, virtuous and, I believe, teetotalhousehold. It's my conviction that an angel would have failed likewise.It's no use going into details; suffice it to state that before theyear was out she was again at the Fynes' door. This time she wasescorted by a stout youth. His large pale face wore a smile of inanecunning soured by annoyance. His clothes were new and the indescribablesmartness of their cut, a _genre_ which had never been obtruded on hernotice before, astonished Mrs Fyne, who came out into the hall with herhat on; for she was about to go out to hear a new pianist (a girl) in afriend's house. The youth addressing Mrs Fyne easily begged her not tolet "that silly thing go back to us any more." There had been, he said,nothing but "ructions" at home about her for the last three weeks.Everybody in the family was heartily sick of quarrelling. His governorhad charged him to bring her to this address and say that the lady andgentleman were quite welcome to all there was in it. She hadn't enoughsense to appreciate a plain, honest English home and she was better outof it.

  The young, pimply-faced fellow was vexed by this job his governor hadsprung on him. It was the cause of his missing an appointment for thatafternoon with a certain young lady. The lady he was engaged to. Buthe meant to dash back and try for a sight of her that evening yet "if hewere to burst over it."

  "Good-bye, Florrie. Good luck to you--and I hope I'll never see yourface again."

  With that he ran out in lover-like haste leaving the hall-door wideopen. Mrs Fyne had not found a word to say. She had been too muchtaken aback even to gasp freely. But she had the presence of mind tograb the girl's arm just as she, too, was running out into the street--with the haste, I suppose, of despair and to keep I don't know whattragic tryst.

  "You stopped her with your own hand, Mrs Fyne," I said. "I presume shemeant to get away. That girl is no comedian--if I am any judge."

  "Yes! I had to use some force to drag her in."

  Mrs Fyne had no difficulty in stating the truth. "You see I was in thevery act of letting myself out when these two appeared. So that, whenthat unpleasant young man ran off, I found myself alone with Flora. Itwas all I could do to hold her in the hall while I called to theservants to come and shut the door."

  As is my habit, or my weakness, or my gift, I don't know which, Ivisualised the story for myself. I really can't help it. And thevision of Mrs Fyne dressed for a rather special afternoon function,engaged in wrestling with a wild-eyed, white-faced girl had a certaindramatic fascination.

  "Really!" I murmured.

  "Oh! There's no doubt that she struggled," said Mrs Fyne. Shecompressed her lips for a moment and then added: "As to her being acomedian that's another question."

  Mrs Fyne had returned to her attitude of folded arms. I saw before methe daughter of the refined poet accepting life whole with itsunavoidable conditions of which one of the first is the instinct ofself-preservation and the egoism of every living creature. "The factremains nevertheless that you--yourself--have, in your own words, pulledher in," I insisted in a jocular tone, with a serious intention.

  "What was one to do," exclaimed Mrs Fyne with almost comicexasperation. "Are you reproaching me with being too impulsive?"

  And she went on telling me that she was not that in the least. One ofthe recommendations she always insisted on (to the girl-friends, Iimagine)
was to be on guard against impulse. Always! But I had notbeen there to see the face of Flora at the time. If I had it would behaunting me to this day. Nobody unless made of iron would have alloweda human being with a face like that to rush out alone into the streets.

  "And doesn't it haunt you, Mrs Fyne?" I asked.

  "No, not now," she said implacably. "Perhaps if I had let her go itmight have done... Don't conclude, though, that I think she was playinga comedy then, because after struggling at first she ended by remaining.She gave up very suddenly. She collapsed in our arms, mine and themaid's who came running up in response to my calls, and..."

  "And the door was then shut," I completed the phrase in my own way.

  "Yes, the door was shut," Mrs Fyne lowered and raised her head slowly.

  I did not ask her for details. Of one thing I am certain, and that isthat Mrs Fyne did not go out to the musical function that afternoon.She was no doubt considerably annoyed at missing the privilege ofhearing privately an interesting young pianist (a girl) who, since, hadbecome one of the recognised performers. Mrs Fyne did not dare leaveher house. As to the feelings of little Fyne when he came home from theoffice, via his club, just half an hour before dinner, I have noinformation. But I venture to affirm that in the main they were kindly,though it is quite possible that in the first moment of surprise he hadto keep down a swear-word or two.

