Chapter XII
Through the shining tropic sea sped the Dunrobin Castle, homeward bound, a speck of scarlet and grey in a waste of still, oily blue. Canvas awnings glared white in the morning sunlight; pitch bubbled in the seams of the holystoned decks; from metal-work and fitting, flashes of light smote blindingly on the eye. Over the towering oval-shaped funnels a faint shimmer hovered; from clanging engine-room rose the reek of oil and steam mingling with the hot air above; wire stays quivered dizzily to the dull throbbing of the screw.
On one side of the ship, where a faint breeze blew, a row of chairs stretched along the deck, their occupants reading, chatting, or lazily looking on at games of deck billiards, quoits, or bull, played by the more energetic of the passengers; on the other, now invaded halfway across by the glare of the slanting sunlight, there were only two figures, the one that of Hector Graeme, the other—the length of the deck away—of a girl, Stara Selbourne.
Both were apparently reading, but neither had turned a page for an hour, their thoughts being of one another. Stara wondered why, since this man was so obviously interested in her, he declined to avail himself of board-ship licence and speak instead of staring. Hector revolved in his mind for the hundredth time suitable words with which to begin, and cursed the curious awkwardness that inevitably assailed him when in her vicinity, impelling him to pass her by without a word when he had approached her with the object of commencing the attack.
This stupidity on his part, moreover, apart from its novelty, was the more galling, as for the first time in ten years he found himself desirous of talking to a woman other than his wife; in fact, even in the short space of two days this desire had begun to take possession of him to the exclusion of all else, even to that of the perusal of a parcel of new books with which he had intended to occupy his whole time when on board.
It is perhaps unnecessary to mention, Hector’s attention having been thus aroused, that Stara Selbourne was possessed of personal attractions, these being of that soft, essentially feminine kind before which the strength of men evaporates.
Looking at her now as she lay, lazily disposed among a heap of pink-and-white cushions, the short-lipped, sensuous mouth half open, and soft, dimpled cheek resting on a tiny white hand; noting, moreover, the fineness of cambric blouse and skirt, the sheen of tightly-stretched silken stocking, and the amber combs in the elaborately curled hair, one knew instinctively that this daintiness was not mere outward show, but part of her nature, and that, strip off the outward husk, no incongruities would stand revealed, no monstrosities of wool and flannel, the unseen would be a wonder of snowy and beribboned delicacy. In hunting parlance indeed, Stara, even where no such catastrophe was to be apprehended, was, and always would be, dressed “for a fall.”
Nevertheless, despite this general appearance of femininity, signs were to be observed of other characteristics, signs of a somewhat startlingly contradictory nature. The chin, for instance, though soft and white, was most unfemininely firm, almost hard; while the eyes, long in shape and black-lashed though they were, were not of blue, as to be in keeping they ought to have been, but of light grey, clear, steady and rather cold—in no way languishing.
These eyes she now kept fixed on her book, firmly determined to run no risk of meeting even one of the frequent glances directed at her from the other end of the deck; of which glances, as also of Hector’s mental restlessness, she was at the same time perfectly aware.
“Let him come and talk if he wants to,” she thought impatiently; “ogling is a practice I abominate; it’s a servant-maid’s trick.” And Stara at last turned another page, forcing her attention once more back to the relation of the adventures of one Mademoiselle de Maupin, Hector at the same time returning to the theory of heredity as expounded by Arthur Schopenhauer of pessimistic notoriety.
“Physical qualities from the father’s, mental from the mother’s side,” he reflected, laying the book down again. “Well, that seems true, my mother was clever enough, though a bit cranky. He’s a bit out, though, about the other, poor old governor was rather an ugly chap.”
He yawned, stretched himself, and once more his eyes wandered to the far end of the deck. “Still there,” he murmured. “Wherever I am, there she is too; must do it on purpose; wants me to talk to her, I suppose; doesn’t know I’m married; if she did, her interest would very soon die. Bah! what humbug it is, that a man should be debarred from amusement because of a mere conventional tie. No wonder those other fellows, Nelson, Suvarov, and the rest, revolted; they couldn’t stand restraint any more than I can.
“Mustn’t, you’re married, family man and so forth, it’s just that makes one want to do things. Damn it, for years I’ve never looked at a woman except Lucy, and see the result, I’ve become a fossil; don’t even know how to begin. I’ve been only half alive all this time, and I want to live, and I think somehow that girl would help me. She looks as if she’d love well. I’ve a good mind to try it, just for the voyage. I’m strong enough, thank God, to pull up when I want to. Hanged if I don’t let myself go all I know; no, I’m bothered if I do; she’d only laugh at me if she knew and that I could not stand.”
