by A. J. Cronin
Without haste the Aureola slid onward at a bare five knots, lolling a little in her gait, as if conscious that her passage was brief and the need to anchor before dawn remote. The clucking water played about her sides and stern; the sound rose up like bubbles, breaking with quiet echoes and a gleam of silver.
Leaning over the forward rail, Harvey let his gaze sink into the warm oblivion beyond: sea, earth, and sky united and at peace. But in his heart there was no peace.
Suddenly a step came behind him, a hand was laid upon his shoulder. He did not move; without turning his head, he said, in a tone constrained strangely by his melancholy:
‘Well, Jimmy, did you get your business done?’
‘Sure an’ I got it done,’ cried Corcoran; in the universal stillness his voice resounded with a cheerful magnitude. ‘And sent me wire to Santa Cruz an’ all. When old Bob gets it he’ll be dancin’ wid delight. I tell ye I’m all set for the big-time business.’
‘You’ve been very mysterious, Jimmy,’ said Harvey absently, ‘about this business of yours.’
‘Aha!’ cried Jimmy. ‘There’s time and place for talkin’, isn’t there? And no man ever made a fortune by openin’ his mouth a mile.’ He broke off, gazing surreptitiously at Harvey’s dark, severe profile; then with a sly show of confidence he declared: ‘But yer a friend of me own, aren’t ye? I don’t mind tellin’ ye what I’m afther.’
‘Some other time then, Jimmy,’ Harvey said quickly. ‘I’m not just in the mood for touching intimacies.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Jimmy agreeably; he withdrew his arm, struck an attitude of offence, made with his fists some exaggerated passes into the unresistant air; then, panting a little, he took snuff. ‘See! That’s the stuff. All in good time, says you? Right, says I. But you’ll come ashore wid me at Santa Cruz and meet the Professor or me name’s not Jimmy C.’
A short silence fell, then Jimmy cocked his battered ear.
‘Do you hear him?’ he said, his grin slow – invisible yet rich. ‘He’s like a cow in a china-shop.’
Abaft the chart-room they heard the quick padding step of Robert Tranter. He was humming – sure sign of his disquiet. When indecision seized the evangelical mind, Tranter would hum; and now, emerging from his thick pursed lips, came the sibilant strains of ‘Swing low, sweet chariot.’
‘Jumpin’ Janus Macafferty,’ Corcoran went on, ‘but he’s a slob of putty, that one. Playto was right when he said that sinse was a thing that could nirer be taught. And the lump of him too an’ all, yamblin’ about like he was moonsthruck. Faith, his sister’s worth six of him.’ He yawned, clenching his fists and stretching them luxuriously upwards. Then, with an extremely casual air, he declared: ‘Well, I’m for down below. A little quiet chat, with Mother H. and Hamble. Just a little social talk, ye understand. Nothin’ more. S’long. In the meantime, that’s to say.’
A phantom smile hovered over Harvey’s face – Corcoran’s evasions were too absurd! – then quickly faded. He turned to the rail, seeking the solitude of the sea, the massive silence of the night. But a moment later he was again disturbed: Tranter stood at his elbow.
‘Musing, Dr Leith, I see. And a wondrous night it is for communing with the stars. Yes, sir! A little close, perhaps. Kind of humid, don’t you think? I must own I’m perspiring.’ The sound of breathing came through the effusive heartiness of the voice. ‘The folks ought to be on deck getting the air.’
‘The folks ought to do as they want to do,’ said Harvey with gloomy impatience.
Tranter laughed: his ready, emotional laugh which to-night seemed more ready, more emotional – drawing up with a gulp almost upon the edge of hysteria.
‘Ha! Ha! Sure, they ought.’ He talked-as if to reassure himself with his own rich overtones. ‘Why, yes. Up to a point, that is to say. I only meant the ladies might find it pleasanter on deck. Now, I wonder where they can have got to.’
Harvey swung away, nauseated by something flabby in the words, something frightened yet persistent.
‘Mrs Baynham went to her cabin immediately after dinner,’ he threw back curtly over his shoulder. ‘I heard her say that she was tired and that she was going to turn in at once.’ Turning abruptly towards the companion he walked away, dimly conscious of the sudden wave of desolation that flooded the other’s face.