  The long and the short of it all is that next day the Fynes made uptheir minds to take into their confidence a certain wealthy old lady.With certain old ladies the passing years bring back a sort of mellowedyouthfulness of feeling, an optimistic outlook, liking for novelty,readiness for experiment. The old lady was very much interested: "Dolet me see the poor thing!" She was accordingly allowed to see Flora deBarral in Mrs Fyne's drawing-room on a day when there was no one elsethere, and she preached to her with charming, sympathetic authority:"The only way to deal with our troubles, my dear child, is to forgetthem. You must forget yours. It's very simple. Look at me. I alwaysforget mine. At your age one ought to be cheerful."

  Later on when left alone with Mrs Fyne she said to that lady: "I dohope the child will manage to be cheerful. I can't have sad faces nearme. At my age one needs cheerful companions."

  And in this hope she carried off Flora de Barral to Bournemouth for thewinter months in the quality of reader and companion. She had said toher with kindly jocularity: "We shall have a good time together. I amnot a grumpy old woman." But on their return to London she sought MrsFyne at once. She had discovered that Flora was not naturally cheerful.When she made efforts to be it was still worse. The old lady couldn'tstand the strain of that. And then, to have the whole thing out, shecould not bear to have for a companion anyone who did not love her. Shewas certain that Flora did not love her. Why? She couldn't say.Moreover, she had caught the girl looking at her in a peculiar way attimes. Oh no!--it was not an evil look--it was an unusual expressionwhich one could not understand. And when one remembered that her fatherwas in prison shut up together with a lot of criminals and so on--itmade one uncomfortable. If the child had only tried to forget hertroubles! But she obviously was incapable or unwilling to do so. Andthat was somewhat perverse--wasn't it? Upon the whole, she thought itwould be better perhaps--

  Mrs Fyne assented hurriedly to the unspoken conclusion: "Oh certainly!Certainly," wondering to herself what was to be done with Flora next;but she was not very much surprised at the change in the old lady's viewof Flora de Barral. She almost understood it.

  What came next was a German family, the continental acquaintances of thewife of one of Fyne's colleagues in the Home Office. Flora of theenigmatical glances was dispatched to them without much reflection. Asit was not considered absolutely necessary to take them into fullconfidence, they neither expected the girl to be specially cheerful norwere they discomposed unduly by the indescribable quality of herglances. The German woman was quite ordinary; there were two boys tolook after; they were ordinary, too, I presume; and Flora, I understand,was very attentive to them. If she taught them anything it must havebeen by inspiration alone, for she certainly knew nothing of teaching.But it was mostly "conversation" which was demanded from her. Flora deBarral conversing with two small German boys, regularly, industriously,conscientiously, in order to keep herself alive in the world which heldfor her the past we know and the future of an even more undesirablequality--seems to me a very fantastic combination. But I believe it wasnot so bad. She was being, she wrote, mercifully drugged by her task.She had learned to "converse" all day long, mechanically, absently, asif in a trance. An uneasy trance it must have been! Her worst momentswere when off duty--alone in the evening, shut up in her own littleroom, her dulled thoughts waking up slowly till she started into thefull consciousness of her position, like a person waking up in contactwith something venomous--a snake, for instance--experiencing a madimpulse to fling the thing away and run off screaming to hide somewhere.

  At this period of her existence Flora de Barral used to write to MrsFyne not regularly but fairly often. I don't know how long she wouldhave gone on "conversing" and, incidentally, helping to supervise thebeautifully stocked linen closets of that well-to-do German household,if the man of it had not developed in the intervals of his avocations(he was a merchant and a thoroughly domesticated character) apsychological resemblance to the Bournemouth old lady. It appeared thathe, too, wanted to be loved.

