Green Dolphin Street

by Elizabeth Goudge

  But now, as she danced smilingly with William, the fury that had been tearing her to pieces was giving way before cold calculation and a fresh determination. “Don’t be such a disapproving old maid!” Marguerite had cried out to her in exasperation. An old maid. Was that how they saw her, these boys and girls who were younger than she was? With all her brilliance and popularity, was it as a probable old maid that perhaps the whole Island regarded her? If that was how they thought of her, then she was going to prove them all wrong. Her resolve was spreading right through her now, seeming to stiffen even her limbs as she danced. She was going to marry. And she was not going to be fobbed off with a second best and be contented with it, like her mother; she was not going to marry one of the elderly men who were so invariably attracted to her and have the Island see her marriage as a mere compromise. She was going to marry the young man she loved, William, even though at present he loved Marguerite. She was going to fight his love for Marguerite, and win.

  She had no compunction about this fight, for she considered that it would be a fair and equal one. On her side she had her wit and brilliance and the great debt of gratitude that William owed to her, but Marguerite had her youth and beauty, and William already loved her, and after that embrace in La Môme’s bower of flowers he was probably a great deal nearer to realizing it than he had been. All her life she had had moments of hating Marguerite, but they had only been moments; below them was a constant love for her sister. Even if the inconceivable happened, and Marguerite won, she thought that she would still not really hate her. . . . But Marguerite was not going to win.

  “Only another week,” said William’s voice regretfully. “Only another week of the Island, and then we leave for the China seas.”

  Yes, only another week. The utmost she could hope for in this week was that by playing her cards with all the skill that she had, she might prevent William from proposing to Marguerite before he left.

  She looked up at him and smiled. “I’ve been reading about these new paddle steamers,” she said. “You know, William, it won’t be for very much longer that the Navy moves under sail.”

  William’s eyes, that had been watching Marguerite over the top of her head, came back to her, and they were flashing with indignation. “Those damned steamers!” he snorted angrily. “They’re all very well for river traffic, but they’re no earthly use for the sea. It’s sail, and sail only, for the sea. You waste your time reading about those filthy steamers, Marianne, I tell you they’re no damn use.”

  “They will very soon be a great deal of use,” said Marianne quietly. “And I don’t waste my time reading about them. I move with the times, William, and so should you, if you mean to get on in your profession. As a sailor you should study steam. When the change-over comes, do you want to be one of those old reactionaries who are left high and dry because their minds are too rusty to take in new ideas, or do you want to be one of the men who will lead the vanguard in the revolution?”

  “What revolution?” asked William angrily.

  “The revolution in the art of war at sea,” said Marianne. “Sea warfare will be a new thing altogether when a battleship is no longer dependent on wind and tide.”

  “I tell you steam will never be any use for fighting ships,” said William, and the arm that held Marianne was trembling with his rage. “Except under sail a ship has no power of maneuver. Look at that old Comet of Henry Bell’s; it’s so unmanageable even on a river that it does nothing but bump into the bank.”

  “The Comet type of steamer was out of date years ago!” said Marianne impatiently. “Don’t you ever read a thing about steam? There’s an article in this week’s Examiner—I’ve got it at home—describing this new engine—”

  “No sort of new engine will make the thing any easier to handle,” interrupted the infuriated William. “I tell you that in war easiness of maneuver is what matters, and with sail—”

  “You’re treading on my feet,” said Marianne tartly, and gave his shoulder a sharp pinch.

  “Oh, for God’s sake let’s sit down,” snapped William. “One can’t talk and dance at the same time.” And taking her by the arm, he pulled her roughly toward a fallen tree trunk in a secluded spot, where they could fight in peace and quiet.

  This argument about steam versus sail was one of perennial interest to William and Marianne, and one of the few that William found completely engrossing, so there was a little smile of triumph on Marianne’s face as with apparent unwillingness she permitted herself to be dragged to the tree trunk. For with luck she could keep William at the boiling point of enjoyable rage, shouting at her and drawing diagrams on the backs of envelopes, for days to come. That was where she had the advantage over Marguerite—in her wits that enabled her to argue with a man until he forgot that she was not a man too. She knew that it was in these times of easy comradeship that William liked her best.

  Chapter II

  1

  Fortune favored Marianne. The steam-versus-sail controversy kept William’s mind occupied for a couple of days, and after that the Doctor was not well. He had not felt like himself on the day of the Review and had not attended it, and now he sat hunched up in his armchair in the parlor looking more like a molting old lion than ever, and complaining of “les côtais bas.” Old Nick the parrot sat in his cage beside him in much depression of spirits, swearing horribly. William, who, as life went on, increasingly loved his father, fell into a paroxysm of fuss and anxiety. “Keep your hair on,” said Old Nick, but William took no notice and dashed up to Le Paradis for reassurance and assistance. Sophie was out, but Marianne snatched up her bonnet and went at once with William to Green Dolphin Street. . . . But Marguerite did not go. She wasn’t much good when people were ill, for illness both frightened and repulsed her. And Dr. Ozanne, nowadays, rather repulsed her too. She had never loved him as Marianne did, and her fastidiousness shrank from his alcoholic kisses and broad jokes and the general untidiness of his house and person. The happy-go-lucky atmosphere of Green Dolphin Street, that had charmed her as well as Marianne six years ago, had with the passing of the years and William’s absences become a sort of looseness that she hated, for it was in direct contradiction to the austere, clear atmosphere of her own especial country. . . . But afterward she reproached herself that she had not gone with William to his father. If she had, it might have altered the whole course of her life and his. She was a coward that day, and cowardice more than any other failing demands a ruthless paying of the price from those who give it hospitality.