Gone, vanished for the night into the inviolable sanctuary of her cabin! – and after she had promised – it was a cruel blow for Tranter. The small, limp leather book bulging his breast pocket seemed to press suddenly upon his heart like a weight of lead. Crushed, he stood for a moment with a curiously abject air, then, lowering his head, he began slowly to walk up and down. Now he was not humming.
Below, Harvey paused outside the entrance to the alley-way.
Should he too turn in? He was tired, exhausted by he knew not what. An ugly memory of Tranter’s face obsessed him, drawn like a smear across his mind, evoking in him unreasonable anger. This emblem of sickly tenderness exhibited so nakedly – it crystallised his whole belief in the fatuity of love. A biological necessity, an animal reaction thrust on the victim of gross instinct. No more. Thus he had always coldly thought. And yet the repetition of that thought distressed him as with a heavy grief. What had happened? His clear, fine pride recoiled from a mocking inward voice. And there came other voices. Around him the beauty of the night rose up and with a thousand taunting tongues confused his senses. Beauty – which he had never recognised, which lay at the opposite pole from truth, irreconcilable with his belief.
Sadly he walked forward, past the fore-hatch towards the bow. The ship, with unconquerable serenity, moved calmly through the great stillness. He reached the bow. There, though his face showed nothing, his heart opened and turned with a wild throb. Her figure, straight and fragile as a wand, leaped to his sight in a haze of secret joy. Then he was at her side, leaning upon the taffrail, staring into limitless space, silent.
‘I felt that you would come,’ she said at last; she did not look at him. ‘Now I don’t feel sad any more.’ Her voice was low, almost colourless and utterly devoid of coquetry. ‘It had been so strange today,’ she went on, ‘I feel bewildered. And tomorrow I am leaving the ship.’
‘You don’t want to go?’ he said – and his words held a painful coldness.
‘No. I don’t want to leave this little ship. I love it. It is so safe. But I shall go.’
He did not speak.
‘Have you ever felt,’ she continued in her odd, remote tone, ‘that you were caught up in something and had simply to go on – like little strings pulling, pulling you forward all the time?’
He fought for a sneer to lay bare the folly of her remark; but no sneer would come.
‘All my life seems to have been like that. This little ship is pulling me forward now; to something – I don’t know what. And yet I do know. Vaguely I know without being able to understand.’
‘That is quite unreasonable,’ he said, in a low voice.
‘Oh, I know it isn’t reasonable. But it’s there. You laughed at me before when I told you about my dream. You think I’m silly, perhaps – crazy! But, oh, I can’t help myself. Something is haunting me. It keeps hovering about me like a great bird. It won’t leave me alone. I’ve never been to these islands before. And yet I feel dimly that I’m going back. I’ve never seen your face before and yet – oh, I’ve told you this before! Think what you like, it is true – true as death. On the raft, today, I felt most wonderfully I knew you better than I know myself.’ She ended in a little gasp which floated outwards like a white bird lost and fearful, far away from land.
He forced himself to say:
‘Queer fancies come upon the sea. They have no relation to life. In six weeks you will be back in England. You’ll have forgotten everything. And your little strings will be pulling you gaily to smart restaurants, to the opera, to those tea-parties that you spoke about the other day. A most attractive life!’
For the first time she turned her head tow
ards him. Her face, blurred and haunting, had a strange whiteness in which her eyes were darkly mournful.
‘That’s just the surface,’ she said sadly. ‘ I don’t like it, I’ve never liked it. Never. I’m out of place. Somehow I don’t fit in.’ A queer note of pain crept into her voice which quickened insensibly. ‘You think I’m not grown up, that I understand nothing of life. But I do, and that’s why sometimes I can’t bear it, oh, that’s why I must get away – away. It’s all so futile, full of noise, and rushing about. No one keeps still – parties, and more parties, cocktails, dances, the kinema, dashing here and there – a nonstop life – every blank moment filled with jazz. Elissa’s gramophone – she’d die without it. The one idea – how can I enjoy myself? You wouldn’t believe it – there isn’t even time to think. You feel that I’m a fool, that I’ve got no sense of proportion, no sense of humour. But I believe that you only get out of life what you put into it. And with the people I know, it’s take – take all the time. It’s all bright and glittering on top, but inside there’s nothing real. And there’s no one – no one to understand.’ Inarticulately she broke off and turned her wounded face again to the sea.