  He was not, however, of a conquering temperament--a kiss-snatching,door-bursting type of libertine. In the very act of straying from thepath of virtue he remained a respectable merchant. It would have beenperhaps better for Flora if he had been a mere brute. But he set abouthis sinister enterprise in a sentimental, cautious, almost paternalmanner; and thought he would be safe with a pretty orphan. The girl forall her experience was still too innocent, and indeed not yetsufficiently aware of herself as a woman, to mistrust these maskedapproaches. She did not see them, in fact. She thought himsympathetic--the first expressively sympathetic person she had ever met.She was so innocent that she could not understand the fury of theGerman woman. For, as you may imagine, the wifely penetration was notto be deceived for any great length of time--the more so that the wifewas older than the husband. The man with the peculiar cowardice ofrespectability never said a word in Flora's defence. He stood by andheard her reviled in the most abusive terms, only nodding and frowningvaguely from time to time. It will give you the idea of the girl'sinnocence when I say that at first she actually thought this storm ofindignant reproaches was caused by the discovery of her real name andher relation to a convict. She had been sent out under an assumedname--a highly recommended orphan of honourable parentage. Herdistress, her burning cheeks, her endeavours to express her regret forthis deception were taken for a confession of guilt. "You attempted tobring dishonour to my home," the German woman screamed at her.

  Here's a misunderstanding for you! Flora de Barral, who felt the shamebut did not believe in the guilt of her father, retorted fiercely,"Nevertheless I am as honourable as you are." And then the German womannearly went into a fit from rage. "I shall have you thrown out into thestreet."

  Flora was not exactly thrown out into the street, I believe, but she wasbundled bag and baggage on board a steamer for London. Did I tell youthese people lived in Hamburg? Well yes--sent to the docks late on arainy winter evening in charge of some sneering lackey or other whobehaved to her insolently and left her on deck burning with indignation,her hair half down, shaking with excitement and, truth to say, scared asnear as possible into hysterics. If it had not been for the stewardesswho, without asking questions, good soul, took charge of her quietly inthe ladies' saloon (luckily it was empty) it is by no means certain shewould ever have reached England. I can't tell if a straw ever saved adrowning man, but I know that a mere glance is enough to make despairpause. For in truth we who are creatures of impulse are not creaturesof despair. Suicide, I suspect, is very often the outcome of meremental weariness--not an a
ct of savage energy but the final symptom ofcomplete collapse. The quiet, matter-of-fact attentions of a ship'sstewardess, who did not seem aware of other human agonies thanseasickness, who talked of the probable weather of the passage--it wouldbe a rough night, she thought--and who insisted in a professionally busymanner, "Let me make you comfortable down below at once, miss," asthough she were thinking of nothing else but her tip--was enough todissipate the shades of death gathering round the mortal weariness ofbewildered thinking which makes the idea of non-existence welcome sooften to the young. Flora de Barral did lie down, and it may bepresumed she slept. At any rate she survived the voyage across theNorth Sea and told Mrs Fyne all about it, concealing nothing andreceiving no rebuke--for Mrs Fyne's opinions had a large freedom intheir pedantry. She held, I suppose, that a woman holds an absoluteright--or possesses a perfect excuse--to escape in her own way from aman-mismanaged world.

  What is to be noted is that even in London, having had time to take areflective view, poor Flora was far from being certain as to the trueinwardness of her violent dismissal. She felt the humiliation of itwith an almost maddened resentment.

  "And did you enlighten her on the point?" I ventured to ask.

  Mrs Fyne moved her shoulders with a philosophical acceptance of all thenecessities which ought not to be. Something had to be said, shemurmured. She had told the girl enough to make her come to the rightconclusion by herself.

  "And she did?"

  "Yes. Of course. She isn't a goose," retorted Mrs Fyne tartly.

  "Then her education is completed," I remarked with some bitterness."Don't you think she ought to be given a chance?"

  Mrs Fyne understood my meaning.

  "Not this one," she snapped in a quite feminine way. "It's all verywell for you to plead, but I--"

  "I do not plead. I simply asked. It seemed natural to ask what youthought."