Again he took up his book and began to turn over the pages. “‘Ethics.’ Don’t know what they are, and don’t want to either. ‘Man’s need for metaphysics.’ Have none myself. Ah! ‘On Woman;’ that sounds better. Oho!” reading; “this is capital.
“‘Injustice is the fundamental failing of the female character. This arises from the want of reason and reflection, and is assisted by the fact that they, as the weaker sex, are driven by nature to have recourse not to force but to cunning, hence their instinctive treachery and irremediable tendency to lying. For as nature has armed the lion with claws, the bull with horns, and the sepia with ink which blackens water, so has nature armed woman with powers of deception for her protection.’
“I’d like to read that aloud to you,” muttered Hector, again glancing up; “shake your conceit a bit, I should say, or ought to.”
He went on reading:
“‘Only the male intellect befogged through the sexual impulse could call that undersized, narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped and short-legged sex fair, for in the sexual impulse resides its whole beauty.’
“Beastly way of putting it,” murmured Hector, who possessed the ultra refinement that is usually a characteristic of those in whom the moral sense is deficient, “and it’s not true either—she’s neither undersized nor short-legged. I’ll take a walk past her now and look, to make sure, rather interesting this.”
He rose, and moved slowly up the deck towards the reclining figure, who, at his approach, turned another page.
“I really believe he’s going to at last,” she thought, with a faint feeling of excitement. “No, he’s not, he’s shied again,” as Hector went by looking straight before him. “Oh, this is too absurd, I must help him, I suppose.” Whereupon away fluttered Stara’s bookmarker, across the deck, a low exclamation of annoyance escaping her as she watched it nearing the ship’s side.
Hector, turning at the sound and noting its cause, picked up the errant bookmarker and brought it back, indulging himself, as he did so, with a straight, steady stare into her eyes, and, meeting them, one of the odd fits of giddiness, which of late had been increasing in frequency, came over him; the sweat stood out on his forehead and the girl’s figure was hidden for a moment in mist. He reeled, catching at the back of her chair for support; then fingers of steel gripped his arm and he found himself in Stara’s chair, she standing looking down upon him, her eyes alert and interested.
“Damn!” said Graeme, when the mists had gone and he realised the situation.
“Certainly ’damn’ if you like,” was the answer in clear tones, “but don’t move, stay where you are; d’you hear me?”
“I certainly won’t, why should I?”
“Because I tell you to. I’m a nurse, and know what I’m about.”
“You... a nurse?”
“Yes, but never mind about that. Why do you sit in the sun, if it affects you like this?”
“Because I like it, but I’m hanged if I’ll sit here while you’re standing. I’ll fetch my chair and bring it over.”
“No, I’ll go,” and Stara walked leisurely away, and returned dragging the chair, in which she proceeded to settle herself.
“What a beast of a chair,” she said, wriggling; “not nearly so comfy as mine. Oh, there’s a book here, what is it? Ah, Schopenhauer,” picking it up and opening it, the pages falling apart where Graeme had last been reading, ‘On Woman.’ “Oh!”
“Don’t read the stuff, please, Miss Selbourne; it’s rubbish from beginning to end, that chapter.”
“Don’t be alarmed, Colonel Graeme; I’ve read all his works, and about this essay, personally I think it very true, though perhaps a little violent. I wonder, though, whether he made it up with her afterwards.”
“Her, who?”
“The woman that essay was written at. Pique and disappointment show in every line. He was certainly in love when he wrote it.”
“Surely a man like Schopenhauer would be above such weakness.”
“Above humanity? I think not, Colonel Graeme.”
“You think, then, that every man must—must——”
“I don’t think at all about it, I’m sure. That’s what he exists for, and woman too, though she pretends not to. I should say I know my Schopenhauer better than you do, Colonel Graeme.”
“In that case, if we exist solely as prospective fathers and mothers, and the attraction between the sexes is merely the cry of the unborn child, the stronger the attraction the finer the child. Any two people who feel that attraction should—should——” He stopped, confused, for the light grey eyes were on him, and the look in them brought him to a standstill.
“If we were beasts of the field, no doubt we should be as they are. Rating ourselves, however—perhaps wrongly—as higher, we recognise the necessity of social laws. But tell me, or don’t if you like, what was the matter with you just now. I’m professionally interested.”
“I don’t know, it’s a thing that has been growing on me lately; whenever I’m excited it comes on as it did then. It’s a nuisance when I don’t want it, though useful enough when I do. I can’t control it, though, that’s the mischief, but I’m boring you.”
“No, you’re not, go on, tell me what you mean by not controlling it.”