For a long time he did not speak, then from his rigid body something answered.
‘You are married,’ he said in a low tone. ‘You have your husband.’
That melancholy, surrounding her form like a delicate shadow, again enwrapped her voice as, like one repeating a lesson, she said:
‘Michael is very good to me. He is fond of me. And I am very fond of him.’
The conflict within him was insupportable; words broke violently beyond the barrier of his restraint.
‘Then you have no cause to complain. Your husband loves you and you love him.’
Everything retreated; the ship, the sea, the night, all suddenly were still. Her hands pressed together helplessly. She whispered:
‘I hate myself for speaking like this. But you’ve asked me. I can’t– I’ve never been in love. Never. I’ve tried – but I can’t. It’s as though all that was torn from me years and years ago.’
Minutes passed. Neither of them spoke. The ship resumed its steady passage, the sea its gentle swell. The sounding and sighing of the water rose passionately again across the drifting air. Stars fluttered into the limpid sky like eyes uncovered and washed clear. They were standing there together in the darkness. Nothing else mattered. Time and space dissolved. A mysterious intimacy united them. The ship no longer was a ship but some strange celestial element wherein a force, regardless of their separate bodies, bore them onwards swiftly and together. Yes, they were together; bound by some force which reason could not compass. Yet it was there, unintelligible, but real. Out of the past, out of the future, mystical, actual. His heart beat madly. A divine sweetness hovered in the air waiting to infuse his blood. Trembling, he desired to know only that she loved him. No more than that. But he was silent – it seemed a violation of that moment to speak one word. At last a bell struck faintly, far behind them. She sighed.
‘I must go now. Yes, I must go.’
Silently he turned and accompanied her. Every movement that she made was precious, laden with meaning. In the alleyway they paused, then without a single glance they went to their separate cabins. He dared not look at her. They did not even say ‘Good-night.’
A long hush seemed to descend upon the ship. As in that succeeding hush, when the sun had fused in clear and undefiled beauty with the sea, so now there was something lingering yet chaste within this silence. The card players had at last turned in. The vessel seemed asleep.
And then, from the upper deck, breaking the omnipresent stillness, came the rapid padding of Robert Tranter’s feet. He ought to have been in his cabin. He had gone down; and gratefully Susan had seen him go. But he had come out again. It was so hot, he simply couldn’t breathe. Gosh, a fellow must have some air, come what may.
And so he was on the upper deck, surrounded by the serene loveliness of – well – his Creator’s works, moving, moving restlessly up and down; up and down. Gosh, it was hot! He pulled nervously at his collar. A fellow couldn’t be expected to stop down a night like this. And yet he supposed he must go down; yes, sir; couldn’t stop out all night. A wan smile slipped across his face at the reflection. He – Robert Tranter – to do that Don Juan act! Then the smile faded, leaving his expression somehow frightened.
How he wished he had seen Mrs Baynham after dinner! She had promised; yes, doggone it, she had promised. Not like Elissa – yes, why shouldn’t he call her Elissa, it was her name wasn’t it – not like Elissa to break her word. He knew she was a woman who would stick to what she said.
Gosh, how hot it was! He felt all warm and uneasy. Mopping his brow with his handkerchief he tried desperately to compose himself. But it was no use. She had said, hadn’t she, that she would accept the book. After dinner. And she had gone immediately to her cabin. The inference which he had faced before rose up and struck him with redoubled violence.
She must have meant him to call at her cabin and hand in the book. Yes, indeed, she must. And why not? He swallowed quickly and mopped his brow once more. Yes, why not? It wasn’t that much after ten. And she was leaving the ship tomorrow.
‘Leaving the ship tomorrow.’ A small whispering voice, that might now have been his own, kept repeating the words close to his ear.
Oh, he couldn’t let Elissa leave like that. No, no. She would think he’d forgotten – a mean trick. No, sir. He couldn’t play a mean, shabby trick like that.
All at once he paused in his pacing. With a hypnotised, frightened look in his eyes, he turned and went slowly down the companion. Cautiously he advanced to her cabin door. Quaking, he tapped lightly, fumbled, opened the door.
