It happens to the most resolute of men to find himself at grips not only with unknown forces, but with a well- known force the real might of which he had not understood. Anthony had discovered that he was not the proud master but the chafing captive of his generosity. It rose in front of him like a wall which his respect for himself forbade him to scale. He said to himself: “Yes, I was a fool—but she has trusted me!” Trusted! A terrible word to any man somewhat exceptional in a world in which success has never been found in renunciation and good faith. And it must also be said, in order not to make Anthony more stupidly sublime than he was, that the behaviour of Flora kept him at a distance. The girl was afraid to add to the exasperation of her father. It was her unhappy lot to be made more wretched by the only affection which she could not suspect. She could not be angry with it, however, and out of deference for that exaggerated sentiment she hardly dared to look otherwise than by stealth at the man whose masterful compassion had carried her off. And quite unable to understand the extent of Anthony’s delicacy, she said to herself that “he didn’t care.” He probably was beginning at bottom to detest her—like the governess, like the maiden lady, like the German woman, like Mrs Fyne, like Mr Fyne—only he was extraordinary, he was generous. At the same time she had moments of irritation. He was violent, headstrong—perhaps stupid. Well, he had had his way.
A man who has had his way is seldom happy, for generally he finds that the way does not lead very far on this earth of desires which can never be fully satisfied. Anthony had entered with extreme precipitation the enchanted gardens of Armida saying to himself “At last!” As to Armida, herself, he was not going to offer her any violence. But now he had discovered that all the enchantment was in Armida herself, in Armida’s smiles. This Armida did not smile. She existed, unapproachable, behind the blank wall of his renunciation. His force, fit for action, experienced the impatience, the indignation, almost the despair of his vitality arrested, bound, stilled, progressively worn down, frittered away by Time; by that force blind and insensible, which seems inert and yet uses one’s life up by its imperceptible action, dropping minute after minute on one’s living heart like drops of water wearing down a stone.
He upbraided himself. What else could he have expected? He had rushed in like a ruffian; he had dragged the poor defenceless thing by the hair of her head, as it were, on board that ship. It was really atrocious. Nothing assured him that his person could be attractive to this or any other woman. And his proceedings were enough in themselves to make anyone odious. He must have been bereft of his senses. She must fatally detest and fear him. Nothing could make up for such brutality. And yet somehow he resented this very attitude which seemed to him completely justifiable. Surely he was not too monstrous (morally) to be looked at frankly sometimes. But no! She wouldn’t. Well, perhaps, some day... Only he was not going ever to attempt to beg for forgiveness. With the repulsion she felt for his person she would certainly misunderstand the most guarded words, the most careful advances. Never! Never!
It would occur to Anthony at the end of such meditations that death was not an unfriendly visitor after all. No wonder then that even young Powell, his faculties having been put on the alert, began to think that there was something unusual about the man who had given him his chance in life. Yes, decidedly, his captain was “strange.” There was something wrong somewhere, he said to himself, never guessing that his young and candid eyes were in the presence of a passion profound, tyrannical and mortal, discovering its own existence, astounded at feeling itself helpless and dismayed at finding itself incurable.
Powell had never before felt this mysterious uneasiness so strongly as on that evening when it had been his good fortune to make Mrs Anthony laugh a little by his artless prattle. Standing out of the way, he had watched his captain walk the weather-side of the poop, he took full cognizance of his liking for that inexplicably strange man and saw him swerve towards the companion and go down below with sympathetic if utterly uncomprehending eyes.
Shortly afterwards, Mr Smith came up alone and manifested a desire for a little conversation. He, too, if not so mysterious as the captain, was not very comprehensible to Mr Powell’s uninformed candour. He often favoured thus the second officer. His talk alluded somewhat enigmatically and often without visible connection to Mr Powell’s friendliness towards himself and his daughter. “For I am well aware that we have no friends on board this ship, my dear young man,” he would add, “except yourself. Flora feels that too.”
And Mr Powell, flattered and embarrassed, could but emit a vague murmur of protest. For the statement was true in a sense, though the fact was in itself insignificant. The feelings of the ship’s company could not possibly matter to the captain’s wife and to Mr Smith—her father. Why the latter should so often allude to it was what surprised our Mr Powell. This was by no means the first occasion. More like the twentieth rather. And in his weak voice, with his monotonous intonation, leaning over the rail and looking at the water the other continued this conversation, or rather his remarks, remarks of such a monstrous nature that Mr Powell had no option but to accept them for gruesome jesting.
“For instance,” said Mr Smith, “that mate, Franklin, I believe he would just as soon see us both overboard as not.”
“It’s not so bad as that,” laughed Mr Powell, feeling uncomfortable, because his mind did not accommodate itself easily to exaggeration of statement. “He isn’t a bad chap really,” he added, very conscious of Mr Franklin’s offensive manner of which instances were not far to seek. “He’s such a fool as to be jealous. He has been with the captain for years. It’s not for me to say, perhaps, but I think the captain has spoiled all that gang of old servants. They are like a lot of pet old dogs. Wouldn’t let anybody come near him if they could help it. I’ve never seen anything like it. And the second mate, I believe, was like that too.”
“Well, he isn’t here, luckily. There would have been one more enemy,” said Mr Smith. “There’s enough of them without him. And you being here instead of him makes it much more pleasant for my daughter and myself. One feels there may be a friend in need. For really, for a woman all alone on board ship amongst a lot of unfriendly men...”
“But Mrs Anthony is not alone,” exclaimed Powell. “There’s you, and there’s the...”
Mr Smith interrupted him.
“Nobody’s immortal. And there are times when one feels ashamed to live. Such an evening as this for instance.”
It was a lovely evening; the colours of a splendid sunset had died out and the breath of a warm breeze seemed to have smoothed out the sea. Away to the south the sheet lightning was like the flashing of an enormous lantern hidden under the horizon. In order to change the conversation Mr Powell said:
“Anyway no one can charge you with being a Jonah, Mr Smith. We have had a magnificent quick passage so far. The captain ought to be pleased. And I suppose you are not sorry either.”
This diversion was not successful. Mr Smith emitted a sort of bitter chuckle and said: “Jonah! That’s the fellow that was thrown overboard by some sailors. It seems to me it’s very easy at sea to get rid of a person one does not like. The sea does not give up its dead as the earth does.”
“You forget the whale, sir,” said young Powell.
Mr Smith gave a start. “Eh? What whale? Oh! Jonah. I wasn’t thinking of Jonah. I was thinking of this passage which seems so quick to you. But only think what it is to me? It isn’t a life, going about the sea like this. And, for
