He had not thought he had deserved it. He had begun by deceiving himself from day to day, from week to week. He had the Serang at hand there--an old servant. It came on gradually, and when he could no longer deceive himself . . .
His voice died out almost.
"Rather than give her up I set myself to deceive you all."
"It's incredible," whispered Mr. Van Wyk. Captain Whalley's appalling murmur flowed on.
"Not even the sign of God's anger could make me forget her. How could I forsake my child, feeling my vigor all the time--the blood warm within me? Warm as yours. It seems to me that, like the blinded Samson, I would find the strength to shake down a temple upon my head. She's a struggling woman--my own child that we used to pray over together, my poor wife and I.
Do you remember that day I as well as told you that I believed God would let me live to a hundred for her sake? What sin is there in loving your child? Do you see it? I was ready for her sake to live for ever.
I half believed I would. I've been praying for death since. Ha! Presumptuous man--you wanted to live . . ."
A tremendous, shuddering upheaval of that big frame, shaken by a gasping sob, set the glasses jingling all over the table, seemed to make the whole house tremble to the roof-tree. And Mr. Van Wyk, whose feeling of outraged love had been translated into a form of strug-gle with nature, understood very well that, for that man whose whole life had been conditioned by action, there could exist no other expression for all the emotions; that, to voluntarily cease venturing, doing, enduring, for his child's sake, would have been exactly like plucking his warm love for her out of his living heart. Something too monstrous, too impossible, even to conceive.
Captain Whalley had not changed his attitude, that seemed to express something of shame, sorrow, and defiance.
"I have even deceived you. If it had not been for that word 'esteem.' These are not the words for me.
I would have lied to you. Haven't I lied to you?
Weren't you going to trust your property on board this very trip?"
"I have a floating yearly policy," Mr. Van Wyk said almost unwittingly, and was amazed at the sudden crop-ping up of a commercial detail.
"The ship is unseaworthy, I tell you. The policy would be invalid if it were known . . ."
"We shall share the guilt, then."
"Nothing could make mine less," said Captain Whalley.
He had not dared to consult a doctor; the man would have perhaps asked who he was, what he was doing; Massy might have heard something. He had lived on without any help, human or divine. The very prayers stuck in his throat. What was there to pray for? and death seemed as far as ever. Once he got into his cabin he dared not come out again; when he sat down he dared not get up; he dared not raise his eyes to anybody's face; he felt reluctant to look upon the sea or up to the sky. The world was fading before his great fear of giving himself away. The old ship was his last friend; he was not afraid of her; he knew every inch of her deck; but at her too he hardly dared to look, for fear of finding he could see less than the day before.
A great incertitude enveloped him. The horizon was gone; the sky mingled darkly with the sea. Who was this figure standing over yonder? what was this thing lying down there? And a frightful doubt of the reality of what he could see made even the remnant of sight that remained to him an added torment, a pitfall always open for his miserable pretense. He was afraid to stumble inexcusably over something--to say a fatal Yes or No to a question. The hand of God was upon him, but it could not tear him away from his child. And, as if in a nightmare of humiliation, every featureless man seemed an enemy.
He let his hand fall heavily on the table. Mr. Van Wyk, arms down, chin on breast, with a gleam of white teeth pressing on the lower lip, meditated on Sterne's "The game's up."
"The Serang of course does not know."
"Nobody," said Captain Whalley, with assurance.
"Ah yes. Nobody. Very well. Can you keep it up to the end of the trip? That is the last under the agree-ment with Massy."
Captain Whalley got up and stood erect, very stately, with the great white beard lying like a silver breastplate over the awful secret of his heart. Yes; that was the only hope there was for him of ever seeing her again, of securing the money, the last he could do for her, before he crept away somewhere--useless, a burden, a reproach to himself. His voice faltered.
"Think of it! Never see her any more: the only human being besides myself now on earth that can re-member my wife. She's just like her mother. Lucky the poor woman is where there are no tears shed over those they loved on earth and that remain to pray not to be led into temptation--because, I suppose, the blessed know the secret of grace in God's dealings with His created children."
He swayed a little, said with austere dignity--"I don't. I know only the child He has given me."
And he began to walk. Mr. Van Wyk, jumping up, saw the full meaning of the rigid head, the hesitating feet, the vaguely extended hand. His heart was beat-ing fast; he moved a chair aside, and instinctively ad-vanced as if to offer his arm. But Captain Whalley passed him by, making for the stairs quite straight.
"He could not see me at all out of his line," Van Wyk thought, with a sort of awe. Then going to the head of the stairs, he asked a little tremulously--"What is it like--like a mist--like . . ."
Captain Whalley, half-way down, stopped, and turned round undismayed to answer.
"It is as if the light were ebbing out of the world.
Have you ever watched the ebbing sea on an open stretch of sands withdrawing farther and farther away from you? It is like this--only there will be no flood to follow. Never. It is as if the sun were growing smaller, the stars going out one by one. There can't be many left that I can see by this. But I haven't had the courage to look of late . . ." He must have been able to make out Mr. Van Wyk, because he checked him by an authoritative gesture and a stoical--"I can get about alone yet."