  So it was Marianne who gave William courage as they stood together before the old lion hunched up in his chair. “Les côtais bas?” she said gently, one of her slim hands gripping the Doctor’s and the other giving William a comforting clasp. “Why, that’s nothing. Lots of your patients have that, and you get them right in no time. I know what you give them, too.” And she went briskly away into the surgery, her high heels tapping on the floor with a confident note, William following her, greatly reassured.

  “It’s a white peppermint drink he gives,” she said to William, her eye running along the bottles on the shelves. “I remember years ago sitting in the waiting room and seeing an old fisherman come out with it.”

  “You don’t think there’s anything seriously the matter with him?” asked the anxious William.

  “Of course not,” said Marianne with the certainty of complete ignorance. “Just digestive trouble. Self-indulgence is bound to lead to bad health in the end, you know.”

  “It’s nothing to do with self-indulgence,” said William, in swift defense of his adored father. “He’s worn out. He didn’t get home till two o’clock last night. He was sitting up with old André Perot.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Marianne. “I think you mean André Torode.”

  “Oh, what does it matter!” exclaimed William irritably. “The point is that he exhausts himself looking after these selfish old peasants who n
ever pay him a single cent.”

  “It does matter that you should be so inaccurate,” said Marianne. “Your confusing people’s names is a bad habit, William. It’s a weakness and—”

  “Here’s what you want,” interrupted William, taking a bottle of whitish fluid from the shelf. “It’s got ‘Digestive Mixture’ on the label.” But as he led the way back to the parlor, he was not as exasperated by Marianne’s prim admonitions as he usually was. He was so grateful to her for her strength and her decisiveness.

  “Pour the filthy stuff down the sink and get me a tot of whiskey,” said Dr. Ozanne when he saw the white mixture.

  “But it’s what you give your patients,” protested Marianne.

  “It may be what I give my patients, but it’s not what I give myself,” said Dr. Ozanne. “Take it away.”

  “It’s a nice, soothing mixture,” said Marianne, pouring it out, “and it can’t do anybody a scrap of harm, or you wouldn’t give it to your patients, so you can just drink it to please me.”

  Dr. Ozanne looked up at her trim little figure and small, determined face, and his dulled eyes lit up with a twinkle. “Give it here, then,” he said. “I’ll drink it to please you. And tell William to take himself off. Madame Métivier will be here soon, and he was due back on board half an hour ago.”

  “I’ll not leave you alone, sir,” said William stoutly.

  “I’ll stay till Madame Métivier comes,” said Marianne, “and Mamma or I will come down again later. Go on, William. Do you want to be court-martialed for dereliction of duty before the ball tomorrow?”

  “Be off with you,” said Dr. Ozanne to his son. “What more efficient nurse could I have than Marianne?” He set down his glass with a wry face. “No other woman in the world could have forced this filthy mixture down my throat.”

  William laughed, and dropping his hand on his father’s shoulder, he gave it an affectionate squeeze. Marianne smiled and her sharp features softened. She loved to see father and son together. Though he had never said so, she knew that Dr. Ozanne loved her and was her ally in all things. Therefore the mutual affection of father and son could bring her nothing but good, for his father’s championship of her would be bound to increase her worth in William’s eyes. It had done so already. It was with a look of very real affection that he left her to take care of his father.

  When he had gone, she fetched paper and wood and lit a fire in the grate, for it was a cool, rainy day and she saw that the Doctor had suddenly begun to shiver.

  “Chilled to the bone by that peppermint filth,” he complained. “The worst thing you could have given me. Damned cold on the stomach.”

  Marianne fetched another rug and tucked it round him. “You shall have some hot milk presently,” she promised him.

  “Milk?” said the doctor. “Milk? Not if I know it!” And he snorted in disgust.

  Marianne laughed, and sitting down beside him, she took his cold hand in her two warm ones and began to rub it gently. The loving physical contact comforted him, and in spite of the peppermint drink he felt a little better, and less afraid of the abyss that he knew was opening at his feet. His strained face relaxed, and he shut his eyes.