  "It's what I feel that matters. And I can't help my feelings. You mayguess," she added in a softer tone, "that my feelings are mostlyconcerned with my brother. We were very fond of each other. Thedifference of our ages was not very great. I suppose you know he is alittle younger than I am. He was a sensitive boy. He had the habit ofbrooding. It is no use concealing from you that neither of us was happyat home. You have heard, no doubt... Yes? Well, I was made still moreunhappy and hurt--I don't mind telling you that. He made his way tosome distant relations of our mother's people who I believe were notknown to my father at all. I don't wish to judge their action."

  I interrupted Mrs Fyne here. I had heard. Fyne was not verycommunicative in general, but he was proud of his father-in-law."Carleon Anthony, the poet, you know." Proud of his celebrity withoutapproving of his character. It was on that account, I strongly suspect,that he seized with avidity upon the theory of poetical genius beingallied to madness, which he got hold of in some idiotic book everybodywas reading a few years ago. It struck him as being truth itself--illuminating like the sun. He adopted it devoutly. He bored me with itsometimes. Once, just to shut him up, I asked quietly if this theorywhich he regarded as so incontrovertible did not cause him someuneasiness about his wife and the dear girls? He transfixed me with apitying stare and requested me in his deep solemn voice to remember the"well-established fact" that genius was not transmissible.

  I said only "Oh! Isn't it?" and he thought he had silenced me by anunanswerable argument. But he continued to talk of his gloriousfather-in-law, and it was in the course of that conversation that hetold me how, when the Liverpool relations of the poet's late wifenaturally addressed themselves to him in considerable concern,suggesting a friendly consultation as to the boy's future, the incensed(but always refined) poet wrote in answer a letter of mere polished_badinage_ which offended mortally the Liverpool people. This wittyoutbreak of what was in fact mortification and rage appeared to them soheartless that they simply kept the boy. They let him go to sea notbecause he was in their way but because he begged hard to be allowed togo.

  "Oh! You do know," said Mrs Fyne after a pause. "Well--I felt myselfvery much abandoned. Then his choice of life--so extraordinary, sounfortunate, I may say. I was very much grieved. I should have likedhim to have been distinguished--or at any rate to remain in the socialsphere where we could have had common interests, acquaintances,thoughts. Don't think that I am estranged from him. But the precisetruth is that I do not know him. I was most painfully affected when hewas here by the difficulty of finding a single topic we could discusstogether."

  While Mrs Fyne was talking of her brother I let my thoughts wander outof the room to little Fyne who by leaving me alone with his wife had, soto speak, entrusted his domestic peace to my honour.

  "Well, then, Mrs Fyne, does it not strike you that it would bereasonable under the circumstances to let your brother take care ofhimself?"

  "And suppose I have grounds to think that he can't take care of himselfin a given instance." She hesitated in a funny, bashful manner whichroused my interest. Then:

  "Sailors I believe are very susceptible," she added with forcedassurance.

  I burst into a laugh which only increased the coldness of her observingstare.

  "They are. Immensely! Hopelessly! My dear Mrs Fyne, you had bettergive it up! It only makes your husband miserable."

  "And I am quite miserable too. It is really our first difference..."

  "Regarding Miss de Barral?" I asked.

  "Regarding everything. It's really intolerable that this girl should bethe occasion. I think he really ought to give way."

  She turned her chair round a little and picking up the book I had beenreading in the morning began to turn the leaves absently.

  Her eyes being off me, I felt I could allow myself to leave the room.Its atmosphere had become hopeless for little Fyne's domestic peace.You may smile. But to the solemn all things are solemn. I had enoughsagacity to understand that.

  I slipped out into the porch. The dog was slumbering at Fyne's feet.The muscular little man leaning on his elbow and gazing over the fieldspresented a forlorn figure. He turned his head quickly, but seeing Iwas alone, relapsed into his moody contemplation of the green landscape.

  I said loudly and distinctly: "I've come out to smoke a cigarette," andsat down near him on the little bench. Then lowering my voice:"Tolerance is an extremely difficult virtue," I said. "More difficultfor some than heroism. More difficult than compassion."

  I avoided looking at him. I knew well enough that he would not likethis opening. General ideas were not to his taste. He mistrusted them.I lighted a cigarette, not that I wanted to smoke, but to give anothermoment to the consideration of the advice--the diplomatic advice I hadmade up my mind to bowl him over with. And I continued in subduedtones.

