Suddenly his eyes caught on a distant sandbank the red gleam of Daman’s camp fire instantly eclipsed like the wink of a signalling lantern along the level of the waters. It brought to his mind the existence of the two men—those other captives. If the war canoe transporting them into the lagoon had left the sands shortly after Hassim’s retreat from Daman’s camp, Travers and d’Alcacer were by this time far away up the creek. Every thought of action had become odious to Lingard since all he could do in the world now was to hasten the moment of his separation from that woman to whom he had confessed the whole secret of his life.
And she slept. She could sleep! He looked down at her as he would have looked at the slumbering ignorance of a child, but the life within him had the fierce beat of supreme moments. Near by, the eddies sighed along the reefs, the water soughed amongst the stones, clung round the rocks with tragic murmurs that resembled promises, goodbyes, or prayers. From the unfathomable distances of the night came the booming of the swell assaulting the seaward face of the Shallows. He felt the woman’s nearness with such intensity that he heard nothing. … Then suddenly he thought of death.
“Wake up!” he shouted in her ear, swinging round in his seat. Mrs. Travers gasped; a splash of water flicked her over the eyes and she felt the separate drops run down her cheeks, she tasted them on her lips, tepid and bitter like tears. A swishing undulation tossed the boat on high followed by another and still another; and then the boat with the breeze abeam glided through still water, laying over at a steady angle.
“Clear of the reef now,” remarked Lingard in a tone of relief.
“Were we in any danger?” asked Mrs. Travers in a whisper.
“Well, the breeze dropped and we drifted in very close to the rocks,” he answered. “I had to rouse you. It wouldn’t have done for you to wake up suddenly struggling in the water.”
So she had slept! It seemed to her incredible that she should have closed her eyes in this small boat, with the knowledge of their desperate errand, on so disturbed a sea. The man by her side leaned forward, extended his arm, and the boat going off before the wind went on faster on an even keel. A motionless black bank resting on the sea stretched infinitely right in their way in ominous stillness. She called Lingard’s attention to it. “Look at this awful cloud.”
“This cloud is the coast and in a moment we shall be entering the creek,” he said, quietly. Mrs. Travers stared at it. Was it land—land! It seemed to her even less palpable than a cloud, a mere sinister immobility above the unrest of the sea, nursing in its depth the unrest of men who, to her mind, were no more real than fantastic shadows.
V
What struck Mrs. Travers most, directly she set eyes on him, was the otherworld aspect of Jörgenson. He had been buried out of sight so long that his tall, gaunt body, his unhurried, mechanical movements, his set face and his eyes with an empty gaze suggested an invincible indifference to all the possible surprises of the earth. That appearance of a resuscitated man who seemed to be commanded by a conjuring spell strolled along the decks of what was even to Mrs. Travers’ eyes the mere corpse of a ship and turned on her a pair of deep-sunk, expressionless eyes with an almost unearthly detachment. Mrs. Travers had never been looked at before with that strange and pregnant abstraction. Yet she didn’t dislike Jörgenson. In the early morning light, white from head to foot in a perfectly clean suit of clothes which seemed hardly to contain any limbs, freshly shaven (Jörgenson’s sunken cheeks with their withered colouring always had a sort of gloss as though he had the habit of shaving every two hours or so), he looked as immaculate as though he had been indeed a pure spirit superior to the soiling contacts of the material earth. He was disturbing but he was not repulsive. He gave no sign of greeting.
Lingard addressed him at once.
“You have had a regular staircase built up the side of the hulk, Jörgenson,” he said. “It was very convenient for us to come aboard now, but in case of an attack don’t you think …”
“I did think.” There was nothing so dispassionate in the world as the voice of Captain H. C. Jörgenson, ex Barque Wild Rose, since he had recrossed the Waters of Oblivion to step back into the life of men. “I did think, but since I don’t want to make trouble. …”
“Oh, you don’t want to make trouble,” interrupted Lingard.
“No. Don’t believe in it. Do you, King Tom?”
“I may have to make trouble.”
“So you came up here in this small dinghy of yours like this to start making trouble, did you?”
“What’s the matter with you? Don’t you know me yet, Jörgenson?”
“I thought I knew you. How could I tell that a man like you would come along for a fight bringing a woman with him?”
“This lady is Mrs. Travers,” said Lingard. “The wife of one of the luckless gentlemen Daman got hold of last evening. … This is Jörgenson, the friend of whom I have been telling you, Mrs. Travers.”
Mrs. Travers smiled faintly. Her eyes roamed far and near and the strangeness of her surroundings, the overpowering curiosity, the conflict of interest and doubt gave her the aspect of one still new to life, presenting an innocent and naive