She was not in her bunk but, half undressed, reclining upon the settee. The rich profusion of her scattered clothing caught his eye; but it was the sight of her – there! – that dazzled him.
‘Well,’ she said with perfect calmness. ‘ You’ve been a long time thinking.’
He did not speak. A loutish look crept into his frightened face. He stared at her again, her hair, her skin, the rich curve of her thigh. His throat went dry. He forgot everything. He stumbled inside the cabin. Then he closed the door.
Chapter Thirteen
But night succumbed in turn to morning and all the warm beauty of the darkness drooped into the ocean like a languid hand. Daybreak came cold and harsh, trailing slow streaks across the sky inexorably. The Aureola – anchored off Orotava since seven bells – rode the grey swell loosely, a coil of mist about her mast-heads, a thin dank vapour upon her brasswork. To leeward this same fine mist lay banked upon the beach, rising whitely across the town and falling in sullen clouds against the Peak, baffling the vision, in all but tiny shifting rifts through which a snatch of colour – a yellow roof-top, a feather of green palms, a burst of purple blossom – gleamed and vanished fitfully with evanescent, tantalising loveliness. Upon the black volcanic sand the surf obscurely pounded. And sea-birds, screaming and crying about the ship, threaded that distant booming with a note both desolate and ominous.
‘By the lumpin’ Jonah,’ said Corcoran as he stood upon the upper deck surveying the prospect with Mother Hemmingway. ‘ I’m not that sthruck on the looks of this lot. Ye can’t see much, and what ye can see looks proper creepy.’
Without moving her beady eyes from the distant shore she shifted her cigar to the far corner of her mouth.
‘’Ark at the byby,’ she ruminated contemptuously. ‘Just ’ark at ’im. W’y, you juggins, wot do you know about it? Wen this mist lifts the plyce is a blyze of every ’ue. You can’t move for the lovelee flowers. Remember George Lashwood’s number. “ Every morn I buys yeu vi’lets.” Great boy was Georgie. Well, ’e wouldn’t ’ ave ’ad to buy ’em ’ere. Nor you neithers. They jumps up everywheres an ’its you stryte in the bleedin’ eye. Not that I give a Sancta Maria w’ether they does or w’ether they don’t. That’s me. See.’
‘I
see all right,’ said Jimmy gloomily. ‘Ye don’t give a Sancta for nobody, that’s why ye’ve the divil’s own luck at the cyards. When do we sail?’
‘We’ll up anchor soon enough. W’enever the hoity-toity, Gawd-Almighty passengers is took off. If you don’t like the plyce the captain don’t like this ’ arbour. Not any too good. There’s rocks you see, cocky, to leeward. Toss a biscuit on them from the stern. If you’d ’ ad my early training in shipwrecks you’d sabe wot that spells. We’ll be off in ’alf an ’our, I’ll bet. Five o’clock we ought to myke Santa Cruz. Good old Santa! Then you won’t see old ’Emmingway for dust. She’ll be into ’er little Casa presto pronto. With ’er feet on the mat and ’er elbows on the tyble doin’ a bit of comida. And in case you don’t rumble it, that means ’ avin’ a proper feed. Some’ow I’aven’t enjoyed my chow lytely. Not prop’ly. Wot with that bleedin’ old toff stuck opposite, you can’t let yourself go at it like you’d want to. Like eatin’ a fish supper outside Buckin’am Palis. Vulgu-ar, awf’lly vulgu-ar, but the stricken truth.’ Suddenly she half turned and gave him a sly side-glance. ‘And w’ile we’re on the subject of the stricken truth. Wot d’ye think you’re goin’ to do when you’it Santa?’
‘Business,’ he said, largely stroking his chin. ‘A foine business app’intment.’
She tittered unbelievingly.
‘Let’s ’ave it stryte. You cawn’t cod me. You and your business! You ain’t no Rockefeller. I know what you done that afternoon in Las Palmas. You ’ ocked your tie-pin. Yes, cocky, slipped it up the spout so’s you could ’ave a little ready for to ’ave a little gyme of rummy. And now you’ve lost it all to ’Emmingway.’ Complacently she slapped the bag upon her bosom. ‘It’s ’ere. In the private syfe. And you’re back agyne upon your uppers.’