  "I have been led to make these remarks by what I have discovered sinceyou left us. I suspected from the first. And now I am certain. Whatyour wife cannot tolerate in this affair is Miss de Barral being whatshe is."

  He made a movement, but I kept my eyes away from him and went onsteadily. "That is--her being a woman. I have some idea of Mrs Fyne'smental attitude towards society with its injustices, with its atrociousor ridiculous conventions. As against them there is no audacity ofaction your wife's mind refuses to sanction. The doctrine which Iimagine she stuffs into the pretty heads of your girl-guests is almostvengeful. A sort of moral fire-and-sword doctrine. How far the lessonis wise is not for me to say. I don't permit myself to judge. I seemto see her very delightful disciples singeing themselves with thetorches, and cutting their fingers with the swords of Mrs Fyne'sfurnishing."

  "My wife holds her opinions very seriously," murmured Fyne suddenly.

  "Yes. No doubt," I assented in a low voice as before. "But it is amere intellectual exercise. What I see is that in dealing with realityMrs Fyne ceases to be tolerant. In other words, that she can't forgiveMiss de Barral for being a woman and behaving like a woman. And yetthis is not only reasonable and natural, but it is her only chance. A
woman against the world has no resources but in herself. Her only meansof action is to be what _she is_. You understand what I mean."

  Fyne mumbled between his teeth that he understood. But he did not seeminterested. What he expected of me was to extricate him from adifficult situation. I don't know how far credible this may sound, toless solemn married couples, but to remain at variance with his wifeseemed to him a considerable incident. Almost a disaster.

  "It looks as though I didn't care what happened to her brother," hesaid. "And after all if anything..."

  I became a little impatient but without raising my tone: "What thing?"I asked. "The liability to get penal servitude is so far like geniusthat it isn't hereditary. And what else can be objected to the girl?All the energy of her deeper feelings, which she would use up vainly inthe danger and fatigue of a struggle with society may be turned intodevoted attachment to the man who offers her a way of escape from whatcan be only a life of moral anguish. I don't mention the physicaldifficulties."

  Glancing at Fyne out of the corner of one eye I discovered that he wasattentive. He made the remark that I should have said all this to hiswife. It was a sensible enough remark. But I had given Mrs Fyne up.I asked him if his impression was that his wife meant to entrust himwith a letter for her brother?

  No. He didn't think so. There were certain reasons which made MrsFyne unwilling to commit her arguments to paper. Fyne was to be primedwith them. But he had no doubt that if he persisted in his refusal shewould make up her mind to write.

  "She does not wish me to go unless with a full conviction that she isright," said Fyne solemnly.

  "She's very exacting," I commented. And then I reflected that she wasused to it. "Would nothing less do for once?"

  "You don't mean that I should give way--do you?" asked Fyne in a whisperof alarmed suspicion.

  As this was exactly what I meant, I let his fright sink into him. Hefidgeted. If the word may be used of so solemn a personage, hewriggled. And when the horrid suspicion had descended into his veryheels, so to speak, he became very still. He sat gazing stonily intospace bounded by the yellow, burnt-up slopes of the rising ground acouple of miles away. The face of the down showed the white scar of thequarry where not more than sixteen hours before Fyne and I had beengroping in the dark with horrible apprehension of finding under ourhands the shattered body of a girl. For myself I had in addition thememory of my meeting with her. She was certainly walking very near theedge--courting a sinister solution. But, now, having by the mostunexpected chance come upon a man, she had found another way to escapefrom the world. Such world as was open to her--without shelter, withoutbread, without honour. The best she could have found in it would havebeen a precarious dole of pity diminishing as her years increased. Theappeal of the abandoned child Flora to the sympathies of the Fynes hadbeen irresistible. But now she had become a woman, and Mrs Fyne waspresenting an implacable front to a particularly feminine transaction.I may say triumphantly feminine. It is true that Mrs Fyne did not wantwomen to be women. Her theory was that they should turn themselves intounscrupulous sexless nuisances. An offended theorist dwelt in her bosomsomewhere. In what way she expected Flora de Barral to set about savingherself from a most miserable existence I can't conceive; but I verilybelieve that she would have found it easier to forgive the girl anactual crime; say the rifling of the Bournemouth old lady's desk, forinstance. And then--for Mrs Fyne was very much of a woman herself--hersense of proprietorship was very strong within her; and though she hadnot much use for her brother, yet she did not like to see him annexed byanother woman. By a chit of a girl. And such a girl, too. Nothing istruer than that, in this world, the luckless have no right to theiropportunities--as if misfortune were a legal disqualification. Fyne'ssentiments (as they naturally would be in a man) had more stability. Agood deal of his sympathy survived. Indeed I heard him murmur "Ghastlynuisance," but I knew it was of the integrity of his domestic accordthat he was thinking. With my eyes on the dog lying curled up in sleepin the middle of the porch I suggested in a subdued impersonal tone:"Yes. Why not let yourself be persuaded?"