  Now that neither he nor William was looking at her, the confident smile left her face and she looked at the Doctor anxiously. He had aged incredibly in the last six years, and now that his face was drained of its usual high color, she did not like the grey look about his mouth and the increased heaviness of the pouches beneath his eyes. Looking at him, she believed that William was right and that, though he was not yet an old man, he had yet come to the end of his strength. Day by day he had spent himself to the last ounce in the service of the suffering humanity he loved, and day by day he had renewed himself for that purpose by the worst means possible. As a doctor he must have known better than most men that an abused body never fails to take its revenge. She supposed that nothing had ever really mattered to him except that daily renewal that made his service possible, that he had deliberately counted the cost and accepted the penalty. In that case there had been a flash of greatness in his weakness, and she loved him more than ever. She could imagine William doing the same thing. She could imagine William deliberately doing what he knew might wreck his life simply to be kind.

  In a few moments Dr. Ozanne opened his eyes. “You can get me that hot milk,” he said. “But if you don’t put a lacing of brandy in it, my girl, I’ll wring your neck.”

  She did as he asked, and after the milk he slept a little, and she sat beside him, his hand in hers, and waited. Madame Métivier, the Doctor’s housekeeper, was very late this morning and she was glad. She fell very near to the man who once in this room had been so kind to her unhappy adolescence, and she did not want this time of union to be interrupted.

  Presently he woke up, and with a flicker of renewed energy. “What was that ball you spoke of?” he asked.

  “There is to be a ball on board the Orion tomorrow night,” said Marianne. “A good-by ball before the Fleet leaves.”

  “Is the Fleet leaving? Is William going?” asked Dr. Ozanne, and there was painful distress in his tone.

  “They sail for the China seas on Friday,” said Marianne.

  “You are going to this ball?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Marianne. “Marguerite and I are both going.”

  She made her answers quietly, but there was panic in her heart. For yesterday Dr. Ozanne had known all about the ball and William’s departure. He and William had dined at Le Paradis, and Marianne and Marguerite had shown him their ball dresses.

  “You say that William sails on Friday?” repeated the Doctor stupidly.

  “Yes, on Friday,” said Marianne. “But the time will soon pass. He’ll soon be back again.”

  “Not soon enough,” said the Doctor, and his hand moved restlessly in Marianne’s.

  Her strong, warm clasp did not falter, but her panic grew. An abyss seemed opening at her feet too, as for the first time in her life she realized the meaning of death. However strong religious faith may be, death remains an abyss that swallows the familiar companion of everyday as though he had never been. It is the most awful fact of human life, and at the moment Marianne knew it not only with her mind but for the first time with her panic-stricken soul as well. . . . What if William died out there in the China seas?

  There was the froufrou of silk petticoats, a familiar fragrance, and she looked up to see Sophie standing by her. “Mamma,” she whispered, and for the first time in her life seized her mother’s hand as though for protection.

  But Sophie was for once oblivious of her own child. Though she left her hand in Marianne’s, her whole being was focused upon Edmond Ozanne, and behind the smile and the cheery words she gave him her daughter could sense her anguish. Marianne in her heightened awareness could almost fancy she could hear the unspoken words of its lamenting with many voices, the voices of all the women who have ever loved with constant hearts. . . . You were young once, and strong and comely as a man can be. Now you are old and the evil days are upon you and your beauty is destroyed as though it never had been. You were young once and I loved you. I love you still, even though you forgot me as the years went by. Love’s not time’s fool, my dearest, love’s not time’s fool. . . .

  Marianne found herself out in Green Dolphin Street, drawing great breaths of the damp salt air, and intensely grateful for it after the stuffiness of the Doctor’s room. She was standing outside the inn, she found, underneath the sign of the Green Dolphin, for the same instinct that had driven her out into the street had made her move quickly away from the parlor window, lest she should find herself in the position of one of those who spy upon the mystery of things at a moment when the door should be shut in the street and the window darkened.

  The fresh, cool air revived her, and in a moment she was herself again. The merry Green Dolphin winked a cynical eye at her as it rolle
d and cavorted overhead. For it knew these human creatures. For just a moment they could be jerked out of the circle of self by some event that whispered to them of the immensity beyond their little world. Then their ears were shut again, and their eyes turned inward, and nothing mattered but their own antlike scurryings in an ant heap whose absurdly small proportions they could not seem to get into focus. It was best to laugh. Some cursed, some wept at the incurable self-absorption of the ant, but the Green Dolphin laughed. In the country of which it was the presiding genie laughter was the ground they trod on and the air they breathed; it was the saving grace of God that made life worth the living.

  But Marianne did not belong to the Green Dolphin’s country. She trod upon courage as has every scheming woman since the dawn of the world, and breathed the air of adventure with every web she spun. As she went back to Le Paradis, her momentary panic had entirely vanished. What was death, after all? Only one more thing to be fought and conquered. And Dr. Ozanne was not dying at this moment, nor was William. The fight upon which she was engaged just now was the fight for William, and her present enemy was Marguerite. The hours of her danger, she knew, would be the hours of the ball, for with Marguerite in his arms again, William could not fail to remember that moment at the crowning of La Môme. Yet perhaps even at the ball Dr. Ozanne would in some way be her ally, as he had been this morning when his weakness drew her nearer to William. She thought of him with love as she crossed the garden, and it did not occur to her to hate herself because she was using a sick man to further her own purposes. . . . But then, she had not heard the Green Dolphin’s mocking laughter when she had stood beneath its sign.