“Why, this. Whenever I’m in a difficulty, and don’t know what to do—have to fight a battle, for instance, and can’t think of a plan—I just shut my eyes and let myself go. For the moment I seem to lose consciousness of my present self and become another, and that other always knows and tells me what to do. Then I sort of wake and do it. D’you think I’m mad, Miss Selbourne?”
“I think,” said Stara slowly, looking at him, “you’re going the right way to make yourself so. That other self you talk about is—call it the subconscious, if you like; and let that—and you’re encouraging it to do so—gain the upper hand over the conscious, and madness results. I should stop it at once, Colonel Graeme; it’s deadly dangerous.”
“May I ask how you know all this?”
“As I told you, I’m a nurse, or rather going to be one. Oh, don’t look so astonished and stare at my clothes. I’m very frivolous and expensive-looking, I know; but once I get to work, away goes all this into portmanteaux, and, with it, the world, the flesh, and the devil.”
“I don’t think he’ll remain long in the portmanteau,” said Graeme, looking at her mouth and dancing eyes.
“I don’t mean him to; he goes with me when I have my day out, or whatever nurses have. Then I shall become frilly and pretty again, and make a night of it, see all the wickedness I can. That’s my idea of life, Colonel Graeme, austerity or debauch. I love the veldt, I can saddle my own pony, shoot buck and koran, and cook as well as most chefs, but I must have a break-out sometimes; not a lady-like break-out—tea, dancing and flirtation—but the real thing.”
Hector frowned. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said shortly.
“I do, perfectly. I said see the wickedness, Colonel Graeme, not take part in it. I’m not a man.”
“You certainly could not go out by yourself; it wouldn’t be—safe or—right,” answered Hector, the value of social conventions dawning upon him for the first time.
“Nor proper, I suppose. Thank you for telling me, but, as it happens, I can take excellent care of myself, and if you’ve got a pair of foils on board I think it possible I might surprise you, though you are a soldier. Oh, listen, that’s the ‘Matschish,’ which always thrills me, makes me feel I should like to have a lover. Oh, please, don’t be obvious, I should hate it really, I only like to think about it, like Madeleine de Maupin, though that’s not quite a parallel case either,” she added, reflecting.
“Who was Madeleine de Maupin?”
“Oh, you’ve not read the book, that’s all right then. I can talk about her. I’m afraid Madeleine was not a very correct person, like me. She too wanted to see life, and, if she could, find a perfect lover—not one who pretended to be, like most men, and talk afterwards when they’re drunk, but someone she could trust when away from her. So she put on men’s clothes, which I should hate, though in my fencing kit, white satin... but perhaps you’ll see me in that if you’re nice and don’t make love except when I want you to. That time is not now, Colonel Graeme,” another look from the grey eyes arresting the movement of his hand towards hers.
“I wasn’t going to,” he muttered sulkily. “I don’t want to touch your hand, why should I?”
“I can’t imagine. But about Madeleine, she had all sorts of adventures on her travels; women made love to her, she fought duels and won them too, and then at last she found him.”
“And got married, I suppose? Same old ending, why can’t they think of something different, I wonder?”
“Madeleine did; there was nothing banal or ordinary about her. She waited some time after she found him, trying him, and then when she was satisfied he was what she wanted, she put off her man’s things and sent for him.”
“Without her things. I agree with you, Miss Selbourne; Madeleine was far from correct.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course she had a dress on, a woman’s dress; that’s why she sent for him, to show herself in it, to prove to him she was a woman after all.”
“And what happened then?”
“Oh, nothing much; there the story ends. She admitted she loved him and next... after that, left him.”
“That was a poor sort of thing to do, why did she do it?”
“She didn’t want to spoil it, I suppose. I think she was right too. They parted, loving one another, anyway.”
“I don’t think much of the man for allowing it. I would not have——”
Stara looked at him meditatively.
“No,” she said at last; “you, I should say, would have followed it up till she’d really begun to care, not the mere passion that she felt to start with, but the steady love that comes with time, and only a woman, I believe, can feel. Then you’d have got bored and left her.”
“That’s cheap cynicism, Miss Selbourne; there are happy marriages.”
“No doubt. I was talking of what you’d do. Very rude of me, but you introduced the subject.”
Graeme felt very angry indeed. Analysis of character, he considered, to be his own particular privilege, and to have it applied to himself, especially when, as in this case, the reading was so obviously false, was most irritating. His whole life gave the lie to her words, he thought, and a sudden feeling of loyalty to and affection for Lucy sprang up, momentarily obliterating Stara’s attractions from his mind.
“As it happens, Miss Selbourne,” he said stiffly, “you’re rather out in your prophecies. I’ve been married for the last ten years, and believe that, so far, I have shown none of the symptoms you mention.”