  I never saw little Fyne less solemn. He hissed through his teeth inunexpectedly figurative style that it would take a lot to persuade himto "push under the head of a poor devil of a girl quite sufficientlyplucky"--and snorted. He was still gazing at the distant quarry, and Ithink he was affected by that sight. I assured him that I was far fromadvising him to do anything so cruel. I am convinced he had alwaysdoubted the soundness of my principles, because he turned on me swiftlyas though he had been on the watch for a lapse from the straight path.

  "Then what do you mean? That I should pretend!"

  "No! What nonsense! It would be immoral. I may however tell you thatif I had to make a choice I would rather do something immoral thansomething cruel. What I meant was that, not believing in the efficacyof the interference, the whole question is reduced to your consenting todo what your wife wishes you to do. That would be acting like agentleman, surely. And acting unselfishly too, because I can very wellunderstand how distasteful it may be to you. Generally speaking, anunselfish action is a moral action. I'll tell you what. I'll go withyou."

  He turned round and stared at me with surprise and suspicion. "Youwould go with me?" he repeated.

  "You don't understand," I said, amused at the incredulous disgust of histone. "I must run up to town, to-morrow morning. Let us go together.You have a set of travelling chessmen."

  His physiognomy, contracted by a variety of emotions, relaxed to acertain extent at the idea of a game. I told him that as I had businessat the Docks he should have my company to the very ship.

  "We shall beguile the way to the wilds of the East by improvingconversation," I encouraged him.

  "My brother-in-law is staying at an hotel--the Eastern Hotel," he said,becoming sombre again. "I haven't the slightest idea where it is."

  "I know the place. I shall leave you at the door with the comfortableconviction that you are doing what's right since it pleases a lady andcannot do any harm to anybody whatever."

  "You think so? No harm to anybody?" he repeated doubtfully.

  "I assure you it's not the slightest use," I said with all possibleemphasis which seemed only to increase the solemn discontent of hisexpression.

  "But in order that my going should be a perfectly candid proceeding Imust first convince my wife that it isn't the slightest use," heobjected portentously.

  "Oh, you casuist!" I said. And I said nothing more because at thatmoment Mrs Fyne stepped out into the porch. We rose together at herappearance. Her clear, colourless, unflinching glance enveloped us bothcritically. I sustained the chill smilingly, but Fyne stooped at onceto release the dog. He was some time about it; then simultaneously withhis recovery of upright position the animal passed at one bound fromprofoundest slumber into most tumultuous activity. Enveloped in thetornado of his inane scurryings and barkings, I took Mrs Fyne's handextended to me woodenly and bowed over it with deference. She walkeddown the path without a word; Fyne had preceded her and was waiting bythe open gate. They passed out and walked up the road surrounded by alow cloud of dust raised by the dog gyrating madly about their twofigures progressing side by side with rectitude and propriety, and (Idon't know why) looking to me as if they had annexed the wholecountry-side. Perhaps it was that they had impressed me somehow withthe sense of their superiority. What superiority? Perhaps it consistedjust in their limitations. It was obvious that neither of them hadcarried away a high opinion of me. But what affected me most was theindifference of the Fyne dog. He used to precipitate himself at fullspeed and with a frightful final upward spring upon my waistcoat, atleast once at each of our meetings. He had neglected that ceremony thistime notwithstanding my correct and even conventional conduct inoffering him a cake; it seemed to me symbolic of my final separationfrom the Fyne household. And I remembered against him how on a certainday he had abandoned poor Flora de Barral--
who was morbidly sensitive.

