That was just it. His wife and he had been perfectly aware of it. Of course the girl never talked of her father with Mrs Fyne. I suppose with her theory of innocence she found it difficult. But she must have been thinking of it day and night. What to do with him? Where to go? How to keep body and soul together? He had never made any friends. The only relations were the atrocious East-End cousins. We know what they were. Nothing but wretchedness, whichever way she turned in an unjust and prejudiced world. And to look at him helplessly she felt would be too much for her.
I won’t say I was thinking these thoughts. It was not necessary. This complete knowledge was in my head while I stared hard across the wide road, so hard that I failed to hear little Fyne till he raised his deep voice indignantly.
“I don’t blame the girl,” he was saying. “He is infatuated with her. Anybody can see that. Why she should have got such a hold on him I can’t understand. She said ‘Yes’ to him only for the sake of that fatuous, swindling father of hers. It’s perfectly plain if one thinks it over a moment. One needn’t even think of it. We have it under her own hand. In that letter to my wife she says she has acted unscrupulously. She has owned up, then, for what else can it mean, I should like to know. And so they are to be married before that old idiot comes out.—He will be surprised,” commented Fyne suddenly in a strangely malignant tone. “He shall be met at the jail door by a Mrs Anthony, a Mrs Captain Anthony. Very pleasant for Zoe. And for all I know, my brother-in-law means to turn up dutifully too. A little family event. It’s extremely pleasant to think of. Delightful. A charming family party. We three against the world— and all that sort of thing. And what for. For a girl that doesn’t care twopence for him.”
The demon of bitterness had entered into little Fyne. He amazed me as though he had changed his skin from white to black. It was quite as wonderful. And he kept it up, too.
“Luckily there are some advantages in the—the profession of a sailor. As long as they defy the world away at sea somewhere eighteen thousand miles from here, I don’t mind so much. I wonder what that interesting old party will say. He will have another surprise. They mean to drag him along with them on board the ship straight away. Rescue work. Just think of Roderick Anthony, the son of a gentleman, after all...”
He gave me a little shock. I thought he was going to say the “son of the poet” as usual; but his mind was not running on such vanities now. His unspoken thought must have gone on “and uncle of my girls.” I suspect that he had been roughly handled by Captain Anthony up there, and the resentment gave a tremendous fillip to the slow play of his wits. Those men of sober fancy, when anything rouses their imaginative faculty, are very thorough. “Just think!” he cried. “The three of them crowded into a four-wheeler, and Anthony sitting deferentially opposite that astonished old jail-bird!”
The good little man laughed. An improper sound it was to come from his manly chest; and what made it worse was the thought that for the least thing, by a mere hair’s breadth, he might have taken this affair sentimentally. But clearly Anthony was no diplomatist. His brother-in-law must have appeared to him, to use the language of shore people, a perfect philistine with a heart like a flint. What Fyne precisely meant by “wrangling” I don’t know, but I had no doubt that these two had “wrangled” to a profoundly disturbing extent. How much the other was affected I could not even imagine; but the man before me was quite amazingly upset.
“In a four-wheeler! Take him on board!” I muttered, startled by the change in Fyne.
“That’s the plan—nothing less. If I am to believe what I have been told, his feet will scarcely touch the ground between the prison-gates and the deck of that ship.”
The transformed Fyne spoke in a forcibly lowered tone which I heard without difficulty. The rumbling, composite noises of the street were hushed for a moment, during one of these sudden breaks in the traffic as if the stream of commerce had dried up at its source. Having an unobstructed view past Fyne’s shoulder, I was astonished to see that the girl was still there. I thought she had gone up long before. But there was her black slender figure, her white face under the roses of her hat. She stood on the edge of the pavement as people stand on the bank of a stream, very still, as if waiting—or as if unconscious of where she was. The three dismal, sodden loafers (I could see them too; they hadn’t budged an inch) seemed to me to be watching her. Which was horrible.
Meantime Fyne was telling me rather remarkable things—for him. He declared first it was a mercy in a sense. Then he asked me if it were not real madness, to saddle one’s existence with such a perpetual reminder. The daily existence. The isolated sea-bound existence. To bring such an additional strain into the solitude already trying enough for two people was the craziest thing. Undesirable relations were bad enough on shore. One could cut them or at least forget their existence now and then. He himself was preparing to forget his brother-in-law’s existence as much as possible.
That was the general sense of his remarks, not his exact words. I thought that his wife’s brother’s existence had never been very embarrassing to him but that now of course he would have to abstain from his allusions to the “son of the poet—you know.” I said “yes, yes,” in the pauses because I did not want him to turn round; and all the time I was watching the girl intently. I thought I knew now what she meant with her “He was most generous.” Yes. Generosity of character may carry a man through any situation. But why didn’t she go then to her generous man? Why stand there as if clinging to this solid earth which she surely hated as one must hate the place where one has been tormented, hopeless, unhappy? Suddenly she stirred. Was she going to cross over? No. She turned and began to walk slowly close to the curbstone, reminding me of the time when I discovered her walking near the edge of a ninety-foot sheer drop. It was the same impression, the same carriage, straight, slim, with rigid head and the two hands hanging lightly clasped in front—only now a small sunshade was dangling from them. I saw something fateful in that deliberate pacing towards the inconspicuous door with the words
She was abreast of it now and I thought that she would stop again; but no! She swerved rigidly—at the moment there was no one near her; she had that bit of pavement to herself—with inanimate slowness as if moved by something outside herself.
“A confounded convict,” Fyne burst out.
With the sound of that word offending my ears I saw the girl extend her arm, push the door open a little way and glide in. I saw plainly that movement, the hand put out in advance with the gesture of a sleep-walker.
She had vanished, her black figure had melted in the darkness of the open door. For some time Fyne said nothing; and I thought of the girl going upstairs, appearing before the man. Were they looking at each other in silence and feeling they were alone in the world as lovers should at the moment of meeting? But that fine forgetfulness was surely impossible to Anthony the seaman directly after the wrangling interview with Fyne the emissary of an order of things which stops at the edge of the sea. How much he was disturbed I couldn’t tell because I did not know what that impetuous lover had had to listen to.
“Going to take the old fellow to sea with them,” I said. “Well I really don’t see what else they could have done with him. You told your brother-in-law what you thought of it? I wonder how he took it.”
“Very improperly,” repeated Fyne. “His manner was offensive, derisive, from the first. I don’t mean he was actually rude in words. Hang it all, I am not a contemptible ass. But he was exulting at having got hold of a miserable girl.”