“I apologise, Colonel Graeme. I didn’t know, of course, and you don’t look married.”
The frown vanished from Hector’s face, for her words were pleasing—no man likes to look married.
“I suppose,” he said, “it’s because I’ve been such a lot away. It’s three years since I was last home.”
“I wonder whether you ever met my brother, Richard Selbourne, he was out with the Yeomanry during the war, and settled down afterwards on a farm in the O.R.C. I’ve been staying with him and my sister-in-law.”
“Place called Duikerpoort?”
“Yes.”
“I have, then; my regiment camped on his ground last manoeuvres, and your brother dined with us, I remember. Where were you?”
“At home, with Polly, my sister-in-law. We watched you ride away. Oh, look!” with sudden delight in her eyes as they fell on a small fat child slowly toddling about the deck some distance away, “quick, fetch her and bring her here; she’ll be gone if you don’t hurry.”
Graeme reluctantly rose and walked over to where the child was playing. Unceremoniously picking her up, he returned to Stara, the little girl faintly whimpering in his arms.
“The idea of holding a child like that,” said Stara indignantly, snatching his burden from him; “no wonder the poor mite was beginning to cry. Oh, you darling,” bending rapturously over the baby, who was now smiling up at her, her hands playing with Stara’s coral chain, “how perfectly sweet you are, and how I wish you were mine. Look at her little feet and legs, Colonel Graeme; oh, you’re not interested a bit.”
“I confess I’m not; babies have no attraction for me.”
“Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Every man ought to love children. Haven’t you any of your own?”
“No,” snapped Graeme, and walked sulkily away down the deck, stopping at the far end to look back. Stara was still holding the child in her arms and talking baby talk to it, obviously oblivious of his existence.
“Schopenhauer’s right,” he muttered; “they’re hypocrites, every one of them. Night of it, Madeleine de Maupin, and now baby talk—don’t go together the two. I’ve done with it, I know the sort: pose as fast and bite you if you say anything. I’ll get some books and go on the upper deck. I shan’t see her there.”
He descended to his cabin, picked up a couple of books at random, and went above, where he sat down amongst the boats, and, ignoring the luncheon bugle, tried to concentrate his attention on Lombroso. “It’s too hot for this stuff,” he muttered, after reading the same paragraph half a dozen times without taking in a word. “I’ll try the other, Shelley; I don’t know why I bought the thing except for the short biography at the beginning.” He read this through and lay back reflecting. “Woman, always woman in these fellows’ lives,” he murmured; “domestic unhappiness seems inseparable from genius.” He began to turn over the pages. “Epipsychidion—now what does that mean I wonder?” He began to read, and, bored at first, soon became absorbed, the flaming passion in the lines stirring something within him that had been hitherto unawakened.
“We shall become the same, we shall be one
Spirit within two frames. Oh! wherefore two?
One passion in twin-hearts, which grows and grew,
Till, like two meteors of expanding flame,
Those spheres instinct with it become the same,
Touch, mingle, are transfigured: ever still
Burning, yet ever inconsumable.”
Graeme laid down the volume. His eyes were shining, and his face had become very pale.
“Nothing banal about that,” he murmured; “no married sameness, no dreary domesticity. It’s all free and lawless, as it ought to be. God, the thing’s maddened me; I can’t keep still!” He sprang up, hesitated for a moment, and then hurrying below looked furtively up and down the decks. He searched the saloon, the music-room, the library, but all to no purpose; that which he sought was not there. Gradually he was seized with anger, then anxiety, and finally a sick longing. Restlessly he wandered about the ship, now trying to read, now pacing the decks, till at length the dinner-bugle sounded and he went below to dress.
“She shan’t escape me afterwards,” he thought, watching her across the crowded saloon; “we’ll sit together away from the world, and the romance of our lives shall begin.” Stara, nevertheless, did escape him, despite his vigilance, and, wait though he did till after the decks were in darkness, she appeared no more.
Sick with disappointment and a bitter sense of humiliation, he at length went down to his cabin, and, flinging himself on the bed, tried hard to sleep. But the bells clanged the hours away and sleep refused to come, till at last he rose from the tumbled bed and sat up, irresolution in his eyes.
“Sanders told me not to,” he muttered; “he said for me it was fatal, but what am I to do? I shall go mad if I don’t sleep. I don’t care—I will,” and Hector switched on the light, dragged out a dressing-case and took out a small phial containing tabloids.
“Thank heaven,” he murmured drowsily, half an hour later; “better than all the natural sleep in the world. Stara...” His eyes closed, and he fell asleep at last.