  I sat down in the porch and, maybe inspired by secret antagonism to theFynes, I said to myself deliberately that Captain Anthony must be a finefellow. Yet on the facts as I knew them he might have been a dangeroustrifler or a downright scoundrel. He had made a miserable, hopelessgirl follow him clandestinely to London. It is true that the girl hadwritten since, only Mrs Fyne had been remarkably vague as to thecontents. They were unsatisfactory. They did not positively announceimminent nuptials as far as I could make it out from her rathermysterious hints. But then her inexperience might have led her astray.There was no fathoming the innocence of a woman-like Mrs Fyne who,venturing as far as possible in theory, would know nothing of the realaspect of things. It would have been comic if she were making all thisfuss for nothing. But I rejected this suspicion for the honour of humannature.

  I imagined to myself Captain Anthony as simple and romantic. It wasmuch more pleasant. Genius is not hereditary but temperament may be.And he was the son of a poet with an admirable gift of individualising,of etherealising the commonplace; of making touching, delicate,fascinating the most hopeless conventions of the so-called refinedexistence.

  What I could not understand was Mrs Fyne's dog-in-the-manger attitude.Sentimentally she needed that brother of hers so little! What could itmatter to her one way or another--setting aside common humanity whichwould suggest at least a neutral attitude. Unless indeed it was theblind working of the law that in our world of chances the luckless_must_ be put in the wrong somehow.

  And musing thus on the general inclination of our instincts towardsinjustice I met unexpectedly, at the turn of the road, as it were, ashape of duplicity. It might have been unconscious on Mrs Fyne's part,but her leading idea appeared to me to be not to keep, not to preserveher brother, but to get rid of him definitely. She did not hope to stopanything. She had too much sense for that. Almost anyone out of anidiot asylum would have had enough sense for that. She wanted theprotest to be made, emphatically, with Fyne's fullest concurrence inorder to make all intercourse for the future impossible. Such an actionwould estrange the pair for ever from the Fynes. She understood herbrother and the girl too. Happy together, they would never forgive thatoutspoken hostility--and should the marriage turn out badly... Well, itwould be just the same. Neither of them would be likely to bring theirtroubles to such a good prophet of evil.

  Yes. That must have been her motive. The inspiration of a possiblyunconscious Machiavellism! Either she was afraid of having asister-in-law to look after during the husband's long absences; ordreaded the more or less distant eventuality of her brother beingpersuaded to leave the sea, the friendly refuge of his unhappy youth,and to settle on shore, bringing to her very door this undesirable, thisembarrassing connection. She wanted to be done with it--maybe simplyfrom the fatigue of continuous effort in good or evil, which, in thebulk of common mortals, accounts for so many surprising inconsistenciesof conduct.

  I don't know that I had classed Mrs Fyne, in my thoughts, amongstcommon mortals. She was too quietly sure of herself for that. Butlittle Fyne, as I spied him next morning (out of the carriage window)speeding along the platform, looked very much like a common, flusteredmortal who has made a very near thing of catching his train: thestarting wild eyes, the tense and excited face, the distracted gait, allthe common symptoms were there, rendered more impressive by his nativesolemnity which flapped about him like a disordered garment. Had he--Iasked myself with interest--resisted his wife to the very last minuteand then bolted up the road from the last conclusive argument, asthough it had been a loaded gun suddenly produced? I opened thecarriage door, and a vigorous porter shoved him in from behind just asthe end of the rustic platform went gliding swiftly from under his feet.He was very much out of breath, and I waited with some curiosity forthe moment he would recover his power of speech. That moment came. Hesaid "Good morning" with a slight gasp, remained very still for anotherminute and then pulled out of his pocket the travelling chessboard, andholding it in his hand, directed at me a glance of inquiry. "Yes.Certainly," I said, very much disappointed.